24495	----	None 
23534	----	... OR YOUR MONEY BACK BY DAVID GORDON Illustrated by Summers [Transcriber note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction, September 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [Illustration: There are lots of things that are considered perfectly acceptable ... provided they don't work. And of course everyone knows they really don't, which is why they're acceptable.... ] There are times when I don't know my own strength. Or, at least, the strength of my advice. And the case of Jason Howley was certainly an instance of one of those times. When he came to my office with his gadget, I heard him out, trying to appear both interested and co-operative--which is good business. But I am forced to admit that neither Howley nor his gadget were very impressive. He was a lean, slope-shouldered individual, five-feet-eight or nine--which was shorter than he looked--with straight brown hair combed straight back and blue eyes which were shielded with steel-rimmed glasses. The thick, double-concave lenses indicated a degree of myopia that must have bordered on total blindness without glasses, and acute tunnel vision, even with them. He had a crisp, incisive manner that indicated he was either a man who knew what he was doing or a man who was trying to impress me with a ready-made story. I listened to him and looked at his gadget without giving any more indication than necessary of what I really thought. When he was through, I said: "You understand, Mr. Howley that I'm not a patent lawyer; I specialize in criminal law. Now, I can recommend--" But he cut me off. "I understand that, counselor," he said sharply. "Believe me, I have no illusion whatever that this thing is patentable under the present patent system. Even if it were, this gadget is designed to do something that may or may not be illegal, which would make it hazardous to attempt to patent it, I should think. You don't patent new devices for blowing safes or new drugs for doping horses, do you?" "Probably not," I said dryly, "although, as I say, I'm not qualified to give an opinion on patent law. You say that gadget is designed to cause minute, but significant, changes in the velocities of small, moving objects. Just how does that make it illegal?" He frowned a little. "Well, possibly it wouldn't, except here in Nevada. Specifically, it is designed to influence roulette and dice games." I looked at the gadget with a little more interest this time. There was nothing new in the idea of inventing a gadget to cheat the red-and-black wheels, of course; the local cops turn up a dozen a day here in the city. Most of them either don't work at all or else they're too obvious, so the users get nabbed before they have a chance to use them. The only ones that really work have to be installed in the tables themselves, which means they're used to milk the suckers, not rob the management. And anyone in the State of Nevada who buys a license to operate and then uses crooked wheels is (a) stupid, and (b) out of business within a week. Howley was right. Only in a place where gambling is legalized is it illegal--and unprofitable--to rig a game. The gadget itself didn't look too complicated from the outside. It was a black plastic box about an inch and a half square and maybe three and a half long. On one end was a lensed opening, half an inch in diameter, and on two sides there were flat, silver-colored plates. On the top of it, there was a dial which was, say, an inch in diameter, and it was marked off just exactly like a roulette wheel. "How does it work?" I asked. He picked it up in his hand, holding it as though it were a flashlight, with the lens pointed away from him. "You aim the lens at the wheel," he explained, "making sure that your thumb is touching the silver plate on one side, and your fingers touching the plate on the other side. Then you set this dial for whatever number you want to come up and concentrate on it while the ball is spinning. For dice, of course, you only need to use the first six or twelve numbers on the dial, depending on the game." * * * * * I looked at him for a long moment, trying to figure his angle. He looked back steadily, his eyes looking like small beads peering through the bottoms of a couple of shot glasses. "You look skeptical, counselor," he said at last. "I am. A man who hasn't got the ability to be healthily skeptical has no right to practice law--especially criminal law. On the other hand, no lawyer has any right to judge anything one way or the other without evidence. "But that's neither here nor there at the moment. What I'm interested in is, what do you want me to do? People rarely come to a criminal lawyer unless they're in a jam. What sort of jam are you in at the moment?" "None," said Howley. "But I will be very soon. I hope." Well, I've heard odder statements than that from my clients. I let it ride for the moment and looked down at the notes I'd taken while he'd told me his story. "You're a native of New York City?" I asked. "That's right. That's what I said." "And you came out here for what? To use that thing on our Nevada tables?" "That's right, counselor." "Can't you find any games to cheat on back home?" "Oh, certainly. Plenty of them. But they aren't legal. I wouldn't care to get mixed up in anything illegal. Besides, it wouldn't suit my purpose." That stopped me for a moment. "You don't consider cheating illegal? It certainly is in Nevada. In New York, if you were caught at it, you'd have the big gambling interests on your neck; here, you'll have both them _and_ the police after you. _And_ the district attorney's office." He smiled. "Yes, I know. That's what I'm expecting. That's why I need a good lawyer to defend me. I understand you're the top man in this city." "Mr. Howley," I said carefully, "as a member of the Bar Association and a practicing attorney in the State of Nevada, I am an Officer of the Court. If you had been caught cheating and had come to me, I'd be able to help you. But I can't enter into a conspiracy with you to defraud legitimate businessmen, which is exactly what this would be." He blinked at me through those shot-glass spectacles. "Counselor, would you refuse to defend a man if you thought he was guilty?" I shook my head. "No. Legally, a man is not guilty until proven so by a court of law. He has a right to trial by jury. For me to refuse to give a man the defense he is legally entitled to, just because I happened to think he was guilty, would be trial by attorney. I'll do the best I can for any client; I'll work for his interests, no matter what my private opinion may be." He looked impressed, so I guess there must have been a note of conviction in my voice. There should have been, because it was exactly what I've always believed and practiced. "That's good, counselor," said Howley. "If I can convince you that I have no criminal intent, that I have no intention of defrauding anyone or conspiring with you to do anything illegal, will you help me?" I didn't have to think that one over. I simply said, "Yes." After all, it was still up to me to decide whether he convinced me or not. If he didn't, I could still refuse the case on those grounds. "That's fair enough, counselor," he said. Then he started talking. * * * * * Instead of telling you what Jason Howley _said_ he was going to do, I'll tell you what he _did_ do. They are substantially the same, anyway, and the old bromide about actions speaking louder than words certainly applied in this case. Mind you, I didn't see or hear any of this, but there were plenty of witnesses to testify as to what went on. Their statements are a matter of court record, and Jason Howley's story is substantiated in every respect. He left my office smiling. He'd convinced me that the case was not only going to be worthwhile, but fun. I took it, plus a fat retainer. Howley went up to his hotel room, changed into his expensive evening clothes, and headed out to do the town. I'd suggested several places, but he wanted the biggest and best--the Golden Casino, a big, plush, expensive place that was just inside the city limits. In his pockets, he was carrying less than two hundred dollars in cash. Now, nobody with that kind of chicken feed can expect to last long at the Golden Casino unless they stick to the two-bit one-armed bandits. But putting money on a roulette table is in a higher bracket by far than feeding a slot machine, even if you get a steady run of lemons. Howley didn't waste any time. He headed for the roulette table right away. He watched the play for about three spins of the wheel, then he took out his gadget--in plain sight of anyone who cared to watch--and set the dial for thirteen. Then he held it in his hand with thumb and finger touching the plates and put his hand in his jacket pocket, with the lens aimed at the wheel. He stepped up to the table, bought a hundred dollars worth of chips, and put fifty on Number Thirteen. "No more bets," said the croupier. He spun the wheel and dropped the ball. "Thirteen, Black, Odd, and Low," he chanted after a minute. With a practiced hand, he raked in the losers and pushed out Howley's winnings. There was sixteen hundred dollars sitting on thirteen now. Howley didn't touch it. The wheel went around and the little ball clattered around the rim and finally fell into a slot. "Thirteen, Black, Odd, and Low," said the croupier. This time, he didn't look as nonchalant. He peered curiously at Howley as he pushed out the chips to make a grand total of fifty-one thousand two hundred dollars. The same number doesn't come up twice in succession very often, and it is very rare indeed that the same person is covering it both times with a riding bet. "Two thousand limit, sir," the croupier said, when it looked as though Howley was going to let the fifty-one grand just sit there. Howley nodded apologetically and pulled off everything but two thousand dollars worth of chips. The third time around, the croupier had his eyes directly on Howley as he repeated the chant: "Thirteen, Black, Odd, and Low." Everybody else at the table was watching Howley, too. The odds against Howley--or anyone else, for that matter--hitting the same number three times in a row are just under forty thousand to one. Howley didn't want to overdo it. He left two thousand on thirteen, raked in the rest, and twisted the dial on his gadget over a notch. Everyone at the table gasped as the little ball dropped. "That was a near miss," whispered a woman standing nearby. The croupier said: "Fourteen, Red, Even, and Low." And he raked in Howley's two thousand dollars with a satisfied smile. He had seen runs of luck before. Howley deliberately lost two more spins the same way. Nobody who was actually cheating would call too much attention to himself, and Howley wanted it to look as though he were trying to cover up the fact that he had a sure thing. He took the gadget out of his pocket and deliberately set it to the green square marked 00. Then he put it back in his pocket and put two thousand dollars on the Double Zero. * * * * * There was more than suspicion in the croupier's eyes when he raked in all the bets on the table except Howley's. It definitely didn't look good to him. A man who had started out with a fifty-dollar bet had managed to run it up to one hundred seventy-four thousand two hundred dollars in six plays. Howley looked as innocent as possible under the circumstances, and carefully dropped the dial on his gadget back a few notches. Then he bet another two thousand on High, an even money bet. Naturally, he won. He twisted the dial back a few more notches and won again on High. Then he left it where it was and won by betting on Red. By this time, of course, things were happening. The croupier had long since pressed the alarm button, and five men had carefully surrounded Howley. They looked like customers, but they were harder-looking than the average, and they were watching Howley, not the wheel. Farther back from the crowd, three of the special deputies from the sheriff's office were trying to look inconspicuous in their gray uniforms and white Stetsons and pearl-handled revolvers in black holsters. You can imagine how inconspicuous they looked. Howley decided to do it up brown. He reset his gadget as surreptitiously as possible under the circumstances, and put his money on thirteen again. "Thirteen, Black, Odd, and Low," said the croupier in a hollow voice. The five men in evening dress and the three deputies moved in closer. Howley nonchalantly scraped in his winnings, leaving the two thousand on the thirteen spot. There was a combination of hostility and admiration in every eye around the table when the croupier said, "Thirteen, Black, Odd, and Low" for the fifth time in the space of minutes. And everyone of those eyes was turned on Jason Howley. The croupier smiled his professional smile. "I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen; we'll have to discontinue play for a while. The gentleman has broken the bank at this table." He turned the smile on Howley. "Congratulations, sir." Howley smiled back and began stacking up over three hundred thousand dollars worth of plastic disks. It made quite a pile. One of the deputies stepped up politely. "I'm an officer, sir," he said. "May I help you carry that to the cashier's office?" Howley looked at the gold star and nodded. "Certainly. Thanks." [Illustration] The other two deputies stepped up, too, and the three of them walked Howley toward the cashier's office. Behind them came the five men in dinner jackets. "You'll have to step into the office to cash that much, sir," said one of the deputies as he opened the door. Howley walked in as though he hadn't a care in the world. He put his chips on the desk, and the deputies followed suit, while one of the dinner-jacketed men closed the door. Then one of the deputies said: "I believe this gentleman is carrying a gun." He had his own revolver out and had it pointed at Howley's middle. "Carrying a concealed weapon is illegal in this city," he went on. "I'm afraid we'll have to search you." Howley didn't object. He put his hands up high and stood there while his pockets were frisked. "Well, well," said the deputy coolly. "What on Earth is this?" It was Howley's gadget, and the dial still pointed to Thirteen--Black, Odd, and Low. * * * * * The next morning, I went down to the jail in response to a phone call from Howley. The special deputies had turned him over to the city police and he was being held "under suspicion of fraud." I knew we could beat that down to an "attempt to defraud," but the object was to get Howley off scott-free. After Howley told me the whole story, I got busy pushing the case through. As long as he was simply being held on suspicion, I couldn't get him out on bail, so I wanted to force the district attorney or the police to prefer charges. Meanwhile, I made sure that Howley's gadget had been impounded as evidence. I didn't want anyone fiddling with it before the case went to court--except, of course, the D. A. and his men. There wasn't much I could do to keep it out of _their_ hands. After throwing as much weight around as I could, including filing a petition for a writ of habeas corpus with Judge Grannis, I went over to Howley's hotel with a signed power of attorney that Howley had given me, and I got a small envelope out of the hotel safe. It contained a baggage check. I went over to the bus depot, turned over the check to the baggage department, and went back to my office with a small suitcase. I locked myself in and opened the case. Sure enough, it contained three dozen of the little gadgets. Then I sat down to wait. By noon, Judge Grannis had issued the writ of habeas corpus, and, rather than release Jason Howley, the police had booked him, and District Attorney Thursby was getting the case ready for the grand jury. There was over a quarter of a million dollars at stake, and the men behind the Golden Casino were bringing pressure to bear. If Howley wasn't convicted, they'd have to give him his money--and that was the last thing they wanted to do. A quarter of a million bucks isn't small potatoes, even to a gambling syndicate. It wasn't until early on the morning of the third day after Howley's arrest that I got a tip-off from one of my part-time spies. I scooped up the phone when it rang and identified myself. "Counselor? Look, this is Benny." I recognized the voice and name. Benny was one of the cabbies that I'd done favors for in the past. "What's the trouble, Benny?" "Oh, no trouble. I just got a little tip you might be interested in." "Fire away." "Well, the D.A. and some of his boys went into the Golden Casino about ten minutes ago, and now they're closin' up the place. Just for a little while, I understand. Hour, maybe. They're chasin' everyone out of the roulette room." "Thanks, Benny," I said, "thanks a lot." "Well, I knew you was working on that Howley case, and I thought this might be important, so I--" "Sure, Benny. Come by my office this afternoon. And thanks again." I hung up and started moving. Within ten minutes, I was pulling up and parking across the street from the Golden Casino. I locked the car and dodged traffic to get across the street, as though I'd never heard of laws against jaywalking. There were still plenty of people in the Casino. The bar was full, and the dice and card games were going full blast. The slot machines were jingling out their infernal din while fools fed coins into their insatiable innards. But the roulette room was closed, and a couple of be-Stetsoned deputies were standing guard over the entrance. I headed straight for them. Both of them stood pat, blocking my way, so I stopped a few feet in front of them. "Hello, counselor," said one. "Sorry, the roulette room's closed." I knew the man slightly. "Let me in, Jim," I said. "I want to see Thursby." The men exchanged glances. Obviously, the D.A. had given them orders. "Can't do it, counselor," said Jim. "We're not to let anyone in." "Tell Thursby I'm out here and that I want to see him." He shrugged, opened the door, stuck his head inside, and called to District Attorney Thursby to tell him that I was outside. I could hear Thursby's muffled "Damn!" from within. But when he showed up at the door, his face was all smiles. "What's the trouble?" he asked pleasantly. I smiled back, giving him my best. "No trouble at all, Thursby. I just wanted to watch the experiment." "Experiment?" He looked honestly surprised, which was a fine piece of acting. "We're just checking to see if the table's wired, that's all. If it is, your client may be in the clear; maybe we can hang it on the croupier." "And get a conspiracy charge on my client, too, eh? Well, if you don't mind, I'd like to watch that table check myself. You know how it is." Thursby hesitated, then he scowled. "Oh, all right. Come on in. But stay out of the way." I grinned. "Sure. All I want to do is protect my client's interests." Thursby just grunted and opened the door wider to let me in. He was a shrewd lawyer, a good D.A., and basically honest, even if he did have a tendency to bend under pressure from higher up. * * * * * They were checking the table, all right. They had three specialists going over it with everything from fine tooth combs to Geiger counters. They found nothing. No magnets, no wires, no mechanical gimmicks. Nothing. It took them an hour to take that table apart, check it, and put it back together again. When it was all over, Thursby glanced at me, then said: "O.K., boys; that does it. Let's go." The men looked at him oddly, and I knew why. "Aren't you going to test my client's gadget?" I asked innocently. Thursby looked angrily baffled for a moment, then he clamped his lips grimly. "As long as we're here, I guess we might as well." I knew perfectly well it was what he had intended to do all along. "One of you guys spin that wheel," he said to the technicians. One of them gave the wheel a spin and dropped the ball. It clattered on its merry way and dropped into a slot. Forty-two. Thursby took the gadget out of his pocket. It was still set at Thirteen. The men who had surrounded Howley on the night of his arrest had been keeping their eyes open, and they had seen how Howley had handled the thing. Well--_almost_ how. Thursby had the lens opening pointed at the wheel, but his thumb and fingers weren't touching the silver plates properly. "Spin it again," he said. Everyone's eyes were on the ball as it whirled, so I had time to get my own copy of Howley's gadget out and set it at Thirteen. I hoped the thing would work for me. I concentrated on Thirteen, making sure my thumb and fingers were placed right. Evidently they were. The ball fell into Thirteen, Black, Odd, and Low. A huge grin spread over Thursby's face, but he was man enough not to turn and grin at me. "Try it again," he said. Thirteen, Black, Odd, and Low. "I wonder how the thing works?" said Thursby, looking at the gadget in a sort of pleased awe. "You'd better be able to prove that it _does_ work, Thursby," I said, trying to put irritation into my voice. This time, he did grin at me. "Oh, I think we can prove that, all right." He turned back to the technician. "Spin it once more, Sam, and show the defense counsel, here, how it works." The technician did as he was told. "Thirteen, Black, Odd, and Low," he chanted, grinning. "Let's try another number," Thursby said. He turned the dial to One. And this time, when he pointed it, his fingers were touching the plates in the right places. "Just a minute," I said. "Let me spin that thing." "Be my guest, counselor," said Thursby. I spun the wheel and scooted the ball along the rim. It dropped into a slot. One, Red, Odd, and Low. I looked as disappointed and apprehensive as I could. "Co-incidence," I said. "Nothing more. You haven't proved anything." Thursby's grin widened. "Of course I haven't," he said with a soothing, patronizing tone. "But I don't have to prove anything until I get to court." Then he looked at the technicians and jerked his head toward the door. "Let's go, boys. Maybe the counselor wants to look over the table for himself. Maybe he thinks we've got it rigged." There was a chorus of guffaws as they walked out. I just stood there, scowling, trying to keep from laughing even harder than they were. * * * * * Jason Howley sat next to me at the defense table, just inside the low partition that divided the court from the public. There weren't many people in the auditorium itself; listening to some poor dope get himself sentenced for cheating at gambling is considered pretty dull entertainment in the State of Nevada. Thursby had managed to push the indictment through the grand jury in a hurry, but, as he sat across the room from me at the prosecution table, I thought I could detect a false note in the assumed look of confidence that he was trying to wear. Howley tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around, and he whispered: "How much longer?" I tapped my wrist watch. "Couple minutes. Judge Lapworth is one of those precisionists. Never a moment late or early. Getting jumpy?" He shook his head gently and smiled. "No. You've handled this even better than I'd have imagined. You thought of things I didn't even know existed. I'm no lawyer; I can see that." I returned the smile. "And I don't invent gimmicks, either. So what?" His eyes looked at me from behind the distorting negative lenses. "I've been wondering, counselor--why are you so interested in this? I mean, I offered you a pretty good fee, and all that, but it seems to me you're taking an unusual interest in the case." I grinned at him. "Mr. Howley, my profession is Law--with a capital L. The study of the Law isn't like the study of physics or whatever; these are manmade laws--commands, not descriptions. They don't necessarily have anything to do with facts at all. Take the word 'insanity,' for instance; the word isn't even used by head-shrinkers any more because it's a legal definition that has nothing whatever to do with the condition of the human mind. "Now, any such set of laws as that can't possibly be self-consistent and still have some use on an action level. A lawyer's job is to find the little inconsistencies in the structure, the places where the pieces have been jammed together in an effort to make them look like a structured whole. To find, in other words, the loopholes and use them. "And when I find a loophole, I like to wring everything I can out of it. I'm enjoying this." Howley nodded. "I see. But what if something--" I held up my hand to silence him, because the door to the judges' chambers opened at that moment, and Judge Lapworth came in as the bailiff announced him. We all stood up while the bailiff intoned his "Oyez, oyez." Thursby made a short preliminary speech to the jury, and I requested and was granted permission to hold my own opening statement until the defense was ready to present its case. Thursby was looking worried, although it took a trained eye to see it. I was pretty sure I knew why. He had been pushed too hard and had gone too fast. He'd managed to slide through the grand jury too easily, and I had managed to get the trial date set for a week later. Thursby's case was far from being as tight as he wanted it. * * * * * I just sat still while the prosecution brought forth its witnesses and evidence. The croupier, the deputies, several employees of the Golden Casino, and a couple of patrons all told their stories. I waived cross-examination in every case, which made Thursby even edgier than he had been. When he called in the head of the technicians who had inspected the table at the casino, I made no objection to his testimony, but I made my first cross-examination. "Mr. Thompson, you have stated your qualifications as an expert on the various devices which have been used to illegally influence the operation of gambling devices in this state." Thursby said: "Oh, if the Court please, I should like to remind counsel for the defense that he has already accepted the qualifications of the witness." "I am not attempting to impugn the qualifications of the witness," I snapped. Judge Lapworth frowned at Thursby. "Are you making an objection, Mr. District Attorney?" Thursby pursed his lips, said, "No, Your Honor," and sat down. "Proceed with the cross-examination," said the judge. "Mr. Thompson," I said, "you have testified that you examined the table at the Golden Casino for such devices and found none. Is that right?" "That's right," he said positively. "Have you seen the device labeled People's Exhibit A, which was found by the officers on the person of the defendant?" "Well ... yes. I have." "Have you examined this device?" Thursby was on his feet. "Objection, Your Honor! This material was not brought out in direct examination!" "Sustained," said Judge Lapworth. "Very well, Your Honor," I said. Then I turned back to Thompson. "As an expert in this field, Mr. Thompson, you have examined many different devices for cheating gambling equipment, haven't you?" "Yes, I have." "How many, would you say?" "Oh ... several hundred." "Several hundred different _types_?" "No. Several hundred individual devices. Most of them are just variations of two or three basic types." "And you are familiar with the function of these basic types and their variations?" "I am." "You know exactly how all of them work, then?" He saw where I was heading. "Most of them," he hedged. Thursby saw where I was heading, too, and was sweating. I'd managed to get around his objection. "Have you ever examined any which you could not understand?" "I ... I don't quite know what you mean." "Have you ever," I said firmly, "come across a device used in cheating which you could not comprehend or explain the operation of?" Thursby stood up. "Same objection as before, Your Honor." "Your Honor," I said, "I am merely trying to find the limitations of the witness' knowledge; I am not trying to refute his acknowledged ability." "Overruled," said Judge Lapworth. "The witness will answer the question." I repeated the question. "Yes," Thompson said in a low voice. "More than once?" "Only once." "Only once. You did find one device which didn't operate in any fashion you can explain. Is that right?" "That's right." "Can you tell me what this device was?" Thompson took a deep breath. "It was People's Exhibit A--the device taken from the defendant at the time of his arrest." There was a buzz in the courtroom. "No more questions," I said, turning away. Then, before Thompson could leave the stand, I turned back to him. "Oh, just one moment, Mr. Thompson. Did you examine this device carefully? Did you take it apart?" "I opened it and looked at it." "You just looked at it? You didn't subject it to any tests?" Thompson took a deep breath. "No." "Why not?" "There wasn't anything inside it to test." * * * * * This time, there was more than just a buzz around the courtroom. Judge Lapworth rapped for order. When the room was quiet, I said: "The box was empty, then?" "Well, no. Not exactly empty. It had some stuff in it." I turned to the judge. "If the Court please, I would like to have the so-called device, Exhibit A, opened so that the members of the jury may see for themselves what it contains." [Illustration] Judge Lapworth said: "The Court would like very much to see the internal workings of this device, too. Bailiff, if you will, please." The bailiff handed him the gadget from the exhibit table. "How does it open?" asked the judge. He turned to Thompson. "Will the witness please open the box?" Reluctantly, Thompson thumbed the catch and slid off the top. The judge took it from him, looked inside, and stared for a long moment. I had already seen the insides. It was painted white, and there were inked lines running all over the inside, and various pictures--a ball, a pair of dice, a roulette wheel--and some other symbols that I didn't pretend to understand. Otherwise, the box was empty. After a moment, Judge Lapworth looked up from the box and stared at Thursby. Then he looked at Thompson. "Just what tests _did_ you perform on this ... this thing, Mr. Thompson?" "Well, Your Honor," Thompson said, visibly nervous, "I checked it for all kinds of radiation and magnetism. There isn't anything like that coming from it. But," he added lamely, "there wasn't much else to test. Not without damaging the box." "I see." His honor glared at Thursby, but didn't say anything to him. He simply ordered the box to be shown to the jury. Thursby was grimly holding his ground, waiting. "Have you any more questions, counselor?" the judge asked. "No, Your Honor, I have not." "Witness may step down," said his honor to Thompson. * * * * * Thursby stood up. "If the Court please, I would like to stage a small demonstration for the members of the jury." The Court gave permission, and a roulette wheel was hauled in on a small table. I watched with interest and without objection while Thursby demonstrated the use of the gadget and then asked each of the jurors in turn to try it. It was a long way from being a successful demonstration. Some of the jurors didn't hold the thing right, and some of those that did just didn't have the mental ability required to use it. But that didn't bother Thursby. "Your Honor, and Gentlemen of the Jury," he said, "you are all aware that a device constructed for the purpose of cheating at any gambling game is not necessarily one hundred per cent infallible. It doesn't have to be. All it has to do is turn the odds in favor of the user. "You are all familiar with loaded dice, I'm sure. And you know that loading dice for one set of numbers merely increases the probability that those numbers will come up; it does not guarantee that they will come up every time. "It is the same with marked cards. Marking the backs of a deck of cards doesn't mean that you will invariably get a better hand than your opponent; it doesn't even mean that you will win every hand. "The device taken from the defendant at the Golden Casino does not, as you have seen, work every time. But, as you have also seen, it certainly _does_ shift the odds by a considerable percentage. And that, I submit, is illegal under the laws of this state." He went on, building on that theme for a while, then he turned the trial over to the defense. "Call Dr. Pettigrew to the stand," I said. I heard Thursby's gasp, but I ignored it. A chunky, balding man with a moon face and an irritated expression came up to be sworn in. He was irritated with me for having subpoenaed him, and he showed it. I hoped he wouldn't turn out to be hostile. "You are Dr. Herbert Pettigrew?" I asked. "That is correct." "State your residence, please." "3109 La Jolla Boulevard, Los Angeles, California." "You are called 'Doctor' Pettigrew, I believe. Would you tell the Court what right you have to that title?" He looked a little miffed, but he said: "It is a scholarly title. A Doctorate of Philosophy in physics from Massachusetts Institute of Technology." "I see. Would you mind telling the Court what other academic degrees you have?" He reeled off a list of them, all impressive. "Thank you, doctor," I said. "Now, what is your present occupation?" "I am a Professor of Physics, at the University of California in Los Angeles." I went on questioning him to establish his ability in his field, and by the time I was finished, the jury was pretty well impressed with his status in the scientific brotherhood. And not once did Thursby object. Then I said, "Dr. Pettigrew, I believe you came to this city on a professional matter?" "Yes, I did." He didn't hesitate to answer, so I figured I hadn't got his goat too much. "And what was the nature of that matter?" "I was asked to come here by Mr. Harold Thursby, the District Attorney, to perform some scientific tests on the ... er ... device ... the device known as People's Exhibit A." "Did you perform these tests?" "I did." "At the request of District Attorney Thursby, is that right?" "That is correct." "May I ask why Mr. Thursby did not call you as a witness for the prosecution?" Thursby, as I had expected, was on his feet. "Objection! The question calls for a conclusion of the witness!" "Sustained," said Judge Lapworth. "Dr. Pettigrew," I said, "what were your findings in reference to Exhibit A?" He shrugged. "The thing is a plastic box with a dial set in one side, a plastic lens in one end, and a couple of strips of silver along two other sides. Inside, there are a lot of markings in black ink on white paint." He gestured toward the exhibit table. "Just what you've seen; that's all there is to it." "What sort of tests did you perform to determine this, Dr. Pettigrew?" I asked. He took a long time answering that one. He had X-rayed the thing thoroughly, tested it with apparatus I'd never heard of, taken scrapings from all over it for microchemical analysis, and even tried it himself on a roulette wheel. He hadn't been able to make it work. "And what is your conclusion from these findings?" I asked. Again he shrugged. "The thing is just a box, that's all. It has no special properties." "Would you say that it could be responsible for the phenomena we have just seen? By that, I mean the peculiar action of the roulette wheel, demonstrated here by the prosecution." "Definitely not," he stated flatly. "The box could not possibly have any effect on either the wheel or the ball." "I see. Thank you, doctor; that's all. Cross-examine." Thursby walked over to the witness stand with a belligerent scowl on his face. "Dr. Pettigrew, you say that the box couldn't possibly have had any effect on the wheel. And yet, we have demonstrated that there _is_ an effect. Don't you believe the testimony of your own senses?" "Certainly I do!" snapped Pettigrew. "Then how do you account for the behavior of the roulette wheel as you have just seen it demonstrated in this court?" I suppressed a grin. Thursby was so mad that he was having trouble expressing himself clearly. "In several ways!" Pettigrew said sharply. "In the first place, that wheel could be rigged." Thursby purpled. "Now, just a minute! I--" I started to object, but Judge Lapworth beat me to it. "Are you objecting to the answer, Mr. District Attorney?" "The witness is insinuating that I falsified evidence!" "I am not!" said Pettigrew, visibly angry. "You asked me how I could account for its behavior, and I told you one way! There are others!" "The wheel will be examined," said Judge Lapworth darkly. "Tell us the other ways, Dr. Pettigrew." "Pure chance," said Pettigrew. "Pure chance, Your Honor. I'm sure that everyone in this courtroom has seen runs of luck on a roulette wheel. According to the laws of probability, such runs must inevitably happen. Frankly, I believe that just such a run has occurred here. I do not think for a minute that Mr. Thursby or anyone else rigged that wheel." "I see; thank you, Dr. Pettigrew," said the judge. "Any further questions, Mr. District Attorney?" "No further questions," Thursby said, trying to hide his anger. * * * * * "Call your next witness," said the judge, looking at me. "I call Mr. Jason Howley to the stand." Howley sat down and was sworn in. I went through the preliminaries, then asked: "Mr. Howley, you have seen People's Exhibit A?" "I have." "To whom does it belong?" "It is mine. It was taken from me by--" "Just answer the question, please," I admonished him. He knew his script, but he was jumping the gun. "The device is yours, then?" "That's right." "Under what circumstances did this device come into the hands of the police?" He told what had happened on the night of the big take at the Golden Casino. "Would you explain to us just what this device is?" I asked when he had finished. "Certainly," he said. "It's a good luck charm." I could hear the muffled reaction in the courtroom. "A good luck charm. I see. Then it has no effect on the wheel at all?" "Oh, I wouldn't say that," Howley said disarmingly. He smiled and looked at the jury. "It certainly has _some_ effect. It's the only good luck charm I ever had that worked." The jury was grinning right back at him. They were all gamblers at heart, and I never knew a gambler yet who didn't have some sort of good luck charm or superstition when it came to gambling. We had them all in the palms of our hands. "What I mean is, does it have any _physical_ effect on the wheel?" Howley looked puzzled. "Well, I don't know about that. That's not my field. You better ask Dr. Pettigrew." There was a smothered laugh somewhere in the courtroom. "Just how do you operate this good luck charm, Mr. Howley?" I asked. "Why, you just hold it so that your thumb touches one strip of silver and your fingers touch the other, then you set the dial to whatever number you want to come up and wish." "_Wish?_ Just _wish_, Mr. Howley?" "Just wish. That's all. What else can you do with a good luck charm?" This time, the judge had to pound for order to stop the laughing. I turned Howley over to Thursby. The D.A. hammered at him for half an hour trying to get something out of Howley, but he didn't get anywhere useful. Howley admitted that he'd come to Nevada to play the wheels; what was wrong with that? He admitted that he'd come just to try out his good luck charm--and what was wrong with that? He even admitted that it worked for him every time-- And what was wrong, pray, with _that_? Thursby knew he was licked. He'd known it for a long time. His summation to the jury showed it. The expressions on the faces of the jury as they listened showed it. They brought in a verdict of Not Guilty. * * * * * When I got back to my office, I picked up the phone and called the Golden Casino. I asked for George Brockey, the manager. When I got him on the phone and identified myself, he said, "Oh. It's you." His voice didn't sound friendly. "It's me," I said. "I suppose you're going to slap a suit for false arrest on the Casino now, eh, counselor?" "Not a bit of it, George," I said. "The thought occurred to me, but I think we can come to terms." "Yeah?" "Nothing to it, George. You give us the three hundred grand and we don't do a thing." "Yeah?" He didn't get it. He had to fork over the money anyway, according to the court order, so what was the deal? "If you want to go a little further, I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll give you one of our little good luck charms, if you'll promise to call your boys off Howley." "Nobody's on Howley," he said. "You ought to know better than that. In this state, if we get whipped in court, we play it square. Did you think we were going to get rough?" "No. But you kind of figured on lifting that gadget as soon as he gets it back from the D.A., didn't you? I saw your boys waiting at his hotel. I'm just telling you that you don't have to do that. We'll give you the gadget. There are plenty more where that came from." "I see," Brockey said after a long pause. "O.K., counselor. It's a deal." "Fine. We'll pick up the money later this evening, if that's O.K." "Sure, counselor. Anytime. Anytime at all." He hung up. I grinned at Howley, who was sitting across the desk from me. "Well, that winds it up." "I don't get it," Howley said. "Why'd you call up Brockey? What was the purpose of that 'deal'?" "No deal," I told him. "I was just warning him that killing you and taking the gadget wouldn't do any good, that we've covered you. He won't bother having anything done to you if he knows that the secret of the gadget is out already." Howley's eyes widened behind those spectacles of his. "You mean they'd kill me? I thought Nevada gamblers were honest." "Oh, they are, they are. But this is a threat to their whole industry. It's more than that, it may destroy them. Some of them might kill to keep that from happening. But you don't have to worry now." "Thanks. Tell me, do you think we've succeeded?" "In what you set out to do? Certainly. When we mail out those gadgets to people all over the state, the place will be in an uproar. With all the publicity this case is getting, it'll _have_ to work. You now have a court decision on your side, a decision which says that a psionic device can be legally used to influence gambling games. "Why, man, they'll _have_ to start investigating! You'll have every politico in the State of Nevada insisting that scientists work on that thing. To say nothing of what the syndicate will do." "All I wanted to do," said Howley, "was force people to take notice of psionics. I guess I've done that." "You certainly have, brother. I wonder what it will come to?" "I wonder, myself, sometimes," Howley said. That was three and a half years ago. Neither Howley nor I are wondering now. According to the front page of today's _Times_, the first spaceship, with a crew of eighty aboard, reached Mars this morning. And, on page two, there's a small article headlined: ROCKET OBSOLETE, SAY SCIENTISTS. It sure is. THE END 
34743	----	[Illustration: HENRY WARD BEECHER.] Gamblers and Gambling By Rev. Henry Ward Beecher Philadelphia Henry Altemus Copyrighted, 1896, by HENRY ALTEMUS. HENRY ALTEMUS, MANUFACTURER, PHILADELPHIA. GAMBLERS AND GAMBLING Then the soldiers, when they had crucified Jesus, took his garments and made four parts, to every soldier a part, and also his coat. Now the coat was without seam, woven from the top throughout. They said therefore among themselves, Let us not rend it, but cast lots far it, whose it shall be. These things therefore the soldiers did. I have condensed into one account the separate parts of this gambling transaction as narrated by each evangelist. How marked in every age is a Gambler's character! The enraged priesthood of ferocious sects taunted Christ's dying agonies; the bewildered multitude, accustomed to cruelty, could shout; but no earthly creature, but a Gambler, could be so lost to _all_ feeling as to sit down coolly under a dying man to wrangle for his garments, and arbitrate their avaricious differences by casting dice for his tunic, with hands spotted with his spattered blood, warm and yet undried upon them. The descendants of these patriarchs of gambling, however, have taught us that there is nothing possible to hell, uncongenial to these, its elect saints. In this lecture it is my disagreeable task to lead your steps down the dark path to their cruel haunts, there to exhibit their infernal passions, their awful ruin, and their ghastly memorials. In this house of darkness, amid fierce faces gleaming with the fire of fiercer hearts, amid oaths and groans and fiendish orgies, ending in murders and strewn with sweltering corpses,--do not mistake, and suppose yourself in Hell,--you are only in its precincts and vestibule. * * * * * Gambling is the staking or winning of property upon mere hazard. The husbandman renders produce for his gains; the mechanic renders the product of labor and skill for his gains; the gambler renders for his gain the sleights of useless skill, or more often, downright cheating. Betting is gambling; there is no honest equivalent to its gains. Dealings in fancy-stocks are oftentimes sheer gambling, with all its worst evils. Profits so earned are no better than the profits of dice, cards, or hazard. When skill returns for its earnings a useful service, as knowledge, beneficial amusements, or profitable labor, it is honest commerce. The skill of a pilot in threading a narrow channel, the skill of a lawyer in threading a still more intricate one, are as substantial equivalents for a price received, as if they were merchant goods or agricultural products. But all gains of _mere_ skill which result in no real benefit, are gambling gains. Gaming, as it springs from a principle of our nature, has, in some form, probably existed in every age. We trace it in remote periods and among the most barbarous people. It loses none of its fascinations among a civilized people. On the contrary, the habit of fierce stimulants, the jaded appetite of luxury, and the satiety of wealth, seem to invite the master-excitant. Our land, not apt to be behind in good or evil, is full of gambling in all its forms--the gambling of commerce, the gambling of bets and wagers, and the gambling of games of hazard. There is gambling in refined circles, and in the lowest; among the members of our national government, and of our state governments. Thief gambles with thief, in jail; the judge who sent them there, the lawyer who prosecuted, and the lawyer who defended them, often gamble too. This vice, once almost universally prevalent among the Western bar, and still too frequently disgracing its members, is, however, we are happy to believe, decreasing. In many circuits, not long ago, and in some now, the judge, the jury, and the bar, shuffled cards by night, and law by day--dealing out money and justice alike. The clatter of dice and cards disturbs your slumber on the boat, and rings drowsily from the upper rooms of the hotel. This vice pervades the city, extends over every line of travel, and infests the most moral districts. The secreted lamp dimly lights the apprentices to their game; with unsuspected disobedience, boys creep out of their beds to it; it goes on in the store close by the till; it haunts the shop. The scoundrel in his lair, the scholar in his room; the pirate on his ship, gay women at parties; loafers on the street-corner, public functionaries in their offices; the beggar under the hedge, the rascal in prison, and some professors of religion in the somnolent hours of the Sabbath,--waste their energies by the ruinous excitement of the game. Besides these players, there are troops of professional gamblers, troops of hangers-on, troops of youth to be _drawn_ in. An inexperienced eye would detect in our peaceful towns no signs of this vulture-flock;--so in a sunny day, when all cheerful birds are singing merrily, not a buzzard can be seen; but let a carcass drop, and they will push forth their gaunt heads from their gloomy roosts, and come flapping from the dark woods to speck the air, and dot the ground with their numbers. The universal prevalence of this vice is a reason for parental vigilance; and a reason of remonstrance from the citizen, the parent, the minister of the gospel, the patriot, and the press. I propose to trace its opening, describe its subjects, and detail its effects. A young man, proud of freedom, anxious to exert his manhood, has tumbled his Bible, and sober books, and letters of counsel, into a dark closet. He has learned various accomplishments, to flirt, to boast, to swear, to fight, to drink. He has let every one of these chains be put around him, upon the solemn promise of Satan that he would take them off whenever he wished. Hearing of the artistic feats of eminent gamblers, he emulates them. So, he ponders the game. He teaches what he has learned to his shopmates, and feels himself their master. As yet he has never played for stakes. It begins thus: Peeping into a book-store, he watches till the sober customers go out; then slips in, and with assumed boldness, not concealing his shame, he asks for cards, buys them, and hastens out. The first game is to pay for the cards. After the relish of playing for a stake, no game can satisfy them _without_ a stake. A few nuts are staked; then a bottle of wine; an oyster-supper. At last they can venture a sixpence in _actual money_--just for the amusement of it. I need go no further--whoever wishes to do anything with the lad, can do it now. If properly plied, and gradually led, he will go to any length, and stop only at the gallows. Do you doubt it? let us trace him a year or two further on. With his father's blessing, and his mother's tears, the young man departs from home. He has received his patrimony, and embarks for life and independence. Upon his journey he rests at a city; visits the "school of morals;" lingers in more suspicious places; is seen by a sharper; and makes his acquaintance. The knave sits by him at dinner; gives him the news of the place, and a world of advice; cautions him against sharpers; inquires if he has money, and charges him to keep it secret; offers himself to make with him the rounds of the town, and secure him from imposition. At length, that he may see all, he is taken to a gaming-house, but, with apparent kindness, warned not to play. He stands by to see the various fortunes of the game; some, forever losing; some, touch what number they will, gaining piles of gold. Looking in thirst where wine is free. A glass is taken; another of a better kind; next the best the landlord has, and two glasses of that. A change comes over the youth; his exhilaration raises his courage, and lulls his caution. Gambling _seen_, seems a different thing from gambling _painted_ by a pious father! Just then his friend remarks that one might easily double his money by a few ventures, but that it was, perhaps, prudent not to risk. Only this was needed to fire his mind. What! only prudence between me and gain? Then that shall not be long! He stakes; he wins. Stakes again; wins again. Glorious! I am the lucky man that is to break the bank! He stakes, and wins again. His pulse races; his face burns; his blood is up, and fear gone. He loses; loses again; loses all his winnings; loses more. But fortune turns again; he wins anew. He has now lost all self-command. Gains excite him, and losses excite him more. He doubles his stakes; then trebles them--and all is swept. He rushes on, puts up his whole purse, and loses the whole! Then he would borrow; no man will lend. He is desperate, he will fight at a word. He is led to the street, and thrust out. The cool breeze which blows upon his fevered cheek, wafts the slow and solemn stroke of the clock,--one,--two,--three,--four; _four of the morning_! Quick work of ruin!--an innocent man destroyed in a night! He staggers to his hotel, remembers as he enters it, that he has not even enough to pay his bill. It now flashes upon him that his friend, who never had left him for an hour before, had stayed behind where his money is, and, doubtless, is laughing over his spoils. His blood boils with rage. But at length comes up the remembrance of home; a parent's training and counsels for more than twenty years, destroyed in a night! "Good God! what a wretch I have been! I am not fit to live. I cannot go home. I am a stranger here. Oh! that I were dead! Oh! that I had died before I knew this guilt, and were lying where my sister lies! Oh God! Oh God! my head will burst with agony!" He stalks his lonely room with an agony which only the young heart knows in its first horrible awakening to remorse--when it looks despair full in the face, and feels its hideous incantations tempting him to suicide. Subdued at length by agony, cowed and weakened by distress, he is sought again by those who plucked him. Cunning to subvert inexperience, to raise the evil passions, and to allay the good, they make him their pliant tool. Farewell, young man! I see thy steps turned to that haunt again! I see hope lighting thy face; but it is a lurid light, and never came from heaven. Stop before that threshold!--turn, and bid farewell to home!--farewell to innocence!--farewell to venerable father and aged mother!--the next step shall part thee from them all forever. And now henceforth be a mate to thieves, a brother to corruption. Thou hast made a league with death, and unto death shalt thou go. Let us here pause, to draw the likeness of a few who stand conspicuous in that vulgar crowd of gamblers, with which hereafter he will consort. The first is a taciturn, quiet man. No one knows when he comes into town, or when he leaves. No man hears of his gaining; for he never boasts, nor reports his luck. He spends little for parade; his money seems to go and come only through the game. He reads none, converses none, is neither a glutton nor a hard drinker; he sports few ornaments, and wears plain clothing. Upon the whole, he seems a gentlemanly man; and sober citizens say, "his only fault is gambling." What then is this "_only fault_?" In his heart he has the most intense and consuming lust of play. He is quiet because every passion is absorbed in one; and that one burning at the highest flame. He thinks of nothing else, cares only for this. All other things, even the hottest lusts of other men, are too cool to be temptations to him; so much deeper is the style of his passions. He will sit upon his chair, and no man shall see him move for hours, except to play his cards. He sees none come in, none go out. Death might groan on one side of the room, and marriage might sport on the other,--he would know neither. Every created influence is shut out; one thing only moves him--the _game_; and that leaves not one pulse of excitability unaroused, but stirs his soul to the very dregs. Very different is the roistering gamester. He bears a jolly face, a glistening eye something watery through watching and drink. His fingers are manacled in rings; his bosom grows with pearls and diamonds. He learns the time which he wastes from a watch full gorgeously carved, (and not with the most modest scenes,) and slung around his neck by a ponderous golden chain. There is not so splendid a fellow to be seen sweeping through the streets. The landlord makes him welcome--he will bear a full bill. The tailor smiles like May--he will buy half his shop. Other places bid him welcome--he will bear large stealings. Like the Judge, he makes his circuit, but not for justice; like the Preacher, he has his appointments, but not for instruction. His circuits are the race-courses, the crowded capital, days of general convocation, conventions, and mass-gatherings. He will flame on the race-track, bet his thousands, and beat the ring at swearing, oaths vernacular, imported, simple, or compound. The drinking-booth smokes when he draws in his welcome suit. Did you see him only by day, flaming in apparel, jovial and free-hearted at the Restaurateur or Hotel, you would think him a Prince let loose--a cross between Prince Hal and Falstaff. But night is his day. These are mere exercises, and brief prefaces to his real accomplishments. He is a good fellow, who dares play deeper; he is wild indeed, who seems wilder; and he is keen indeed, who is sharper than he is, after all this show of frankness. No one is quicker, slyer, and more alert at a game. He can shuffle the pack till an honest man would as soon think of looking for a particular drop of water in the ocean, as for a particular card in any particular place. Perhaps _he_ is ignorant which is at the top and which at the bottom! At any rate, watch him closely, or you will get a lean hand and he a fat one. A plain man would think him a wizard or the devil. When he touches a pack they seem _alive_, and acting to his _will_ rather than his _touch_. He deals them like lightning, they rain like snow-flakes, sometimes one, sometimes two, if need be four or five together, and his hand hardly moved. If he loses, very well, he laughs; if he gains, he only laughs a little more. Full of stories, full of songs, full of wit, full of roistering spirit--yet do not trespass too much upon his good nature with insult! All this outside is only the spotted hide which covers the tiger. He who provokes this man, shall see what lightning can break out of a summer-seeming cloud! These do not fairly represent the race of gamblers,--conveying too favorable an impression. There is one, often met on Steamboats, travelling solely to gamble. He has the servants, or steward, or some partner, in league with him, to fleece every unwary player whom he inveigles to a game. He deals falsely; heats his dupe to madness by drink, drinking none himself; watches the signal of his accomplice telegraphing his opponent's hand; at a stray look, he will slip your money off and steal it. To cover false playing, or to get rid of paying losses, he will lie fiercely, and swear uproariously, and break up the play to fight with knife or pistol--first scraping the table of every penny. When the passengers are asleep, he surveys the luggage, to see what may be worth stealing; he pulls a watch from under the pillow of one sleeper; fumbles in the pockets of another; and gathers booty throughout the cabin. Leaving the boat before morning, he appears at some village hotel, a magnificent gentleman, a polished traveller, or even a distinguished nobleman! There is another gambler, cowardly, sleek, stealthy, humble, mousing, and mean--a simple blood-sucker. For money, he will be a tool to other gamblers; steal for them, and from them; he plays the jackal, and searches victims for them, humbly satisfied to pick the bones afterward. Thus, (to employ his own language,) he _ropes in_ the inexperienced young, flatters them, teaches them, inflames their passions, purveys to their appetites, cheats them, debauches them, draws them down to his own level, and then lords it over them in malignant meanness. Himself impure, he plunges others into lasciviousness; and with a train of reeking satellites, he revolves a few years in the orbit of the game, the brothel, and the doctor's shop; then sinks and dies: the world is purer, and good men thank God that he is gone. Besides these, time would fail me to describe the ineffable dignity of a gambling judge; the cautious, phlegmatic lawyer, gambling from sheer avarice; the broken-down and cast-away politician, seeking in the game the needed excitement, and a fair field for all the base tricks he once played off as a patriot; the pert, sharp, keen, jockey-gambler; the soaked, obese, plethoric, wheezing, bacchanal; and a crowd of ignoble worthies, wearing all the badges and titles of vice, throughout its base peerage. A detail of the evils of gambling should be preceded by an illustration of that constitution of mind out of which they mainly spring--I mean its EXCITABILITY. The body is not stored with a fixed amount of strength, nor the mind with a uniform measure of excitement; but both are capable, by stimulation, of expansion of strength or feeling, almost without limit. Experience shows, that within certain bounds, excitement is healthful and necessary, but beyond this limit, exhausting and destructive. Men are allowed to choose between moderate but long-continued excitement, and intense but short-lived excitement. Too generally they prefer the latter. To gain this intense thrill, a thousand methods are tried. The inebriate obtains it by drink and drugs; the politician, by the keen interest of the civil campaign; the young by amusements which violently inflame and gratify their appetites. When once this higher flavor of stimulus has been tasted, all that is less becomes vapid and disgustful. A sailor tries to live on shore; a few weeks suffice. To be sure, there is no hardship, or cold, or suffering; but neither is there the strong excitement of the ocean, the gale, the storm, and the world of strange sights. The politician perceives that his private affairs are deranged, his family neglected, his character aspersed, his feelings exacerbated. When men hear him confess that his career is a hideous waking dream, the race vexatious, and the end vanity, they wonder that he clings to it; but _he_ knows that nothing but the fiery wine which he has tasted will rouse up that intense excitement, now become necessary to his happiness. For this reason, great men often cling to public office with all its envy, jealousy, care, toil, hates, competitions, and unrequited fidelity; for these very disgusts, and the perpetual struggle, strike a deeper chord of excitement than is possible to the gentler touches of home, friendship and love. Here too is the key to the real evil of promiscuous novel-reading, to the habit of reverie and mental romancing. None of life's common duties can excite to such wild pleasure as these; and they must be continued, or the mind reacts into the lethargy of fatigue and _ennui_. It is upon this principle that men love _pain_; suffering is painful to a spectator; but in tragedies, at public executions, at pugilistic combats, at cock-fightings, horse-races, bear-baitings, bull-fights, gladiatorial shows, it excites a jaded mind as nothing else can. A tyrant torments for the same reason that a girl reads her tear-bedewed romance, or an inebriate drinks his dram. No longer susceptible even to inordinate stimuli, actual moans, and shrieks, and the writhing of utter agony, just suffice to excite his worn-out sense, and inspire, probably, less emotion than ordinary men have in listening to a tragedy or reading a bloody novel. Gambling is founded upon the very worst perversion of this powerful element of our nature. It heats every part of the mind like an oven. The faculties which produce calculation, pride of skill, of superiority, love of gain, hope, fear, jealousy, hatred, are absorbed in the game, and exhilarated, or exacerbated by victory or defeat. These passions are, doubtless, excited in men by the daily occurrences of life; but then they are transient, and counteracted by a thousand grades of emotion, which rise and fall like the undulations of the sea. But in gambling there is no intermission, no counteraction. The whole mind is excited to the utmost, and concentrated at its extreme point of excitation for hours and days, with the additional waste of sleepless nights, profuse drinking, and other congenial immoralities. Every other pursuit becomes tasteless; for no ordinary duty has in it a stimulus which can scorch a mind which now refuses to burn without blazing, or to feel an interest which is not intoxication. The victim of excitement is like a mariner who ventures into the edge of a whirlpool for a motion more exhilarating than plain sailing. He is unalarmed during the first few gyrations, for escape is easy. But each turn sweeps him further in; the power augments, the speed becomes terrific as he rushes toward the vortex; all escape now hopeless. A noble ship went in; it is spit out in broken fragments, splintered spars, crushed masts, and cast up for many a rood along the shore. The specific evils of gambling may now be almost imagined. I. It diseases the mind, unfitting it for the duties of life. Gamblers are seldom industrious men in any useful vocation. A gambling mechanic finds his labor less relishful as his passion for play increases. He grows unsteady, neglects his work, becomes unfaithful to promises; what he performs he slights. Little jobs seem little enough; he desires immense contracts, whose uncertainty has much the excitement of gambling--and for the best of reasons; and in the pursuit of great and sudden profits, by wild schemes, he stumbles over into ruin, leaving all who employed or trusted him in the rubbish of his speculations. A gambling lawyer, neglecting the drudgery of his profession, will court its exciting duties. To explore authorities, compare reasons, digest, and write,--this is tiresome. But to advocate, to engage in fiery contests with keen opponents, this is nearly as good as gambling. Many a ruined client has cursed the law, and cursed a stupid jury, and cursed everybody for his irretrievable loss, except his lawyer, who gambled all night when he should have prepared the case, and came half asleep and debauched into court in the morning to lose a good case mismanaged, and snatched from his gambling hands by the art of sober opponents. A gambling student, if such a thing can be, withdraws from thoughtful authors to the brilliant and spicy; from the pure among these, to the sharp and ribald; from all _reading_ about depraved life, to _seeing_; from sight to experience. Gambling vitiates the imagination, corrupts the tastes, destroys the industry--for no man will drudge for cents, who gambles for dollars by the hundred; or practise a piddling economy, while, with almost equal indifference, he makes or loses five hundred in a night. II. For a like reason, it destroys all domestic habits and affections. Home is a prison to an inveterate gambler; there is no air there that he can breathe. For a moment he may sport with his children, and smile upon his wife; but his heart, its strong passions, are not there. A little branch-rill may flow through the family, but the deep river of his affections flows away from home. On the issue of a game, Tacitus narrates that the ancient Germans would stake their property, their wives, their children, and themselves. What less than this is it, when a man will stake that property which is to give his family bread, and that honor which gives them place and rank in society? When _playing_ becomes desperate _gambling_, the heart is a hearth where all the fires of gentle feelings have smouldered to ashes; and a thorough-paced gamester could rattle dice in a charnel-house, and wrangle for his stakes amid murder and pocket gold dripping with the blood of his own kindred. III. Gambling is the parent and companion of every vice which pollutes the heart, or injures society. It is a practice so disallowed among Christians, and so excluded by mere moralists, and so hateful to industrious and thriving men, that those who practise it are shut up to themselves; unlike lawful pursuits, it is not modified or restrained by collision with others. Gamblers herd with gamblers. They tempt and provoke each other to all evil, without affording one restraint, and without providing the counterbalance of a single virtuous impulse. They are like snakes coiling among snakes, poison and poisoning; like plague-patients, infected and diffusing infection; each sick and all contagious. It is impossible to put bad men together and not have them grow worse. The herding of convicts promiscuously, produced such a fermentation of depravity, that, long ago, legislators forbade it. When criminals, out of jail, herd together by choice, the same corrupt nature will doom them to growing loathsomeness, because of increasing wickedness. IV. It is a provocative of thirst. The bottle is almost as needful as the card, the ball, or the dice. Some are seduced to drink; some drink for imitation, at first, and fashion. When super-excitements, at intervals, subside, their victim cannot bear the deathlike gloom of the reaction; and, by drugs or liquor, wind up their system to the glowing point again. Therefore, drinking is the invariable concomitant of the theatre, circus, race-course, gaming-table, and of all amusements which powerfully excite all but the moral feelings. When the double fires of dice and brandy blaze under a man, he will soon be consumed. If men are found who do not drink, they are the more noticeable because exceptions. V. It is, even in its fairest form, the almost inevitable _cause of dishonesty_. Robbers have robbers' honor; thieves have thieves' law; and pirates conform to pirates' regulations. But where is there a gambler's code? One law there is, and this is not universal, _pay your gambling debts_. But on the wide question, _how is it fair to win_--what law is there? What will shut a man out from a gambler's club? May he not discover his opponent's hand by fraud? May not a concealed thread, pulling the significant _one_;--_one, two_; or _one, two, three_; or the sign of a bribed servant or waiter, inform him, and yet his standing be fair? May he not cheat in shuffling, and yet be in full orders and canonical? May he not cheat in dealing, and yet be a welcome gambler?--may he not steal the money from your pile by laying his hands upon it, just as any other thief would, and yet be an approved gambler? May not the whole code be stated thus: _Pay what you lose, get what you can, and in any way you can!_ I am told, perhaps, that there are honest gamblers, gentlemanly gamblers. Certainly; there are always ripe apples before there are rotten. Men always _begin_ before they _end_; there is always an approximation before there is contact. Players will play truly till they get used to playing untruly; will be honest, till they cheat; will be honorable, till they become base; and when you have said all this, what does it amount to but this, that men who _really_ gamble, really cheat; and that they only do not cheat, who are not _yet_ real gamblers? If this mends the matter, let it be so amended. I have spoken of gamesters only among themselves; this is the least part of the evil; for who is concerned when lions destroy bears, or wolves devour wolf-cubs, or snakes sting vipers? In respect to that department of gambling which includes the _roping-in_ of strangers, young men, collecting-clerks, and unsuspecting green-hands, and robbing them, I have no language strong enough to mark down its turpitude, its infernal rapacity. After hearing many of the scenes not unfamiliar to every gambler, I think Satan might be proud of their dealings, and look up to them with that deferential respect, with which one monster gazes upon a superior. There is not even the expectation of honesty. Some scullion-herald of iniquity decoys the unwary wretch into the secret room; he is tempted to drink; made confident by the specious simplicity of the game; allowed to win; and every bait and lure and blind is employed--then he is plucked to the skin by tricks which appear as fair as honesty itself. The robber avows _his_ deed, does it openly; the gambler sneaks to the same result under skulking pretences. There is a frank way, and a mean way of doing a wicked thing. The gambler takes the meanest way of doing the dirtiest deed. The victim's own partner is sucking his blood; it is a league of sharpers, to get his money at any rate; and the wickedness is so unblushing and unmitigated, that it gives, at last, an instance of what the deceitful human heart, knavish as it is, is ashamed to try to cover or conceal; but confesses with helpless honesty, that it is fraud, cheating, _stealing_, _robbery_,--and nothing else. If I walk the dark street, and a perishing, hungry wretch meets me and bears off my purse with but a single dollar, the whole town awakes; the officers are alert, the myrmidons of the law scout, and hunt, and bring in the trembling culprit to stow him in the jail. But a worse thief may meet me, decoy my steps, and by a greater dishonesty, filch ten thousand dollars,--and what then? The story spreads, the sharpers move abroad unharmed, no one stirs. It is the day's conversation; and like a sound it rolls to the distance, and dies in an echo. Shall such astounding iniquities be vomited out amidst us, and no man care? Do we love our children, and yet let them walk in a den of vipers? Shall we pretend to virtue, and purity, and religion, and yet make partners of our social life, men whose heart has conceived such damnable deeds, and whose hands have performed them? Shall there be even in the eye of religion no difference between the corrupter of youth and their guardian? Are all the lines and marks of morality so effaced, is the nerve and courage of virtue so quailed by the frequency and boldness of flagitious crimes, that men, covered over with wickedness, shall find their iniquity no obstacle to their advancement among a Christian people. In almost every form of iniquity there is some shade or trace of good. We have in gambling a crime standing alone--dark, malignant, uncompounded wickedness! It seems in its full growth a monster without a tender mercy, devouring its own offspring without one feeling but appetite. A gamester, as such, is the cool, calculating, essential _spirit_ of concentrated avaricious selfishness. His intellect is a living thing, quickened with double life for villany; his heart is steel of fourfold temper. When a man _begins_ to gamble he is as a noble tree full of sap, green with leaves, a shade to beasts, and a covert to birds. When one _becomes_ a thorough gambler, he is like that tree lightning-smitten, rotten in root, dry in branch, and sapless; seasoned hard and tough; nothing lives beneath it, nothing on its branches, unless a hawk or a vulture perches for a moment to whet its beak, and fly screaming away for its prey. To every young man who indulges in the least form of gambling, I raise a warning voice! Under the specious name of AMUSEMENT, you are laying the foundation of gambling. Playing is the seed which comes up gambling. It is the light wind which brings up the storm. It is the white frost which preludes the winter. You are mistaken, however, in supposing that it is harmless in its earliest beginnings. Its terrible blight belongs, doubtless, to a later stage; but its consumption of time, its destruction of industry, its distaste for the calmer pleasures of life, belong to the very _beginning_. You will begin to play with every generous feeling. Amusement will be the plea. At the beginning the game will excite enthusiasm, pride of skill, the love of mastery, and the love of money. The love of money, at first almost imperceptible, at last will rule out all the rest,--like Aaron's rod,--a serpent, swallowing every other serpent. Generosity, enthusiasm, pride and skill, love of mastery, will be absorbed in one mighty feeling,--the savage lust of lucre. There is a downward climax in this sin. The opening and ending are fatally connected, and drawn toward each other with almost irresistible attraction. If gambling is a vortex, playing is the outer ring of the Maelstrom. The thousand pound stake, the whole estate put up on a game--what are these but the instruments of kindling that tremendous excitement which a diseased heart craves? What is the _amusement_ for which you play but the _excitement_ of the game? And for what but this does the jaded gambler play? You differ from him only in the degree of the same feeling. Do not solace yourself that you shall escape because others have; for they _stopped_, and _you go on_. Are you as safe as they, when you are in the gulf-stream of perdition, and they on the shore? But have you ever asked, _how many_ have escaped? Not one in a thousand is left unblighted! You have nine hundred and ninety-nine chances _against_ you, and one for you; and will you go on? If a disease should stalk through the town, devouring whole families, and sparing not one in five hundred, would you lie down under it quietly because you have one chance in five hundred? Had a scorpion stung you, would it alleviate your pangs to reflect that you had only one chance in one hundred? Had you swallowed corrosive poison, would it ease your convulsions to think there was only one chance in fifty for you? I do not call every man who plays a gambler, but a gambler in _embryo_. Let me trace your course from the amusement of innocent playing to its almost inevitable end. _Scene first._ A genteel coffee-house,--whose humane screen conceals a line of grenadier bottles, and hides respectable blushes from impertinent eyes. There is a quiet little room opening out of the bar; and here sit four jovial youths. The cards are out, the wines are in. The fourth is a reluctant hand; he does not love the drink, nor approve the game. He anticipates and fears the result of both. Why is he here? He is a whole-souled fellow, and is afraid to seem ashamed of any fashionable gaiety. He will sip his wine upon the importunity of a friend newly come to town, and is too polite to spoil that friend's pleasure by refusing a part in the game. They sit, shuffle, deal; the night wears on, the clock telling no tale of passing hours--the prudent liquor-fiend has made it safely dumb. The night is getting old; its dank air grows fresher; the east is grey; the gaming and drinking and hilarious laughter are over, and the youths wending homeward. What says conscience? No matter what it says; they did not hear, and we will not. Whatever was said, it was very shortly answered thus: "This has not been gambling; all were gentlemen; there was no cheating; simply a convivial evening; no stakes except the bills incident to the entertainment. If anybody blames a young man for a little innocent exhilaration on a special occasion, he is a superstitious bigot; let him croak!" Such a garnished game is made the text to justify the whole round of gambling, Let us, then, look at _Scene the second._ In a room so silent that there is no sound except the shrill cock crowing the morning, where the forgotten candles burn dimly over the long and lengthened wick, sit four men. Carved marble could not be more motionless, save their hands. Pale, watchful, though weary, their eyes pierce the cards, or furtively read each other's faces. Hours have passed over them thus. At length they rise without words; some, with a satisfaction which only makes their faces brightly haggard, scrape off the piles of money; others, dark, sullen, silent, fierce, move away from their lost money. The darkest and fiercest of the four is that young friend who first sat down to make out a game! He will never sit so innocently again. What says he to his conscience now? "I have a right to gamble; I have a right to be damned too, if I choose; whose business is it?" _Scene the third._ Years have passed on. He has seen youth ruined, at first with expostulation, then with only silent regret, then consenting to take part of the spoils; and finally, he has himself decoyed, duped, and stripped them without mercy. Go with me into that dilapidated house, not far from the landing, at New Orleans. Look into that dirty room. Around a broken table, sitting upon boxes, kegs, or rickety chairs, see a filthy crew dealing cards smouched with tobacco, grease and liquor. One has a pirate-face burnished and burnt with brandy; a shock of grizzly, matted hair, half covering his villain eyes, which glare out like a wild beast's from a thicket. Close by him wheezes a white-faced, dropsical wretch, vermin-covered, and stenchful. A scoundrel-Spaniard, and a burly negro, (the jolliest of the four,) complete the group. They have spectators--drunken sailors, and ogling, thieving, drinking women, who should have died long ago, when all that was womanly died. Here hour draws on hour, sometimes with brutal laughter, sometimes with threat, and oath, and uproar. The last few stolen dollars lost, and temper too, each charges each with cheating, and high words ensue, and blows; and the whole gang burst out the door, beating, biting, scratching, and rolling over and over in the dirt and dust. The worst, the fiercest, the drunkest, of the four, is our friend who began by making up the game! _Scene the fourth._ Upon this bright day, stand with me, if you would be sick of humanity, and look over that multitude of men kindly gathered to see a murderer hung! At last, a guarded cart drags on a thrice-guarded wretch. At the gallows' ladder his courage fails. His coward-feet refuse to ascend; dragged up, he is supported by bustling officials; his brain reels, his eye swims, while the meek minister utters a final prayer by his leaden ear. The prayer is said, the noose is fixed, the signal is given; a shudder runs through the crowd as he swings free. After a moment, his convulsed limbs stretch down, and hang heavily and still; and he who began to gamble to make up a game, and ended with stabbing an enraged victim whom he had fleeced, has here played his last game,--himself the stake! I feel impelled, in closing, to call the attention of all sober citizens to some potent influences which are exerted in favor of gambling. In our civil economy we have Legislators to devise and enact wholesome laws; Lawyers to counsel and aid those who need the laws' relief; and Judges to determine and administer the laws. If Legislators, Lawyers, and Judges are gamblers, with what hope do we warn off the young from this deadly fascination, against such authoritative examples of high public functionaries? With what eminent fitness does that Judge press the bench, who in private commits the vices which officially he is set to condemn! With what singular terrors does he frown on a convicted gambler with whom he played last night, and will play again to-night! How wisely should the fine be light which the sprightly criminal will win and pay out of the Judge's own pocket! With the name of JUDGE is associated ideas of immaculate purity, sober piety, and fearless, favorless justice. Let it then be counted a dark crime for a recreant official so far to forget his reverend place, and noble office, as to run the gantlet of filthy vices, and make the word _Judge_, to suggest an incontinent trifler, who smites with his mouth, and smirks with his eye; who holds the rod to strike the criminal, and smites only the law to make a gap for criminals to pass through! If God loves this land, may he save it from truckling, drinking, swearing, gambling, vicious Judges![A] [A] The general eminent integrity of the Bench is unquestionable--and no remarks in the text are to be construed as an oblique aspersion of the profession. But the purer our Judges generally, the more shameless is it that some will not abandon either their vices or their office. With such Judges I must associate corrupt LEGISLATORS, whose bawling patriotism leaks out in all the sinks of infamy at the Capital. These living exemplars of vice, pass still-born laws against vice. Are such men sent to the Capital only to practise debauchery? Laborious seedsmen--they gather every germ of evil; and laborious sowers--at home they strew them far and wide! It is a burning shame, a high outrage, that public men, by corrupting the young with the example of manifold vices, should pay back their constituents for their honors! Our land has little to fear from abroad, and much from within. We can bear foreign aggression, scarcity, the revulsions of commerce, plagues, and pestilences; but we cannot bear vicious Judges, corrupt Courts, gambling Legislators, and a vicious, corrupt, and gambling constituency. Let us not be deceived! The decay of civil institutions begins at the core. The outside wears all the lovely hues of ripeness, when the inside is rotting. Decline does not begin in bold and startling acts; but, as in autumnal leaves, in rich and glowing colors. Over diseased vitals, consumptive laws wear the hectic blush, a brilliant eye, and transparent skin. Could the public sentiment declare that PERSONAL MORALITY is the first element of patriotism; that corrupt Legislators are the most pernicious of criminals; that the Judge who lets the villain off, is the villain's patron; that tolerance of crime is intolerance of virtue,--our nation might defy all enemies and live forever! And now, my young friends, I beseech you to let alone this evil before it be meddled with. You are safe from vice when you avoid even its appearance; and only then. The first steps to wickedness are imperceptible. We do not wonder at the inexperience of Adam; but it is wonderful that six thousand years' repetition of the same arts, and the same uniform disaster, should have taught men nothing! that generation after generation should perish, and the wreck be no warning! The mariner searches his chart for hidden rocks, stands off from perilous shoals, and steers wide of reefs on which hang shattered morsels of wrecked ships, and runs in upon dangerous shores with the ship manned, the wheel in hand, and the lead constantly sounding. But the mariner upon life's sea, carries no chart of other men's voyages, drives before every wind that will speed him, draws upon horrid shores with slumbering crew, or heads in upon roaring reefs as though he would not perish where thousands have perished before him. Hell is populated with the victims of "_harmless amusements_." Will man never learn that the way to hell is through the valley of DECEIT? The power of Satan to _hold_ his victims is nothing to that mastery of art by which he first _gains_ them. When he approaches to charm us, it is not as a grim fiend, gleaming from a lurid cloud, but as an angel of light radiant with innocence. His words fall like dew upon the flower; as musical as the crystal-drop warbling from a fountain. Beguiled by his art, he leads you to the enchanted ground. Oh! how it glows with every refulgent hue of heaven! Afar off he marks the dismal gulf of vice and crime; its smoke of torment slowly rising, and rising forever! and he himself cunningly warns you of its dread disaster, for the very purpose of blinding and drawing you thither. He leads you to captivity through all the bowers of lulling magic. He plants your foot on odorous flowers; he fans your cheek with balmy breath; he overhangs your head with rosy clouds; he fills your ear with distant, drowsy music, charming every sense to rest. Oh ye! who have thought the way to hell was bleak and frozen as Norway, parched and barren as Sahara, strewed like Golgotha with bones and skulls reeking with stench like the vale of Gehenna,--witness your mistake! The way to hell is gorgeous! It is a highway, cast up; no lion is there, no ominous bird to hoot a warning, no echoings of the wailing-pit, no lurid gleams of distant fires, or moaning sounds of hidden woe! Paradise is imitated to build you a way to death; the flowers of heaven are stolen and poisoned; the sweet plant of knowledge is here; the pure white flower of religion; seeming virtue and the charming tints of innocence are scattered all along like native herbage. The enchanted victim travels on. Standing afar behind, and from a silver-trumpet, a heavenly messenger sends down the wind a solemn warning: THERE IS A WAY WHICH SEEMETH RIGHT TO MAN, BUT THE END THEREOF IS DEATH. And again, with louder blast: THE WISE MAN FORESEETH THE EVIL; FOOLS PASS ON AND ARE PUNISHED. Startled for a moment, the victim pauses; gazes round upon the flowery scene, and whispers, _Is it not harmless?_--"_Harmless_," responds a serpent from the grass!--"_Harmless_," echo the sighing winds!--"_Harmless_," re-echo a hundred airy tongues! If now a gale from heaven might only sweep the clouds away through which the victim gazes; oh! if God would break that potent power which chains the blasts of hell, and let the sulphur-stench roll up the vale, how would the vision change!--the road become a track of dead men's bones!--the heavens a lowering storm!--the balmy breezes, distant wailings--and all those balsam-shrubs that lied to his senses, sweat drops of blood upon their poison-boughs! Ye who are meddling with the edges of vice, ye are on this road!--and utterly duped by its enchantments! Your eye has already lost its honest glance, your taste has lost its purity, your heart throbs with poison! The leprosy is all over you, its blotches and eruptions cover you. Your feet stand on slippery places, whence in due time they shall slide, if you refuse the warning which I raise. They shall slide from heaven, never to be visited by a gambler; slide down to that fiery abyss below you, out of which none ever come. Then, when the last card is cast, and the game over, and you lost; then, when the echo of your fall shall ring through hell,--in malignant triumph, shall the Arch-Gambler, who cunningly played for your soul, have his prey! Too late you shall look back upon life as a MIGHTY GAME, in which you were the stake, and Satan the winner! ALTEMUS' ETERNAL LIFE SERIES. _Selections from the writings of well-known religious authors' works, beautifully printed and daintily bound in leatherette with original designs in silver and ink._ _PRICE, 25 CENTS PER VOLUME._ ETERNAL LIFE, by Professor Henry Drummond. LORD, TEACH US TO PRAY, by Rev. Andrew Murray. GOD'S WORD AND GOD'S WORK, by Martin Luther. FAITH, by Thomas Arnold. THE CREATION STORY, by Honorable William E. Gladstone. THE MESSAGE OF COMFORT, by Rt. Rev. Ashton Oxenden. THE MESSAGE OF PEACE, by Rev. R. W. Church. THE LORD'S PRAYER AND THE TEN COMMANDMENTS, by Dean Stanley. THE MEMOIRS OF JESUS, by Rev. Robert F. Horton. HYMNS OF PRAISE AND GLADNESS, by Elisabeth R. Scovil. DIFFICULTIES, by Hannah Whitall Smith. GAMBLERS AND GAMBLING, by Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. HAVE FAITH IN GOD, by Rev. Andrew Murray. TWELVE CAUSES OF DISHONESTY, by Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. THE CHRIST IN WHOM CHRISTIANS BELIEVE, by Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks. IN MY NAME, by Rev. Andrew Murray. SIX WARNINGS, by Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. THE DUTY OF THE CHRISTIAN BUSINESSMAN, by Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks. POPULAR AMUSEMENTS, by Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. TRUE LIBERTY, by Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks. INDUSTRY AND IDLENESS, by Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. THE BEAUTY OF A LIFE OF SERVICE, by Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks. THE SECOND COMING OF OUR LORD, by Rev. A. T. Pierson, D.D. THOUGHT AND ACTION, by Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks. THE HEAVENLY VISION, by Rev. F. B. Meyer. MORNING STRENGTH, by Elisabeth R. Scovil. FOR THE QUIET HOUR, by Edith V. Bradt. EVENING COMFORT, by Elizabeth R. Scovil. WORDS OF HELP FOR CHRISTIAN GIRLS, by Rev. F. B. Meyer HOW TO STUDY THE BIBLE, by Rev. Dwight L. Moody. EXPECTATION CORNER, by E. S. Elliot. JESSICA'S FIRST PRAYER, by Hesba Stretton. HENRY ALTEMUS. _507, 509, 511, 513 Cherry Street, Philadelphia._ ALTEMUS' BELLES-LETTRES SERIES. _A collection of Essays and Addresses by eminent English and American Authors, beautifully printed and daintily bound in leatherette, with original designs in silver._ _PRICE, 25 CENTS PER VOLUME._ INDEPENDENCE DAY, by Rev. Edward E. Hale. THE SCHOLAR IN POLITICS, by Hon. Richard Olney. THE YOUNG MAN IN BUSINESS, by Edward W. Bok. THE YOUNG MAN AND THE CHURCH, by Edward W. Bok. THE SPOILS SYSTEM, by Hon. Carl Schurz. CONVERSATION, by Thomas De Quincey. SWEETNESS AND LIGHT, by Matthew Arnold. WORK, by John Ruskin. NATURE AND ART, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. THE USE AND MISUSE OF BOOKS, by Frederic Harrison. THE MONROE DOCTRINE: ITS ORIGIN, MEANING AND APPLICATION, by Prof. John Bach McMaster (University of Pennsylvania). THE DESTINY OF MAN, by Sir John Lubbock. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. RIP VAN WINKLE, by Washington Irving. ART, POETRY AND MUSIC, by Sir John Lubbock. THE CHOICE OF BOOKS, by Sir John Lubbock. MANNERS, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. CHARACTER, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, by Washington Irving. THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE, by Sir John Lubbock. SELF RELIANCE, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. THE DUTY OF HAPPINESS, by Sir John Lubbock. SPIRITUAL LAWS, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. OLD CHRISTMAS, by Washington Irving. HEALTH, WEALTH AND THE BLESSING OF FRIENDS, by Sir John Lubbock. INTELLECT, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. WHY AMERICANS DISLIKE ENGLAND, by Prof. Geo. B. Adams (Yale). THE HIGHER EDUCATION AS A TRAINING FOR BUSINESS, by Prof. Harry Pratt Judson (University of Chicago). MISS TOOSEY'S MISSION. LADDIE. J. COLE, by Emma Gellibrand. HENRY ALTEMUS, _507, 509, 511, 513 Cherry Street, Philadelphia._ 
23058	----	THE QUEEN OF SPADES By Alexander Sergeievitch Poushkin Translated by H. Twitchell Copyright, 1901, by The Current Literature Publishing Company AT the house of Naroumov, a cavalry officer, the long winter night had been passed in gambling. At five in the morning breakfast was served to the weary players. The winners ate with relish; the losers, on the contrary, pushed back their plates and sat brooding gloomily. Under the influence of the good wine, however, the conversation then became general. "Well, Sourine?" said the host inquiringly. "Oh, I lost as usual. My luck is abominable. No matter how cool I keep, I never win." "How is it, Herman, that you never touch a card?" remarked one of the men, addressing a young officer of the Engineering Corps. "Here you are with the rest of us at five o'clock in the morning, and you have neither played nor bet all night." "Play interests me greatly," replied the person addressed, "but I hardly care to sacrifice the necessaries of life for uncertain superfluities." "Herman is a German, therefore economical; that explains it," said Tomsky. "But the person I can't quite understand is my grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedorovna." "Why?" inquired a chorus of voices. "I can't understand why my grandmother never gambles." "I don't see anything very striking in the fact that a woman of eighty refuses to gamble," objected Naroumov. "Have you never heard her story?" "No--" "Well, then, listen to it. To begin with, sixty years ago my grandmother went to Paris, where she was all the fashion. People crowded each other in the streets to get a chance to see the 'Muscovite Venus,' as she was called. All the great ladies played faro, then. On one occasion, while playing with the Duke of Orleans, she lost an enormous sum. She told her husband of the debt, but he refused outright to pay it. Nothing could induce him to change his mind on the subject, and grandmother was at her wits' ends. Finally, she remembered a friend of hers, Count Saint-Germain. You must have heard of him, as many wonderful stories have been told about him. He is said to have discovered the elixir of life, the philosopher's stone, and many other equally marvelous things. He had money at his disposal, and my grandmother knew it. She sent him a note asking him to come to see her. He obeyed her summons and found her in great distress. She painted the cruelty of her husband in the darkest colors, and ended by telling the Count that she depended upon his friendship and generosity. "'I could lend you the money,' replied the Count, after a moment of thoughtfulness, 'but I know that you would not enjoy a moment's rest until you had returned it; it would only add to your embarrassment. There is another way of freeing yourself.' "'But I have no money at all,' insisted my grandmother. "'There is no need of money. Listen to me.' "The Count then told her a secret which any of us would give a good deal to know." The young gamesters were all attention. Tomsky lit his pipe, took a few whiffs, then continued: "The next evening, grandmother appeared at Versailles at the Queen's gaming-table. The Duke of Orleans was the dealer. Grandmother made some excuse for not having brought any money, and began to punt. She chose three cards in succession, again and again, winning every time, and was soon out of debt." "A fable," remarked Herman; "perhaps the cards were marked." "I hardly think so," replied Tomsky, with an air of importance. "So you have a grandmother who knows three winning cards, and you haven't found out the magic secret." "I must say I have not. She had four sons, one of them being my father, all of whom are devoted to play; she never told the secret to one of them. But my uncle told me this much, on his word of honor. Tchaplitzky, who died in poverty after having squandered millions, lost at one time, at play, nearly three hundred thousand rubles. He was desperate and grandmother took pity on him. She told him the three cards, making him swear never to use them again. He returned to the game, staked fifty thousand rubles on each card, and came out ahead, after paying his debts." As day was dawning the party now broke up, each one draining his glass and taking his leave. The Countess Anna Fedorovna was seated before her mirror in her dressing-room. Three women were assisting at her toilet. The old Countess no longer made the slightest pretensions to beauty, but she still clung to all the habits of her youth, and spent as much time at her toilet as she had done sixty years before. At the window a young girl, her ward, sat at her needlework. "Good afternoon, grandmother," cried a young officer, who had just entered the room. "I have come to ask a favor of you." "What, Pavel?" "I want to be allowed to present one of my friends to you, and to take you to the ball on Tuesday night." "Take me to the ball and present him to me there." After a few more remarks the officer walked up to the window where Lisaveta Ivanovna sat. "Whom do you wish to present?" asked the girl. "Naroumov; do you know him?" "No; is he a soldier?" "Yes." "An engineer?" "No; why do you ask?" The girl smiled and made no reply. Pavel Tomsky took his leave, and, left to herself, Lisaveta glanced out of the window. Soon, a young officer appeared at the corner of the street; the girl blushed and bent her head low over her canvas. This appearance of the officer had become a daily occurrence. The man was totally unknown to her, and as she was not accustomed to coquetting with the soldiers she saw on the street, she hardly knew how to explain his presence. His persistence finally roused an interest entirely strange to her. One day, she even ventured to smile upon her admirer, for such he seemed to be. The reader need hardly be told that the officer was no other than Herman, the would-be gambler, whose imagination had been strongly excited by the story told by Tomsky of the three magic cards. "Ah," he thought, "if the old Countess would only reveal the secret to me. Why not try to win her good-will and appeal to her sympathy?" With this idea in mind, he took up his daily station before the house, watching the pretty face at the window, and trusting to fate to bring about the desired acquaintance. One day, as Lisaveta was standing on the pavement about to enter the carriage after the Countess, she felt herself jostled and a note was thrust into her hand. Turning, she saw the young officer at her elbow. As quick as thought, she put the note in her glove and entered the carriage. On her return from the drive, she hastened to her chamber to read the missive, in a state of excitement mingled with fear. It was a tender and respectful declaration of affection, copied word for word from a German novel. Of this fact, Lisa was, of course, ignorant. The young girl was much impressed by the missive, but she felt that the writer must not be encouraged. She therefore wrote a few lines of explanation and, at the first opportunity, dropped it, with the letter, out of the window. The officer hastily crossed the street, picked up the papers and entered a shop to read them. In no wise daunted by this rebuff, he found the opportunity to send her another note in a few days. He received no reply, but, evidently understanding the female heart, he presevered, begging for an interview. He was rewarded at last by the following: "To-night we go to the ambassador's ball. We shall remain until two o'clock. I can arrange for a meeting in this way. After our departure, the servants will probably all go out, or go to sleep. At half-past eleven enter the vestibule boldly, and if you see any one, inquire for the Countess; if not, ascend the stairs, turn to the left and go on until you come to a door, which opens into her bedchamber. Enter this room and behind a screen you will find another door leading to a corridor; from this a spiral staircase leads to my sitting-room. I shall expect to find you there on my return." Herman trembled like a leaf as the appointed hour drew near. He obeyed instructions fully, and, as he met no one, he reached the old lady's bedchamber without difficulty. Instead of going out of the small door behind the screen, however, he concealed himself in a closet to await the return of the old Countess. The hours dragged slowly by; at last he heard the sound of wheels. Immediately lamps were lighted and servants began moving about. Finally the old woman tottered into the room, completely exhausted. Her women removed her wraps and proceeded to get her in readiness for the night. Herman watched the proceedings with a curiosity not unmingled with superstitious fear. When at last she was attired in cap and gown, the old woman looked less uncanny than when she wore her ball-dress of blue brocade. She sat down in an easy chair beside a table, as she was in the habit of doing before retiring, and her women withdrew. As the old lady sat swaying to and fro, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings, Herman crept out of his hiding-place. At the slight noise the old woman opened her eyes, and gazed at the intruder with a half-dazed expression. "Have no fear, I beg of you," said Herman, in a calm voice. "I have not come to harm you, but to ask a favor of you instead." The Countess looked at him in silence, seemingly without comprehending him. Herman thought she might be deaf, so he put his lips close to her ear and repeated his remark. The listener remained perfectly mute. "You could make my fortune without its costing you anything," pleaded the young man; "only tell me the three cards which are sure to win, and--" Herman paused as the old woman opened her lips as if about to speak. "It was only a jest; I swear to you, it was only a jest," came from the withered lips. "There was no jesting about it. Remember Tchaplitzky, who, thanks to you, was able to pay his debts." An expression of interior agitation passed over the face of the old woman; then she relapsed into her former apathy. "Will you tell me the names of the magic cards, or not?" asked Herman after a pause. There was no reply. The young man then drew a pistol from his pocket, exclaiming: "You old witch, I'll force you to tell me!" At the sight of the weapon the Countess gave a second sign of life. She threw back her head and put out her hands as if to protect herself; then they dropped and she sat motionless. Herman grasped her arm roughly, and was about to renew his threats, when he saw that she was dead! ***** Seated in her room, still in her ball-dress, Lisaveta gave herself up to her reflections. She had expected to find the young officer there, but she felt relieved to see that he was not. Strangely enough, that very night at the ball, Tomsky had rallied her about her preference for the young officer, assuring her that he knew more than she supposed he did. "Of whom are you speaking?" she had asked in alarm, fearing her adventure had been discovered. "Of the remarkable man," was the reply. "His name is Herman." Lisa made no reply. "This Herman," continued Tomsky, "is a romantic character; he has the profile of a Napoleon and the heart of a Mephistopheles. It is said he has at least three crimes on his conscience. But how pale you are." "It is only a slight headache. But why do you talk to me of this Herman?" "Because I believe he has serious intentions concerning you." "Where has he seen me?" "At church, perhaps, or on the street." The conversation was interrupted at this point, to the great regret of the young girl. The words of Tomsky made a deep impression upon her, and she realized how imprudently she had acted. She was thinking of all this and a great deal more when the door of her apartment suddenly opened, and Herman stood before her. She drew back at sight of him, trembling violently. "Where have you been?" she asked in a frightened whisper. "In the bedchamber of the Countess. She is dead," was the calm reply. "My God! What are you saying?" cried the girl. "Furthermore, I believe that I was the cause of her death." The words of Tomsky flashed through Lisa's mind. Herman sat down and told her all. She listened with a feeling of terror and disgust. So those passionate letters, that audacious pursuit were not the result of tenderness and love. It was money that he desired. The poor girl felt that she had in a sense been an accomplice in the death of her benefactress. She began to weep bitterly. Herman regarded her in silence. "You are a monster!" exclaimed Lisa, drying her eyes. "I didn't intend to kill her; the pistol was not even loaded. "How are you going to get out of the house?" inquired Lisa. "It is nearly daylight. I intended to show you the way to a secret staircase, while the Countess was asleep, as we would have to cross her chamber. Now I am afraid to do so." "Direct me, and I will find the way alone," replied Herman. She gave him minute instructions and a key with which to open the street door. The young man pressed the cold, inert hand, then went out. The death of the Countess had surprised no one, as it had long been expected. Her funeral was attended by every one of note in the vicinity. Herman mingled with the throng without attracting any especial attention. After all the friends had taken their last look at the dead face, the young man approached the bier. He prostrated himself on the cold floor, and remained motionless for a long time. He rose at last with a face almost as pale as that of the corpse itself, and went up the steps to look into the casket. As he looked down it seemed to him that the rigid face returned his glance mockingly, closing one eye. He turned abruptly away, made a false step, and fell to the floor. He was picked up, and, at the same moment, Lisaveta was carried out in a faint. Herman did not recover his usual composure during the entire day. He dined alone at an out-of-the-way restaurant, and drank a great deal, in the hope of stifling his emotion. The wine only served to stimulate his imagination. He returned home and threw himself down on his bed without undressing. During the night he awoke with a start; the moon shone into his chamber, making everything plainly visible. Some one looked in at the window, then quickly disappeared. He paid no attention to this, but soon he heard the vestibule door open. He thought it was his orderly, returning late, drunk as usual. The step was an unfamiliar one, and he heard the shuffling sound of loose slippers. The door of his room opened, and a woman in white entered. She came close to the bed, and the terrified man recognized the Countess. "I have come to you against my will," she said abruptly; "but I was commanded to grant your request. The tray, seven, and ace in succession are the magic cards. Twenty-four hours must elapse between the use of each card, and after the three have been used you must never play again." The fantom then turned and walked away. Herman heard the outside door close, and again saw the form pass the window. He rose and went out into the hall, where his orderly lay asleep on the floor. The door was closed. Finding no trace of a visitor, he returned to his room, lit his candle, and wrote down what he had just heard. Two fixed ideas cannot exist in the brain at the same time any more than two bodies can occupy the same point in space. The tray, seven, and ace soon chased away the thoughts of the dead woman, and all other thoughts from the brain of the young officer. All his ideas merged into a single one: how to turn to advantage the secret paid for so dearly. He even thought of resigning his commission and going to Paris to force a fortune from conquered fate. Chance rescued him from his embarrassment. ***** Tchekalinsky, a man who had passed his whole life at cards, opened a club at St. Petersburg. His long experience secured for him the confidence of his companions, and his hospitality and genial humor conciliated society. The gilded youth flocked around him, neglecting society, preferring the charms of faro to those of their sweethearts. Naroumov invited Herman to accompany him to the club, and the young man accepted the invitation only too willingly. The two officers found the apartments full. Generals and statesmen played whist; young men lounged on sofas, eating ices or smoking. In the principal salon stood a long table, at which about twenty men sat playing faro, the host of the establishment being the banker. He was a man of about sixty, gray-haired and respectable. His ruddy face shone with genial humor; his eyes sparkled and a constant smile hovered around his lips. Naroumov presented Herman. The host gave him a cordial handshake, begged him not to stand upon ceremony, and returned, to his dealing. More than thirty cards were already on the table. Tchekalinsky paused after each coup, to allow the punters time to recognize their gains or losses, politely answering all questions and constantly smiling. After the deal was over, the cards were shuffled and the game began again. "Permit me to choose a card," said Herman, stretching out his hand over the head of a portly gentleman, to reach a livret. The banker bowed without replying. Herman chose a card, and wrote the amount of his stake upon it with a piece of chalk. "How much is that?" asked the banker; "excuse me, sir, but I do not see well." "Forty thousand rubles," said Herman coolly. All eyes were instantly turned upon the speaker. "He has lost his wits," thought Naroumov. "Allow me to observe," said Tchekalinsky, with his eternal smile, "that your stake is excessive." "What of it?" replied Herman, nettled. "Do you accept it or not?" The banker nodded in assent. "I have only to remind you that the cash will be necessary; of course your word is good, but in order to keep the confidence of my patrons, I prefer the ready money." Herman took a bank-check from his pocket and handed it to his host. The latter examined it attentively, then laid it on the card chosen. He began dealing: to the right, a nine; to the left, a tray. "The tray wins," said Herman, showing the card he held--a tray. A murmur ran through the crowd. Tchekalinsky frowned for a second only, then his smile returned. He took a roll of bank-bills from his pocket and counted out the required sum. Herman received it and at once left the table. The next evening saw him at the place again. Every one eyed him curiously, and Tchekalinsky greeted him cordially. He selected his card and placed upon it his fresh stake. The banker began dealing: to the right, a nine; to the left, a seven. Herman then showed his card--a seven spot. The onlookers exclaimed, and the host was visibly disturbed. He counted out ninety-four-thousand rubles and passed them to Herman, who accepted them without showing the least surprise, and at once withdrew. The following evening he went again. His appearance was the signal for the cessation of all occupation, every one being eager to watch the developments of events. He selected his card--an ace. The dealing began: to the right, a queen; to the left, an ace. "The ace wins," remarked Herman, turning up his card without glancing at it. "Your queen is killed," remarked Tchekalinsky quietly. Herman trembled; looking down, he saw, not the ace he had selected, but the queen of spades. He could scarcely believe his eyes. It seemed impossible that he could have made such a mistake. As he stared at the card it seemed to him that the queen winked one eye at him mockingly. "The old woman!" he exclaimed involuntarily. The croupier raked in the money while he looked on in stupid terror. When he left the table, all made way for him to pass; the cards were shuffled, and the gambling went on. Herman became a lunatic. He was confined at the hospital at Oboukov, where he spoke to no one, but kept constantly murmuring in a monotonous tone: "The tray, seven, ace! The tray, seven, queen!" 
60897	----	THE NON-ELECTRONIC BUG By E. MITTLEMAN _There couldn't be a better tip-off system than mine--it wasn't possible--but he had one!_ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I wouldn't take five cents off a legitimate man, but if they want to gamble that's another story. What I am is a genius, and I give you a piece of advice: Do not ever play cards with a stranger. The stranger might be me. Where there are degenerate card players around, I sometimes get a call. Not dice--I don't have a machine to handle them. But with cards I have a machine to force the advantage. The first thing is a little radio receiver, about the size of a pack of cigarettes. You don't hear any music. You feel it on your skin. The next thing is two dimes. You stick them onto you, anywhere you like. Some like to put them on their legs, some on their belly. Makes no difference, just so they're out of sight. Each dime has a wire soldered to it, and the wires are attached to the little receiver that goes in your pocket. The other thing is the transmitter I carry around. My partner was a fellow named Henry. He had an electronic surplus hardware business, but business wasn't good and he was looking for a little extra cash on the side. It turns out that the other little wholesalers in the loft building where he has his business are all card players, and no pikers, either. So Henry spread the word that he was available for a gin game--any time at all, but he would only play in his own place--he was expecting an important phone call and he didn't want to be away and maybe miss it.... It never came; but the card players did. I was supposed to be his stock clerk. While Henry and the other fellow were working on the cards at one end of the room, I would be moving around the other--checking the stock, packing the stuff for shipment, arranging it on the shelves, sweeping the floor. I was a regular model worker, busy every second. I had to be. In order to see the man's hand I had to be nearby, but I had to keep moving so he wouldn't pay attention to me. And every time I got a look at his hand, I pushed the little button on the transmitter in my pocket. Every push on the button was a shock on Henry's leg. One for spades, two for hearts, three for diamonds, four for clubs. Then I would tip the card: a short shock for an ace, two for a king, three for a queen, and so on down to the ten. A long and a short for nine, a long and two shorts for an eight ... it took a little memorizing, but it was worth it. Henry knew every card the other man held every time. And I got fifty per cent. * * * * * We didn't annihilate the fish. They hardly felt they were being hurt, but we got a steady advantage, day after day. We did so well we took on another man--I can take physical labor or leave it alone, and I leave it alone every chance I get. That was where we first felt the trouble. Our new boy was around twenty. He had a swept-wing haircut, complete with tail fins. Also he had a silly laugh. Now, there are jokes in a card game--somebody taking a beating will sound off, to take away some of the sting, but nobody laughs because the cracks are never funny. But they were to our new boy. He laughed. He laughed not only when the mark made some crack, but a lot of the time when he didn't. It got so the customers were looking at him with a lot of dislike, and that was bad for business. So I called him out into the hall. "Skippy," I said--that's what we called him, "lay off. _Never_ rub it in to a sucker. It's enough to take his money." He ran his fingers back along his hair. "Can't a fellow express himself?" I gave him a long, hard unhealthy look. _Express_ himself? He wouldn't have to. I'd express him myself--express him right out of our setup. But before I got a chance, this fellow from Chicago came in, a big manufacturer named Chapo; a wheel, and he looked it. He was red-faced, with hanging jowls and a big dollar cigar; he announced that he only played for big stakes ... and, nodding toward the kid and me, that he didn't like an audience. Henry looked at us miserably. But what was he going to do? If he didn't go along, the word could spread that maybe there was something wrong going on. He had to play. "Take the day off, you two," he said, but he wasn't happy. I thought fast. There was still one chance. I got behind Chapo long enough to give Henry a wink and a nod toward the window. Then I took Skippy by the elbow and steered him out of there. Down in the street I said, fast: "You want to earn your pay? You have to give me a hand--an eye is really what I mean. Don't argue--just say yes or no." He didn't stop to think. "Sure," he said. "Why not?" "All right." I took him down the street to where they had genuine imported Japanese field glasses and laid out twenty bucks for a pair. The man was a thief, but I didn't have time to argue. Right across the street from Henry's place was a rundown hotel. That was our next stop. The desk man in the scratch house looked up from his comic book. "A room," I said. "Me and my nephew want a room facing the street." And I pointed to the window of Henry's place, where I wanted it to face. Because we still had a chance. With the field glasses and Skippy's young, good eyes to look through them, with the transmitter that would carry an extra hundred yards easy enough--with everything going for us, we had a chance. Provided Henry had been able to maneuver Chapo so his back was to the window. The bed merchant gave us a long stall about how the only room we wanted belonged to a sweet old lady that was sick and couldn't be moved. But for ten bucks she could be. All the time I was wondering how many hands were being played, if we were stuck money and how much--all kinds of things. But finally we got into the room and I laid it out for Skippy. "You aim those field glasses out the window," I told him. "Read Chapo's cards and let me know; that's all. I'll take care of the rest." I'll say this for him, duck-tail haircut and all, he settled right down to business. I made myself comfortable on the bed and rattled them off on the transmitter as he read the cards to me. I couldn't see the players, didn't know the score; but if he was giving the cards to me right, I was getting them out to Henry. I felt pretty good. I even began to feel kindly toward the kid. At my age, bifocals are standard equipment, but to judge from Skippy's fast, sure call of the cards, his eyesight was twenty-twenty or better. After about an hour, Skippy put down the glasses and broke the news: the game was over. We took our time getting back to Henry's place, so Chapo would have time to clear out. Henry greeted us with eight fingers in the air. Eight hundred? But before I could ask him, he was already talking: "Eight big ones! Eight thousand bucks! And how you did it, I'll never know!" Well, eight thousand was good news, no doubt of that. I said, "That's the old system, Henry. But we couldn't have done it if you hadn't steered the fish up to the window." And I showed him the Japanese field glasses, grinning. But he didn't grin back. He looked puzzled. He glanced toward the window. I looked too, and then I saw what he was puzzled about. It was pretty obvious that Henry had missed my signal. He and the fish had played by the window, all right. But the shade was down. * * * * * When I turned around to look for Skippy, to ask him some questions, he was gone. Evidently he didn't want to answer. I beat up and down every block in the neighborhood until I spotted him in a beanery, drinking a cup of coffee and looking worried. I sat down beside him, quiet. He didn't look around. The counterman opened his mouth to say hello. I shook my head, but Skippy said, "That's all right. I know you're there." I blinked. This was a creep! But I had to find out what was going on. I said, "You made a mistake, kid." "Running out?" He shrugged. "It's not the first mistake I made," he said bitterly. "Getting into your little setup with the bugged game came before that." I said, "You can always quit," but then stopped. Because it was a lie. He couldn't quit--not until I found out how he read Chapo's cards through a drawn shade. He said drearily, "You've all got me marked lousy, haven't you? Don't kid me about Henry--I know. I'm not so sure about you, but it wouldn't surprise me." "What are you talking about?" "I can hear every word that's on Henry's mind," he said somberly. "You, no. Some people I can hear, some I can't; you're one I can't." "What kind of goofy talk is that?" I demanded. But, to tell you the truth, I didn't think it was so goofy. The window shade was a lot goofier. "All my life," said Skippy, "I've been hearing the voices. It doesn't matter if they talk out loud or not. Most people I can hear, even when they don't want me to. Field glasses? I didn't need field glasses. I could hear every thought that went through Chapo's mind, clear across the street. Henry too. That's how I know." He hesitated, looking at me. "You think Henry took eight thousand off Chapo, don't you? It was ten." I said, "Prove it." The kid finished his coffee. "Well," he said, "you want to know what the counterman's got on his mind?" He leaned over and whispered to me. I yelled, "That's a lousy thing to say!" Everybody was looking at us. He said softly, "You see what it's like? I don't want to hear all this stuff! You think the counterman's got a bad mind, you ought to listen in on Henry's." He looked along the stools. "See that fat little woman down at the end? She's going to order another cheese Danish." He hadn't even finished talking when the woman was calling the counterman, and she got another cheese Danish. I thought it over. What he said about Henry holding out on me made it real serious. I had to have more proof. But I didn't like Skippy's idea of proof. He offered to call off what everybody in the beanery was going to do next, barring three or four he said were silent, like me. That wasn't good enough. "Come along with me," I told him, and we took off for Jake's spot. That's a twenty-four-hour place and the doorman knows me. I knew Jake and I knew his roulette wheel was gaffed. I walked right up to the wheel, and whispered to the kid, "Can you read the dealer?" He smiled and nodded. "All right. Call black or red." The wheel spun, but that didn't stop the betting. Jake's hungry. In his place you can still bet for a few seconds after the wheel starts turning. "Black," Skippy said. I threw down fifty bucks. Black it was. That rattled me. "Call again," I said. When Skippy said black, I put the fifty on red. Black won it. "Let's go," I said, and led the kid out of there. He was looking puzzled. "How come--" "How come I played to lose?" I patted his shoulder. "Sonny, you got a lot to learn. Jake's is no fair game. This was only a dry run." Then I got rid of him, because I had something to do. * * * * * Henry came across. He even looked embarrassed. "I figured," he said, "uh, I figured that the expenses--" "Save it," I told him. "All I want is my split." He handed it over, but I kept my hand out, waiting. After a minute he got the idea. He reached down inside the waistband of his pants, pulled loose the tape that held the dimes to his skin and handed over the radio receiver. "That's it, huh?" he said. "That's it." "Take your best shot," he said glumly. "But mark my words. You're not going to make out on your own." "I won't be on my own," I told him, and left him then. By myself? Not a chance! It was going to be Skippy and me, all the way. Not only could he read minds, but the capper was that he couldn't read mine! Otherwise, you can understand, I might not want him around all the time. But this way I had my own personal bug in every game in town, and I didn't even have to spend for batteries. Card games, gaffed wheels, everything. Down at the track he could follow the smart-money guys around and let me know what they knew, which was plenty. We could even go up against the legit games in Nevada, with no worry about bluffs. And think of the fringe benefits! With Skippy giving the women a preliminary screening, I could save a lot of wasted time. At my age, time is nothing to be wasted. I could understand a lot about Skippy now--why he didn't like most people, why he laughed at jokes nobody else thought were funny, or even could hear. But everybody has got to like somebody, and I had the edge over most of the human race. He didn't know what I was thinking. And then, take away the voices in his head, and Skippy didn't have much left. He wasn't very smart. If he had half as much in the way of brains as he did in the way of private radar, he would have figured all these angles out for himself long ago. No, he needed me. And I needed him. We were all set to make a big score together, so I went back to his rooming house where I'd told him to wait, to get going on the big time. However, Henry had more brains than Skippy. I hadn't told Henry who tipped me off, but it didn't take him long to work out. After all, I had told him I was going out to look for Skippy, and I came right back and called him for holding out. No, it didn't take much brains. All he had to do was come around to Skippy's place and give him a little lesson about talking. So when I walked in the door, Skippy was there, but he was out cold, with lumps on his forehead and a stupid grin on his face. I woke him up and he recognized me. But you don't make your TV set play better by kicking it. You don't help a fine Swiss watch by pounding it on an anvil. Skippy could walk and talk all right, but something was missing. "The voices!" he yelled, sitting up on the edge of the bed. I got a quick attack of cold fear. "Skippy! What's the matter? Don't you hear them any more?" He looked at me in a panic. "Oh, I hear them all right. But they're all different now. I mean--it isn't English any more. In fact, it isn't any language at all!" * * * * * Like I say, I'm a genius. Skippy wouldn't lie to me; he's not smart enough. If he says he hears voices, he hears voices. Being a genius, my theory is that when Henry worked Skippy over, he jarred his tuning strips, or whatever it is, so now Skippy's receiving on another frequency. Make sense? I'm positive about it. He sticks to the same story, telling me about what he's hearing inside his head, and he's too stupid to make it all up. There are some parts of it I don't have all figured out yet, but I'll get them. Like what he tells me about the people--I _guess_ they're people--whose voices he hears. They're skinny and furry and very religious. He can't understand their language, but he gets pictures from them, and he told me what he saw. They worship the Moon, he says. Only that's wrong too, because he says they worship two moons, and everybody knows there's only one. But I'll figure it out; I have to, because I have to get Skippy back in business. Meanwhile it's pretty lonesome. I spend a lot of time down around the old neighborhood, but I haven't set up another partner for taking the card players. That seems like pretty small stuff now. And I don't talk to Henry when I see him. And I _never_ go in the beanery when that counterman is on duty. I've got enough troubles in the world; I don't have to add to them by associating with _his_ kind. 
759	----	James Pethel By MAX BEERBOHM I was shocked this morning when I saw in my newspaper a paragraph announcing his sudden death. I do not say that the shock was very disagreeable. One reads a newspaper for the sake of news. Had I never met James Pethel, belike I should never have heard of him: and my knowledge of his death, coincident with my knowledge that he had existed, would have meant nothing at all to me. If you learn suddenly that one of your friends is dead, you are wholly distressed. If the death is that of a mere acquaintance whom you have recently seen, you are disconcerted, pricked is your sense of mortality; but you do find great solace in telling other people that you met "the poor fellow" only the other day, and that he was "so full of life and spirits," and that you remember he said--whatever you may remember of his sayings. If the death is that of a mere acquaintance whom you have not seen for years, you are touched so lightly as to find solace enough in even such faded reminiscence as is yours to offer. Seven years have passed since the day when last I saw James Pethel, and that day was the morrow of my first meeting with him. I had formed the habit of spending August in Dieppe. The place was then less overrun by trippers than it is now. Some pleasant English people shared it with some pleasant French people. We used rather to resent the race-week--the third week of the month--as an intrusion on our privacy. We sneered as we read in the Paris edition of "The New York Herald" the names of the intruders, though by some of these we were secretly impressed. We disliked the nightly crush in the baccarat-room of the casino, and the croupiers' obvious excitement at the high play. I made a point of avoiding that room during that week, for the special reason that the sight of serious, habitual gamblers has always filled me with a depression bordering on disgust. Most of the men, by some subtle stress of their ruling passion, have grown so monstrously fat, and most of the women so harrowingly thin. The rest of the women seem to be marked out for apoplexy, and the rest of the men to be wasting away. One feels that anything thrown at them would be either embedded or shattered, and looks vainly among them for one person furnished with a normal amount of flesh. Monsters they are, all of them, to the eye, though I believe that many of them have excellent moral qualities in private life; but just as in an American town one goes sooner or later--goes against one's finer judgment, but somehow goes--into the dime-museum, so year by year, in Dieppe's race-week, there would be always one evening when I drifted into the baccarat-room. It was on such an evening that I first saw the man whose memory I here celebrate. My gaze was held by him for the very reason that he would have passed unnoticed elsewhere. He was conspicuous not in virtue of the mere fact that he was taking the bank at the principal table, but because there was nothing at all odd about him. He alone, among his fellow-players, looked as if he were not to die before the year was out. Of him alone I said to myself that he was destined to die normally at a ripe old age. Next day, certainly, I would not have made this prediction, would not have "given" him the seven years that were still in store for him, nor the comparatively normal death that has been his. But now, as I stood opposite to him, behind the croupier, I was refreshed by my sense of his wholesome durability. Everything about him, except the amount of money he had been winning, seemed moderate. Just as he was neither fat nor thin, so had his face neither that extreme pallor nor that extreme redness which belongs to the faces of seasoned gamblers: it was just a clear pink. And his eyes had neither the unnatural brightness nor the unnatural dullness of the eyes about him: they were ordinarily clear eyes, of an ordinary gray. His very age was moderate: a putative thirty-six, not more. ("Not less," I would have said in those days.) He assumed no air of nonchalance. He did not deal out the cards as though they bored him, but he had no look of grim concentration. I noticed that the removal of his cigar from his mouth made never the least difference to his face, for he kept his lips pursed out as steadily as ever when he was not smoking. And this constant pursing of his lips seemed to denote just a pensive interest. His bank was nearly done now; there were only a few cards left. Opposite to him was a welter of party-colored counters that the croupier had not yet had time to sort out and add to the rouleaux already made; there were also a fair accumulation of notes and several little stacks of gold--in all, not less than five-hundred pounds, certainly. Happy banker! How easily had he won in a few minutes more than I, with utmost pains, could win in many months! I wished I were he. His lucre seemed to insult me personally. I disliked him, and yet I hoped he would not take another bank. I hoped he would have the good sense to pocket his winnings and go home. Deliberately to risk the loss of all those riches would intensify the insult to me. "Messieurs, la banque est aux encheres." There was some brisk bidding while the croupier tore open and shuffled two new packs. But it was as I feared: the gentleman whom I resented kept his place. "Messieurs, la banque est faite. Quinze-mille francs a la banque. Messieurs, les cartes passent. Messieurs, les cartes passent." Turning to go, I encountered a friend, one of the race-weekers, but in a sense a friend. "Going to play?" I asked. "Not while Jimmy Pethel's taking the bank," he answered, with a laugh. "Is that the man's name?" "Yes. Don't you know him? I thought every one knew old Jimmy Pethel." I asked what there was so wonderful about "old Jimmy Pethel" that every one should be supposed to know him. "Oh, he's a great character. Has extraordinary luck--always." I do not think my friend was versed in the pretty theory that good luck is the subconscious wisdom of them who in previous incarnations have been consciously wise. He was a member of the stock exchange, and I smiled as at a certain quaintness in his remark. I asked in what ways besides luck the "great character" was manifested. Oh, well, Pethel had made a huge "scoop" on the stock exchange when he was only twenty-three, and very soon had doubled that and doubled it again; then retired. He wasn't more than thirty-five now, And then? Oh, well, he was a regular all-round sportsman; had gone after big game all over the world and had a good many narrow shaves. Great steeple-chaser, too. Rather settled down now. Lived in Leicestershire mostly. Had a big place there. Hunted five times a week. Still did an occasional flutter, though. Cleared eighty-thousand in Mexicans last February. Wife had been a barmaid at Cambridge; married her when he was nineteen. Thing seemed to have turned out quite well. Altogether, a great character. Possibly, thought I. But my cursory friend, accustomed to quick transactions and to things accepted "on the nod," had not proved his case to my slower, more literary intelligence. It was to him, though, that I owed, some minutes later, a chance of testing his opinion. At the cry of "Messieurs, la banque est aux encheres," we looked round and saw that the subject of our talk was preparing to rise from his place. "Now one can punt," said Grierson (this was my friend's name), and turned to the bureau at which counters are for sale. "If old Jimmy Pethel punts," he added, "I shall just follow his luck." But this lode-star was not to be. While my friend was buying his counters, and I was wondering whether I, too, could buy some, Pethel himself came up to the bureau. With his lips no longer pursed, he had lost his air of gravity, and looked younger. Behind him was an attendant bearing a big wooden bowl--that plain, but romantic, bowl supplied by the establishment to a banker whose gains are too great to be pocketed. He and Grierson greeted each other. He said he had arrived in Dieppe this afternoon, was here for a day or two. We were introduced. He spoke to me with empressement, saying he was a "very great admirer" of my work. I no longer disliked him. Grierson, armed with counters, had now darted away to secure a place that had just been vacated. Pethel, with a wave of his hand toward the tables, said: "I suppose you never condescend to this sort of thing." "Well--" I smiled indulgently. "Awful waste of time," he admitted. I glanced down at the splendid mess of counters and gold and notes that were now becoming, under the swift fingers of the little man at the bureau, an orderly array. I did not say aloud that it pleased me to be, and to be seen, talking on terms of equality to a man who had won so much. I did not say how wonderful it seemed to me that he, whom I had watched just now with awe and with aversion, had all the while been a great admirer of my work. I did but say, again indulgently, that I supposed baccarat to be as good a way of wasting time as another. "Ah, but you despise us all the same." He added that he always envied men who had resources within themselves. I laughed lightly, to imply that it WAS very pleasant to have such resources, but that I didn't want to boast. And, indeed, I had never felt humbler, flimsier, than when the little man at the bureau, naming a fabulous sum, asked its owner whether he would take the main part in notes of mille francs, cinq-mille, dix-mille--quoi? Had it been mine, I should have asked to have it all in five-franc pieces. Pethel took it in the most compendious form, and crumpled it into his pocket. I asked if he were going to play any more to-night. "Oh, later on," he said. "I want to get a little sea air into my lungs now." He asked, with a sort of breezy diffidence, if I would go with him. I was glad to do so. It flashed across my mind that yonder on the terrace he might suddenly blurt out: "I say, look here, don't think me awfully impertinent, but this money's no earthly use to me. I do wish you'd accept it as a very small return for all the pleasure your work has given me, and-- There, PLEASE! Not another word!"--all with such candor, delicacy, and genuine zeal that I should be unable to refuse. But I must not raise false hopes in my reader. Nothing of the sort happened. Nothing of that sort ever does happen. We were not long on the terrace. It was not a night on which you could stroll and talk; there was a wind against which you had to stagger, holding your hat on tightly, and shouting such remarks as might occur to you. Against that wind acquaintance could make no headway. Yet I see now that despite that wind, or, rather, because of it, I ought already to have known Pethel a little better than I did when we presently sat down together inside the cafe of the casino. There had been a point in our walk, or our stagger, when we paused to lean over the parapet, looking down at the black and driven sea. And Pethel had shouted that it would be great fun to be out in a sailing-boat to-night, and that at one time he had been very fond of sailing. As we took our seats in the cafe, he looked about him with boyish interest and pleasure; then squaring his arms on the little table, he asked me what I would drink. I protested that I was the host, a position which he, with the quick courtesy of the very rich, yielded to me at once. I feared he would ask for champagne, and was gladdened by his demand for water. "Apollinaris, St. Galmier, or what?" I asked. He preferred plain water. I ventured to warn him that such water was never "safe" in these places. He said he had often heard that, but would risk it. I remonstrated, but he was firm. "Alors," I told the waiter, "pour Monsieur un verre de l'eau fraiche, et pour moi un demi blonde." Pethel asked me to tell him who every one was. I told him no one was any one in particular, and suggested that we should talk about ourselves. "You mean," he laughed, "that you want to know who the devil I am?" I assured him that I had often heard of him. At this he was unaffectedly pleased. "But," I added, "it's always more interesting to hear a man talked about by himself." And indeed, since he had NOT handed his winnings over to me, I did hope he would at any rate give me some glimpses into that "great character" of his. Full though his life had been, he seemed but like a rather clever schoolboy out on a holiday. I wanted to know more. "That beer looks good," he admitted when the waiter came back. I asked him to change his mind, but he shook his head, raised to his lips the tumbler of water that had been placed before him, and meditatively drank a deep draft. "I never," he then said, "touch alcohol of any sort." He looked solemn; but all men do look solemn when they speak of their own habits, whether positive or negative, and no matter how trivial; and so, though I had really no warrant for not supposing him a reclaimed drunkard, I dared ask him for what reason he abstained. "When I say I NEVER touch alcohol," he said hastily, in a tone as of self-defense, "I mean that I don't touch it often, or, at any rate--well, I never touch it when I'm gambling, you know. It--it takes the edge off." His tone did make me suspicious. For a moment I wondered whether he had married the barmaid rather for what she symbolized than for what in herself she was. But no, surely not; he had been only nineteen years old. Nor in any way had he now, this steady, brisk, clear-eyed fellow, the aspect of one who had since fallen. "The edge off the excitement?" I asked. "Rather. Of course that sort of excitement seems awfully stupid to YOU; but--no use denying it--I do like a bit of a flutter, just occasionally, you know. And one has to be in trim for it. Suppose a man sat down dead-drunk to a game of chance, what fun would it be for him? None. And it's only a question of degree. Soothe yourself ever so little with alcohol, and you don't get QUITE the full sensation of gambling. You do lose just a little something of the proper tremors before a coup, the proper throes during a coup, the proper thrill of joy or anguish after a coup. You're bound to, you know," he added, purposely making this bathos when he saw me smiling at the heights to which he had risen. "And to-night," I asked, remembering his prosaically pensive demeanor in taking the bank, "were you feeling these throes and thrills to the utmost?" He nodded. "And you'll feel them again to-night?" "I hope so." "I wonder you can stay away." "Oh, one gets a bit deadened after an hour or so. One needs to be freshened up. So long as I don't bore you--" I laughed, and held out my cigarette-case. "I rather wonder you smoke," I murmured, after giving him a light. "Nicotine's a sort of drug. Doesn't it soothe you? Don't you lose just a little something of the tremors and things?" He looked at me gravely. "By Jove!" he ejaculated, "I never thought of that. Perhaps you're right. 'Pon my word, I must think that over." I wondered whether he were secretly laughing at me. Here was a man to whom--so I conceived, with an effort of the imagination--the loss or gain of a few hundred pounds could hardly matter. I told him I had spoken in jest. "To give up tobacco might," I said, "intensify the pleasant agonies of a gambler staking his little all. But in your case--well, I don't see where the pleasant agonies come in." "You mean because I'm beastly rich?" "Rich," I amended. "All depends on what you call rich. Besides, I'm not the sort of fellow who's content with three per cent. A couple of months ago--I tell you this in confidence--I risked virtually all I had in an Argentine deal." "And lost it?" "No; as a matter of fact, I made rather a good thing out of it. I did rather well last February, too. But there's no knowing the future. A few errors of judgment, a war here, a revolution there, a big strike somewhere else, and--" He blew a jet of smoke from his lips, and then looked at me as at one whom he could trust to feel for him in a crash already come. My sympathy lagged, and I stuck to the point of my inquiry. "Meanwhile," I suggested, "and all the more because you aren't merely a rich man, but also an active taker of big risks, how can these tiny little baccarat risks give you so much emotion?" "There you rather have me," he laughed. "I've often wondered at that myself. I suppose," he puzzled it out, "I do a good lot of make-believe. While I'm playing a game like this game to-night, I IMAGINE the stakes are huge. And I IMAGINE I haven't another penny in the world." "Ah, so that with you it's always a life-and-death affair?" He looked away. "Oh, no, I don't say that." "Stupid phrase," I admitted. "But"--there was yet one point I would put to him--"if you have extraordinary luck always--" "There's no such thing as luck." "No, strictly, I suppose, there isn't. But if in point of fact you always do win, then--well, surely, perfect luck driveth out fear." "Who ever said I always won?" he asked sharply. I waved my hands and said, "Oh, you have the reputation, you know, for extraordinary luck." "That isn't the same thing as always winning. Besides, I HAVEN'T extraordinary luck, never HAVE had. Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "if I thought I had any more chance of winning than of losing, I'd--I'd--" "Never again set foot in that baccarat-room to-night," I soothingly suggested. "Oh, baccarat be blowed! I wasn't thinking of baccarat. I was thinking of--oh, lots of things; baccarat included, yes." "What things?" I ventured to ask. "What things?" He pushed back his chair. "Look here," he said with a laugh, "don't pretend I haven't been boring your head off with all this talk about myself. You've been too patient. I'm off. Shall I see you to-morrow? Perhaps you'd lunch with us to-morrow? It would be a great pleasure for my wife. We're at the Grand Hotel." I said I should be most happy, and called the waiter; at sight of whom my friend said he had talked himself thirsty, and asked for another glass of water. He mentioned that he had brought his car over with him: his little daughter (by the news of whose existence I felt idiotically surprised) was very keen on motoring, and they were all three starting the day after to-morrow on a little tour through France. Afterward they were going on to Switzerland "for some climbing." Did I care about motoring? If so, we might go for a spin after luncheon, to Rouen or somewhere. He drank his glass of water, and, linking a friendly arm in mine, passed out with me into the corridor. He asked what I was writing now, and said that he looked to me to "do something big one of these days," and that he was sure I had it in me. This remark, though of course I pretended to be pleased by it, irritated me very much. It was destined, as you shall see, to irritate me very much more in recollection. Yet I was glad he had asked me to luncheon--glad because I liked him and glad because I dislike mysteries. Though you may think me very dense for not having thoroughly understood Pethel in the course of my first meeting with him, the fact is that I was only aware, and that dimly, of something more in him than he had cared to reveal--some veil behind which perhaps lurked his right to the title so airily bestowed on him by Grierson. I assured myself, as I walked home, that if veil there was, I should to-morrow find an eyelet. But one's intuition when it is off duty seems always a much more powerful engine than it does on active service; and next day, at sight of Pethel awaiting me outside his hotel, I became less confident. His, thought I, was a face which, for all its animation, would tell nothing--nothing, at any rate, that mattered. It expressed well enough that he was pleased to see me; but for the rest I was reminded that it had a sort of frank inscrutability. Besides, it was at all points so very usual a face--a face that couldn't (so I then thought), even if it had leave to, betray connection with a "great character." It was a strong face, certainly; but so are yours and mine. And very fresh it looked, though, as he confessed, Pethel had sat up in "that beastly baccarat-room" till five A.M. I asked, had he lost? Yes, he had lost steadily for four hours (proudly he laid stress on this), but in the end--well, he had won it all back "and a bit more." "By the way," he murmured as we were about to enter the hall, "don't ever happen to mention to my wife what I told you about that Argentine deal. She's always rather nervous about--investments. I don't tell her about them. She's rather a nervous woman altogether, I'm sorry to say." This did not square with my preconception of her. Slave that I am to traditional imagery, I had figured her as "flaunting," as golden-haired, as haughty to most men, but with a provocative smile across the shoulder for some. Nor, indeed, did her husband's words save me the suspicion that my eyes deceived me when anon I was presented to a very pale, small lady whose hair was rather white than gray. And the "little daughter!" This prodigy's hair was as yet "down," but looked as if it might be up at any moment: she was nearly as tall as her father, whom she very much resembled in face and figure and heartiness of hand-shake. Only after a rapid mental calculation could I account for her. "I must warn you, she's in a great rage this morning," said her father. "Do try to soothe her." She blushed, laughed, and bade her father not be so silly. I asked her the cause of her great rage. She said: "He only means I was disappointed. And he was just as disappointed as I was. WEREN'T you, now, Father?" "I suppose they meant well, Peggy," he laughed. "They were QUITE right," said Mrs. Pethel, evidently not for the first time. "They," as I presently learned, were the authorities of the bathing-establishment. Pethel had promised his daughter he would take her for a swim; but on their arrival at the bathing-cabins they were ruthlessly told that bathing was defendu a cause du mauvais temps. This embargo was our theme as we sat down to luncheon. Miss Peggy was of opinion that the French were cowards. I pleaded for them that even in English watering-places bathing was forbidden when the sea was VERY rough. She did not admit that the sea was very rough to-day. Besides, she appealed to me, where was the fun of swimming in absolutely calm water? I dared not say that this was the only sort of water I liked to swim in. "They were QUITE right," said Mrs. Pethel again. "Yes, but, darling Mother, you can't swim. Father and I are both splendid swimmers." To gloss over the mother's disability, I looked brightly at Pethel, as though in ardent recognition of his prowess among waves. With a movement of his head he indicated his daughter--indicated that there was no one like her in the whole world. I beamed agreement. Indeed, I did think her rather nice. If one liked the father (and I liked Pethel all the more in that capacity), one couldn't help liking the daughter, the two were so absurdly alike. Whenever he was looking at her (and it was seldom that he looked away from her), the effect, if you cared to be fantastic, was that of a very vain man before a mirror. It might have occurred to me that, if there was any mystery in him, I could solve it through her. But, in point of fact, I had forgotten all about that possible mystery. The amateur detective was lost in the sympathetic observer of a father's love. That Pethel did love his daughter I have never doubted. One passion is not less true because another predominates. No one who ever saw that father with that daughter could doubt that he loved her intensely. And this intensity gages for me the strength of what else was in him. Mrs. Pethel's love, though less explicit, was not less evidently profound. But the maternal instinct is less attractive to an onlooker, because he takes it more for granted than the paternal. What endeared poor Mrs. Pethel to me was--well, the inevitability of the epithet I give her. She seemed, poor thing, so essentially out of it; and by "it" is meant the glowing mutual affinity of husband and child. Not that she didn't, in her little way, assert herself during the meal. But she did so, I thought, with the knowledge that she didn't count, and never would count. I wondered how it was that she had, in that Cambridge bar-room long ago, counted for Pethel to the extent of matrimony. But from any such room she seemed so utterly remote that she might well be in all respects now an utterly changed woman. She did preeminently look as if much had by some means been taken out of her, with no compensatory process of putting in. Pethel looked so very young for his age, whereas she would have had to be really old to look young for hers. I pitied her as one might a governess with two charges who were hopelessly out of hand. But a governess, I reflected, can always give notice. Love tied poor Mrs. Pethel fast to her present situation. As the three of them were to start next day on their tour through France, and as the four of us were to make a tour to Rouen this afternoon, the talk was much about motoring, a theme which Miss Peggy's enthusiasm made almost tolerable. I said to Mrs. Pethel, with more good-will than truth, that I supposed she was "very keen on it." She replied that she was. "But, darling Mother, you aren't. I believe you hate it. You're ALWAYS asking father to go slower. And what IS the fun of just crawling along?" "Oh, come, Peggy, we never crawl!" said her father. "No, indeed," said her mother in a tone of which Pethel laughingly said it would put me off coming out with them this afternoon. I said, with an expert air to reassure Mrs. Pethel, that it wasn't fast driving, but only bad driving, that was a danger. "There, Mother!" cried Peggy. "Isn't that what we're always telling you?" I felt that they were always either telling Mrs. Pethel something or, as in the matter of that intended bath, not telling her something. It seemed to me possible that Peggy advised her father about his "investments." I wondered whether they had yet told Mrs. Pethel of their intention to go on to Switzerland for some climbing. Of his secretiveness for his wife's sake I had a touching little instance after luncheon. We had adjourned to have coffee in front of the hotel. The car was already in attendance, and Peggy had darted off to make her daily inspection of it. Pethel had given me a cigar, and his wife presently noticed that he himself was not smoking. He explained to her that he thought he had smoked too much lately, and that he was going to "knock it off" for a while. I would not have smiled if he had met my eye, but his avoidance of it made me quite sure that he really had been "thinking over" what I had said last night about nicotine and its possibly deleterious action on the gambling thrill. Mrs. Pethel saw the smile that I could not repress. I explained that I was wishing _I_ could knock off tobacco, and envying her husband's strength of character. She smiled, too, but wanly, with her eyes on him. "Nobody has so much strength of character as he has," she said. "Nonsense!" he laughed. "I'm the weakest of men." "Yes," she said quietly; "that's true, too, James." Again he laughed, but he flushed. I saw that Mrs. Pethel also had faintly flushed, and I became horribly aware of following suit. In the sudden glow and silence created by Mrs. Pethel's paradox, I was grateful to the daughter for bouncing back among us, and asking how soon we should be ready to start. Pethel looked at his wife, who looked at me and rather strangely asked if I was sure I wanted to go with them. I protested that of course I did. Pethel asked her if SHE really wanted to come. "You see, dear, there was the run yesterday from Calais. And to-morrow you'll be on the road again, and all the days after." "Yes," said Peggy; "I'm SURE you'd much rather stay at home, darling Mother, and have a good rest." "Shall we go and put on our things, Peggy?" replied Mrs. Pethel, rising from her chair. She asked her husband whether he was taking the chauffeur with him. He said he thought not. "Oh, hurrah!" cried Peggy. "Then I can be on the front seat!" "No, dear," said her mother. "I am sure Mr. Beerbohms would like to be on the front seat." "You'd like to be with mother, wouldn't you?" the girl appealed. I replied with all possible emphasis that I should like to be with Mrs. Pethel. But presently, when the mother and daughter reappeared in the guise of motorists, it became clear that my aspiration had been set aside. "I am to be with mother," said Peggy. I was inwardly glad that Mrs. Pethel could, after all, assert herself to some purpose. Had I thought she disliked me, I should have been hurt; but I was sure her desire that I should not sit with her was due merely to a belief that, in case of accident, a person on the front seat was less safe than a person behind. And of course I did not expect her to prefer my life to her daughter's. Poor lady! My heart was with her. As the car glided along the sea-front and then under the Norman archway, through the town, and past the environs, I wished that her husband inspired in her as much confidence as he did in me. For me the sight of his clear, firm profile (he did not wear motor-goggles) was an assurance in itself. From time to time (for I, too, was ungoggled) I looked round to nod and smile cheerfully at his wife. She always returned the nod, but left the smile to be returned by the daughter. Pethel, like the good driver he was, did not talk; just drove. But as we came out on to the Rouen road he did say that in France he always rather missed the British police-traps. "Not," he added, "that I've ever fallen into one. But the chance that a policeman MAY at any moment dart out, and land you in a bit of a scrape does rather add to the excitement, don't you think?" Though I answered in the tone of one to whom the chance of a police-trap is the very salt of life, I did not inwardly like the spirit of his remark. However, I dismissed it from my mind. The sun was shining, and the wind had dropped: it was an ideal day for motoring, and the Norman landscape had never looked lovelier to me in its width of sober and silvery grace. *The other names in this memoir are, for good reason, pseudonyms. I presently felt that this landscape was not, after all, doing itself full justice. Was it not rushing rather too quickly past? "James!" said a shrill, faint voice from behind, and gradually--"Oh, darling Mother, really!" protested another voice--the landscape slackened pace. But after a while, little by little, the landscape lost patience, forgot its good manners, and flew faster and faster than before. The road rushed furiously beneath us, like a river in spate. Avenues of poplars flashed past us, every tree of them on each side hissing and swishing angrily in the draft we made. Motors going Rouen-ward seemed to be past as quickly as motors that bore down on us. Hardly had I espied in the landscape ahead a chateau or other object of interest before I was craning my neck round for a final glimpse of it as it faded on the backward horizon. An endless uphill road was breasted and crested in a twinkling and transformed into a decline near the end of which our car leaped straight across to the opposite ascent, and--"James!" again, and again by degrees the laws of nature were reestablished, but again by degrees revoked. I did not doubt that speed in itself was no danger; but, when the road was about to make a sharp curve, why shouldn't Pethel, just as a matter of form, slow down slightly, and sound a note or two of the hooter? Suppose another car were--well, that was all right: the road was clear; but at the next turning, when our car neither slackened nor hooted and WAS for an instant full on the wrong side of the road, I had within me a contraction which (at thought of what must have been if--) lasted though all was well. Loath to betray fear, I hadn't turned my face to Pethel. Eyes front! And how about that wagon ahead, huge hay-wagon plodding with its back to us, seeming to occupy whole road? Surely Pethel would slacken, hoot. No. Imagine a needle threaded with one swift gesture from afar. Even so was it that we shot, between wagon and road's-edge, through; whereon, confronting us within a few yards--inches now, but we swerved--was a cart that incredibly we grazed not as we rushed on, on. Now indeed I had turned my eyes on Pethel's profile; and my eyes saw there that which stilled, with a greater emotion, all fear and wonder in me. I think that for the first instant, oddly, what I felt was merely satisfaction, not hatred; for I all but asked him whether, by not smoking to-day, he had got a keener edge to his thrills. I understood him, and for an instant this sufficed me. Those pursed-out lips, so queerly different from the compressed lips of the normal motorist, and seeming, as elsewhere last night, to denote no more than pensive interest, had told me suddenly all that I needed to know about Pethel. Here, as there,--and, oh, ever so much better here than there!--he could gratify the passion that was in him. No need of any "make-believe" here. I remembered the queer look he had given when I asked if his gambling were always "a life-and-death affair." Here was the real thing, the authentic game, for the highest stakes. And here was I, a little extra stake tossed on to the board. He had vowed I had it in me to do "something big." Perhaps, though, there had been a touch of make-believe about that. I am afraid it was not before my thought about myself that my moral sense began to operate and my hatred of Pethel set in. Put it to my credit that I did see myself as a mere detail in his villainy. You deprecate the word "villainy"? Understand all, forgive all? No doubt. But between the acts of understanding and forgiving an interval may sometimes be condoned. Condone it in this instance. Even at the time I gave Pethel due credit for risking his own life, for having doubtless risked it--it and none other--again and again in the course of his adventurous (and abstemious) life by field and flood. I was even rather touched by memory of his insistence last night on another glass of that water which just MIGHT give him typhoid; rather touched by memory of his unsaying that he "never" touched alcohol--he who, in point of fact, had to be ALWAYS gambling on something or other. I gave him due credit, too, for his devotion to his daughter. But his use of that devotion, his cold use of it to secure for himself the utmost thrill of hazard, did seem utterly abominable to me. And it was even more for the mother than for the daughter that I was incensed. That daughter did not know him, did but innocently share his damnable love of chances; but that wife had for years known him at least as well as I knew him now. Here again I gave him credit for wishing, though he didn't love her, to spare her what he could. That he didn't love her I presumed from his indubitable willingness not to stake her in this afternoon's game. That he never had loved her--had taken her in his precocious youth simply as a gigantic chance against him, was likely enough. So much the more credit to him for such consideration as he showed her, though this was little enough. He could wish to save her from being a looker-on at his game, but he could--he couldn't not--go on playing. Assuredly she was right in deeming him at once the strongest and the weakest of men. "Rather a nervous woman!" I remembered an engraving that had hung in my room at Oxford, and in scores of other rooms there: a presentment by Sir Marcus (then Mr.) Stone of a very pretty young person in a Gainsborough hat, seated beneath an ancestral elm, looking as though she were about to cry, and entitled "A Gambler's Wife." Mrs. Pethel was not like that. Of her there were no engravings for undergraduate hearts to melt at. But there was one man, certainly, whose compassion was very much at her service. How was he going to help her? I know not how many hair's-breadth escapes we may have had while these thoughts passed through my brain. I had closed my eyes. So preoccupied was I that but for the constant rush of air against my face I might, for aught I knew, have been sitting ensconced in an armchair at home. After a while I was aware that this rush had abated; I opened my eyes to the old familiar streets of Rouen. We were to have tea at the Hotel d'Angleterre. What was to be my line of action? Should I take Pethel aside and say: "Swear to me, on your word of honor as a gentleman, that you will never again touch the driving-gear, or whatever you call it, of a motor-car. Otherwise, I shall expose you to the world. Meanwhile, we shall return to Dieppe by train"? He might flush (for I knew him capable of flushing) as he asked me to explain. And after? He would laugh in my face. He would advise me not to go motoring any more. He might even warn me not to go back to Dieppe in one of those dangerous railway-trains. He might even urge me to wait until a nice Bath chair had been sent out for me from England. I heard a voice (mine, alas!) saying brightly, "Well, here we are!" I helped the ladies to descend. Tea was ordered. Pethel refused that stimulant and had a glass of water. I had a liqueur brandy. It was evident to me that tea meant much to Mrs. Pethel. She looked stronger after her second cup, and younger after her third. Still, it was my duty to help her if I could. While I talked and laughed, I did not forget that. But what on earth was I to do? I am no hero. I hate to be ridiculous. I am inveterately averse to any sort of fuss. Besides, how was I to be sure that my own personal dread of the return journey hadn't something to do with my intention of tackling Pethel? I rather thought it had. What this woman would dare daily because she was a mother could not I dare once? I reminded myself of this man's reputation for invariable luck. I reminded myself that he was an extraordinarily skilful driver. To that skill and luck I would pin my faith. What I seem to myself, do you ask of me? But I answered your question a few lines back. Enough that my faith was rewarded: we did arrive safely in Dieppe. I still marvel that we did. That evening, in the vestibule of the casino, Grierson came up to me. "Seen Jimmy Pethel?" he asked. "He was asking for you. Wants to see you particularly. He's in the baccarat-room, punting, winning hand over fist, OF course. Said he'd seldom met a man he liked more than you. Great character, what?" One is always glad to be liked, and I pleaded guilty to a moment's gratification at the announcement that Pethel liked me. But I did not go and seek him in the baccarat-room. A great character assuredly he was, but of a kind with which (I say it at the risk of seeming priggish) I prefer not to associate. Why he had particularly wanted to see me was made clear in a note sent by him to my room early next morning. He wondered if I could be induced to join them in their little tour. He hoped I wouldn't think it great cheek, his asking me. He thought it might rather amuse me to come. It would be a very great pleasure to his wife. He hoped I wouldn't say no. Would I send a line by bearer? They would be starting at three o'clock. He was mine sincerely. It was not too late to tackle him even now. Should I go round to his hotel? I hesitated and--well, I told you at the outset that my last meeting with him was on the morrow of my first. I forget what I wrote to him, but am sure that the excuse I made for myself was a good and graceful one, and that I sent my kindest regards to Mrs. Pethel. She had not (I am sure of that, too) authorized her husband to say she would like me to come with them. Else would not the thought of her, the pity of her, have haunted me, as it did for a very long time. I do not know whether she is still alive. No mention is made of her in the obituary notice which awoke these memories in me. This notice I will, however, transcribe, because it is, for all its crudeness of phraseology, rather interesting both as an echo and as an amplification. Its title is "Death of Wealthy Aviator," and its text is: Wide-spread regret will be felt in Leicestershire at the tragic death of Mr. James Pethel, who had long resided there and was very popular as an all-round sportsman. In recent years he had been much interested in aviation, and had had a private aerodrome erected on his property. Yesterday afternoon he fell down dead quite suddenly as he was returning to his house, apparently in his usual health and spirits, after descending from a short flight which despite a strong wind he had made on a new type of aeroplane, and on which he was accompanied by his married daughter and her infant son. It is not expected that an inquest will be necessary, as his physician, Dr. Saunders, has certified death to be due to heart-disease, from which, it appears, the deceased gentleman had been suffering for many years. Dr. Saunders adds that he had repeatedly warned deceased that any strain on the nervous system might prove fatal. Thus--for I presume that his ailment had its origin in his habits--James Pethel did not, despite that merely pensive look of his, live his life with impunity. And by reason of that life he died. As for the manner of his death, enough that he did die. Let not our hearts be vexed that his great luck was with him to the end. [Transcriber's Note: I have closed contractions in the text; e.g., "does n't" has become "doesn't" etc.] 
17917	----	images generously made available by the University of Michigan Digital Library Production Service (http://www.hti.umich.edu/) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 17917-h.htm or 17917-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/9/1/17917/17917-h/17917-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/9/1/17917/17917-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through the Making of America collection of the University of Michigan Digital Library Production Service. See http://www.hti.umich.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=moa;idno=AHK6233.0001.001 SECRET BAND OF BROTHERS. A Full and True Exposition of All the Various Crimes, Villanies, and Misdeeds of This Powerful Organization in the United States. By the "Reformed Gambler," JONATHAN H. GREEN. Author of "The Gambler's Life," "Gambling Exposed," "The Reformed Gambler; Or, Autobiography of J. H. Green," Etc. With Illustrative Engravings. * * * * * "This is a most fearful and startling exposition of crime, and gives the true and secret history of a daring and powerful secret association, the members of which, residing in all parts of the country, have for a long period of years been known to one another by signs and tokens known only to their order. This association has been guilty of an almost incredible amount of crime. Beautifully embellished with Illustrative Engravings, from original designs by Darley and Croome."--_Courier._ * * * * * [Illustration] Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson and Brothers, 306 Chestnut Street. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by T. B. PETERSON, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. PREFACE. The vice of gambling is peculiarly destructive. It spares neither age nor sex. It visits the domestic hearth with a pestilence more quiet and stealthy, but not less deadly, than intemperance. It is at once the vice of the gentleman, and the passion of the blackguard. With deep shame we are forced to admit that the halls of legislation have not been free from its influence, nor the judicial bench unstained by its pollution. It is against this vice, which is now spreading like a subtle poison through all grades of society, that the present work is directed. The author is not a mere theorist. He speaks from experience--dark and bitter experience. The things he has seen he tells; the words he has heard he speaks again. Some of these scenes curdle the blood in the veins, even when remembered; some of these words, whenever whispered, recall incidents of singular atrocity, and thrill the bosom with horror. The author professes to speak nothing but the plain truth. He does not aspire to an elegant style of writing, adorned with the ornaments of the orator and the scholar; but to one quality may lay claim, without being thought a vain or immodest man. He speaks with an earnest sincerity. Whatever he says comes from his heart, and is spoken with all the sympathy of his soul. This work differs from all the previous works of the author. Indeed, it is unlike any thing ever published in this country. It is not a mere exposure of gambling, nor yet an attack on the character of particular gamblers. It is a revelation of a wide-spread organization--pledged to gambling, theft, and villany of all kinds. There are at the present time existing, in our Union, certain organizations, pledged to the performance of good works, which merit the hearty approbation of every honest man. These are called secret societies, although their proceedings, and the names of the officers, with minute particulars, are published in a thousand shapes. Prominent among these beneficial orders stand the Odd Fellows and the Sons of Temperance. But the order, whose history is related in the following pages, differs from all these. Its proceedings, the names of its members or its officers, and even its very existence as a body, have hitherto been secret, and sealed from the whole world. Besides, it is pledged to accomplish all kinds of robbery, aye, and even worse deeds. It has, in more than one deplorable instance, concealed its dark deeds with murder. This order is not confined in its operations to the dark places of life. It numbers among its members the professional man, the "respectable citizen," the prominent and wealthy of various towns throughout the Union; nay, it has sometimes invaded the house of God, and secured the services of those who are ostensibly his ministers. There is not a line of fiction in these pages. The solemn truth is told, in all its strange and horrible interest. To the public, to the candid of all classes, to the friends of reform, to the honest citizen, and to the sincere Christian, the author makes his appeal. Let not his voice of warning be unheeded. Let all be up and doing, so that the monster may be exterminated from the face of the earth, and the youth of the present age be saved from destruction. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. THE SECRET BAND OF BROTHERS. Why this exposure is made at the present time--Who oppose reform--My lectures--The New-Light minister--How some get rich--My opponents 9 CHAPTER II. A DARK CONSPIRACY. Goodrich, the gambler--His malicious conduct--Cause of it--The Browns--Their plan to escape punishment 16 CHAPTER III. THE CONSPIRACY IN PROGRESS. The colonel takes medicine to bring on sickness--Ruse will not take--Character of the administrators of justice in New Orleans--Colonel Brown deserted by the Brotherhood--Dearborn county, Indiana, delegation 22 CHAPTER IV. THE CONSPIRACY FURTHER DEVELOPED. The secret correspondence brought from Canada--The Brotherhood desert Brown--How I obtained the secret writings--Not suspected--Mrs. Brown and the landlady---Cunningham suspected of purloining them 27 CHAPTER V. BRIBERY AND COUNTERFEIT MONEY. Brown's lawyer attempts to bribe me to testify falsely against Taylor--Acquaint the deputy-marshal with the fact--Brown's ineffectual attempts to find bail--Suspected of having removed the hid money--The colonel's visitors 34 CHAPTER VI. MYSTERIOUS DISCLOSURES. His Lawrenceburgh friends--A hypocritical lecture--Further disclosures--A searching examination--First intimation of the existence of The Secret Band of Brothers--Colonel Brown's narrative of the conspiracy against Taylor 42 CHAPTER VII. DISCLOSURES CONTINUED. The colonel resumes his narrative--The missing papers.--Fare advice 57 CHAPTER VIII. DEATH OF COLONEL BROWN. Conspiracy against my life--Conversation with Cunningham regarding the mysterious papers--Death of Colonel Brown 62 CHAPTER IX. THE SECRET BAND OF BROTHERS. Explanatory remarks--The Grand Master of The Secret Band of Brothers--Vice-grand Masters--Ordinary members--Objects of the Order--Colonel Brown sacrificed lest he should betray them--Taylorites and Brownites 66 CHAPTER X. THE MYSTERIOUS BOX. Anxiety about the missing papers--Cause of the hostility of the Band to me--The papers supposed to be deposited in the United States Court--Clerk's office broken into, and the box containing Taylor's indictment and the spurious money stolen--Suspected--Placed in prison for safety--The robber discovered--My release--The mysterious box--The stranger--Conversation with Wyatt--The box opened 75 CHAPTER XI. THE PORK TRADE, OR DRIVING THE HOGS TO A WRONG MARKET. The trading operations of the Band--Lectures at Lawrenceburgh--The Browns and the hog-drover 84 CHAPTER XII. CONSTITUTION AND BY-LAWS OF THE SECRET BAND OF BROTHERS. Initiation--Penalties--The Grand Masters--The secret writing--The six qualities, Huska, Caugh, Naugh, Maugh, Haugh, Gaugh--Vocabulary of flash words--The post-routes.--The horse-trade explained--Allowances-- Specimens of correspondence--The biter bit--A letter of introduction with an important note--Subsequent inquiry into the case 90 CHAPTER XIII. A CHAPTER OF AFFINITIES. Thieves and thief-catchers--A family of five--Penitence and Penitentiaries--The chain-driver and his gang--Lawyers' fees and Lawyers' privileges--Our representatives 139 CHAPTER XIV. GAMBLING EXPEDITION IN THE CHOCTAW NATION. Character of the inhabitants on the Texas frontier in 1833--The murder of Dr ----. Operations at Fort Towson--Edmonds and Scoggins--Robbery-- Journey to Fort Smith--The dumb negro speaks--His character of Scoggins and Edmonds 147 CHAPTER XV. CORRESPONDENCE CONNECTED WITH MY VISIT TO THE AUBURN PRISON, AND CONVERSATION WITH WYATT, THE MURDERER. 1. Chaplain Morrill's letter commendatory of my visit--2. My own account--3. My second visit--4. Mr. Gary's letter--5. Reply to the accusations of Mr. Morrill--6. Mr. Merrill's charges--7. Vindication from these charges--8. Further particulars relative to the life of Wyatt _alias_ Newell _alias_ North, and a horrid murder committed near Perrysburgh, Ohio-- Conclusion 184 Debate on Gambling 193 LOTTERIES. Drawing of Lottery Tickets 267 Insuring Numbers, or Policy Dealing 288 Lottery Combinations, etc. 299 THE SECRET BAND OF BROTHERS. CHAPTER I. In perusing the following pages, the reader will learn the history of a class of men, who, for talent, cannot be excelled. He may startle at the horrid features which naked truth will depict--at deeds of darkness which, though presented to an enlightened people, may require a stretch of credulity to believe were ever perpetrated in the glorious nineteenth century. It will, no doubt, elicit many a curious thought, especially with honest men, and the "whys and wherefores" will pass from mouth to mouth in every hamlet, village, and town, where the following recital may find a reader or hearer. All will declare it mysterious. It is a mystery to myself in some particulars, but in others it is not. It is strange, passing strange, to think that such a black-hearted, treacherous band of men, as I am about to describe, could have existed so long in a civilized and Christian country. With a trembling hand do I attempt to bring to light their ruling principles, to develop a system of organized and accomplished villany. My reasons for assuming so daring a position may seem to require an explanation. It may be asked why I did not make this revelation before, as far as I had knowledge, or what is the occasion of the present exposition? To the preceding queries I will briefly reply. First, There has been no period in my life, prior to 1846, when I could dare to lay before the world what I contemplate doing at the present time. It will be long remembered by many, that in August, 1842, I renounced a profession, in which I had worse than squandered twelve years, the sweet morning of my life. In doing so, I knew I must, of necessity, experience deep mortification, in a personal exposure, which would attend me through life. Gambling, with all its concomitants, had taken full possession of my depraved nature. Thus it was that I, like all wicked men, refused to "come to the light," and I feared to oppose a craft so numerous as the one of which I was a professed member. Well did I know that I was carrying out a wrong and wicked principle. Conviction produced reflection. After a careful deliberation of the whole subject, I declared with a solemn oath, that, by the assistance of Almighty God, I would renounce for ever a profession so ruinous in its every feature. Immediately I felt the band severed, and my misgivings were scattered to the winds. My former companions laughed at me. They scouted the idea, that one so base as I should ever think of reformation. It moved me not. My credit, I found, failed, after it was known that I had quit gambling. A thousand different conjectures attended so strange a proceeding on the part of one in my circumstances. Why should I abandon card-playing, destroy valuable card plates, and lose their still more profitable proceeds, return moneyed obligations, which would have secured me an independent fortune? These things were a matter of surprise with the cool and deliberate patrons of vice, and especially with many, who, though they were often covered with a garb of outward morality, were full of rottenness within. Some, who pass for moral and religious persons, have in this thing exhibited a moral obliquity that has often astonished me. From a careful examination, I have learned the lamentable fact, that the most prominent opposers of moral reforms are composed of two classes, THE HARDENED SINNER, who makes money his god, and THE EXTREMELY IGNORANT. Let not the reader understand, however, that I suppose there are not ignorant rich men as well as poor--the latter have their share of bad men, and so also have the former--but that vice and ignorance are common to both. In the year 1843, I commenced lecturing against the fearful vice of gambling, for no other reason than to stay the gambler in his ruinous course, and save the youth of our land from his alluring wiles. For this I received IN PUBLIC the "God speeds" of ALL classes, and the prayers of all Christians in secret. I soon learned I had much with which to contend--opposition from directions I little anticipated. The gambler, unfortunate man! he carried upon his countenance an expression of open hate, indicating a deadly hostility to my reformatory movements. The ignorant man, I found, was disposed to make his avarice the highway to happiness. He was unwilling to favour any reform that would invade the territory of his contracted selfishness. His reply, if he had any, would be that stereotyped one, "such a course will have a tendency to make more gamblers than it will cure." If his reasons were asked for such a statement, you could get no satisfactory answer. Perhaps he would say, "I am satisfied of the fact from my own disposition." He might as well give a child's reason at once, and say, "CAUSE!" Such persons have seldom heard a lecture, or read a syllable, and yet are always prating with a great show of wisdom, but rather, in fact, of blind conceit. Their silence would be of far more service to the cause of virtue than their opinions. In many cases, it will be found that such persons are not only ignorant, but dishonest. Again, there is the rich, moral, or religious man, who takes another position. He opposes with the declaration "his sons will not gamble: they have such good and moral examples," &c. This is sometimes a want of consideration, that prompts them thus to speak; with others, a secret villany, driving them to such ultra positions, a mere tattered garment to cover their own moral deformity. They must oppose the reformation, or be held up to public disgrace. In nine cases out of ten, the opposer of this class, is, or has been, a participant in the works of darkness whose exposition he so much dreads. Finding many disposed to act thus, and to teach their children to imitate their own pernicious examples, I have made it a study to demolish, if possible, the foundation of their positions. The success attending my efforts to trace them out, assures me, that I am correct when I affirm that two-thirds of all opposers are influenced in their conduct by the basest of principles; one-sixth act through ignorance, united with vice, and one-sixth are wholly ignorant and cannot be morally accountable, if their want of information is in any way excusable. But what may be still more startling, about one-fourth of the whole are members of the various churches, yea, even men of this class are found in sacerdotal robes. This fact came within my knowledge long since. I felt it my duty to publish the same, but delayed, till I should gain experience in defending my position. I was satisfied, however, that the efforts of a certain New Light minister to traduce my character and hinder my influence, must have been prompted from some of the foregoing considerations. Would the world know who this man is? It will be necessary to go to the very town where he lives to secure the information. I doubt whether his name would ever have appeared in print, but for his newspaper controversy, or in case of his death. His unwarrantable attack put me on my guard, and caused me to search out the ground of his base and unchristian treatment. One thing is very certain, he is no gambler. It may not be a want of disposition, but rather a sufficient amount of sense, to make him a proficient in the business. He may be an ignorant dupe--a mere tool of the designing, the "cats paw" of some respectable blackleg, who thinks to cover his own crimes, by exciting public opinion against me, through an apparently respectable instrumentality. But I did not wish to bandy words with him, being impressed with the propriety of a resolution I made while a gambler, that it is only throwing away time to attempt to account for the different actions and opinions of weak and prejudiced minds; and therefore I dropped the whole affair. I would have remained silent, but for the position taken by other divines from his false and garbled statements. Many have condemned me unheard, listening willingly to my accusers, without hearing a word in my own defence. Not satisfied with such an expression of their EXCESSIVE CHRISTIAN CHARITY, they have even thrust at me through the public prints, for which, no doubt, they will have the hearty amens of all gamblers, and it may be several dollars in their pockets. Certain editors have joined in the same "hue and cry" with their worthy compeers. The reasons were evident in their case. They knew I was invading their dearest worldly interests. There were others who only knew me from hearsay. Why should they become my enemies? It was because I held in my possession secrets, whose exposition would make many of them tremble. It would be to them like the interpreted handwriting upon the wall. Hence they were ready to contribute their talents and wealth, to sustain certain individuals as honourable men. I could not have deemed it proper to expose "THE SECRET BAND OF BROTHERS," had not duty, and my obligations to society, urged me forward. The allegiance I owe to God is paramount to all other. The result is yet to be experienced, by the better part of the community. Heavily was the oppressive hand of this notable brotherhood laid upon me. My soul was sorely vexed by their daring villany. In the county where I was bred, I have numbered, in one day, thirteen who sustained honourable places in society, nine of whom were rich, strangely rich in view of their facilities for acquiring wealth in a newly settled country. Not one is a professional man. Few bear the callous badge of industry and physical exertion upon their hands. Several are, by an outward profession, Christians,--but invariably opposed to all the benevolent institutions of the day and works of reform, unless their views of what is the right course are fully met, which are generally so extravagant as to preclude all hope of co-operation. With these I had a severe contest. Well did they know, there was something behind the screen which, brought to light, would expose their villanous transactions, open the eyes of honest men, and greatly endanger, if not destroy, their craft. That I had letters, written by themselves, they knew--nor dare they deny it--letters which might lead to a conviction of crime, that would raise them to a position somewhere between heaven and earth. They may rest assured that I have documents that place more than one thousand of them in a relative position to law and society. CHAPTER II. In a previous work of mine, called "GAMBLING UNMASKED," an allusion is made to an evident conspiracy against my life, sometime before I became a confirmed gambler. Goodrich was the name which I gave, as the chief actor. This same doubly refined villain, it will be remembered, by all who have read the above work, was foremost to aid in my arrest when I made good my escape to the Pine woods, lying back of New Orleans. The reader will likewise recollect, that I could not, at that time, account for such manifestations of unprecedented malignity, on the part of one from whom I might rather expect protection than persecution. But the secret is out, and I now have the power to give clear and truthful explanations. This Goodrich, who resides at the present time in or near New Orleans, and who holds the rank of gambler-general in that city of Sodom, was an old and advanced member of the "Secret Band of Brothers." Knowing, as he did, that I was engaged in assisting the honest part of the community to convict two brothers who were plotting my downfall, as a sworn member of the above fraternity, he was solemnly bound to do all in his power to aid in the consummation of my personal ruin. That the world might know something of this Goodrich, (though the half cannot be told,) I gave, in my autobiography, several incidents, in which he acted a prominent part. What I then said will answer for an introduction. That he was connected with an organized association of gentlemen blacklegs will not be denied. The proof is abundant. Nor was he an apprentice, a mere novitiate; but long schooled in vice and ripening year by year, he swelled quite beyond the bounds of ordinary meanness, till he became a full-grown monster of his kind. Not content to gather riches by common roguery, he sought out the basest instrumentalities as more congenial to his real disposition. His chief riches were obtained by dark and murderous transactions; and had he a score of necks, with hempen necklaces well adjusted, I doubt whether he could pay the full forfeiture to the law. From my first acquaintance with him at Louisville, with blood-thirsty vigilance he sought my destruction. Here began the risings of his malice, and this was the cause. In the year 1830, I gave information to the city police in relation to Hyman, who, at that time, was the keeper of a hotel. It was while at this house, that Goodrich became my determined and implacable foe. I had been duped by two brothers, Daniel and James Brown, who were then confined in the calaboose for passing counterfeit money. Large quantities were also found in their possession. I was their confidant, so far as prudence would allow them to make any revelations. That they were guilty of the crime with which they had been charged, no honest man could doubt, after being made acquainted with the circumstances. Yet they would swear most stoutly, even in my presence, that they were innocent, and that they had been deceived. I could not but believe they were guilty, after having witnessed so many of their iniquitous actions. Often have I been told by the wife of one of them, that they could call to their assistance, if necessary, a thousand men. Who they were and where they were, so ready to uphold these abandoned men, I had, at that time, no knowledge. At length their situation became desperate. Already had they passed one year within the walls of a gloomy prison, without the privilege of a trial. They were required to give bail in the sum of twenty thousand dollars each. No satisfactory bonds could be procured. The whole community were incensed against them. They had for a long time trampled upon private rights and warred against the best interests of the people. They had set at defiance all laws instituted for purposes of justice and protection, and they could not but expect a stern rebuke from all the friends of morality and good order. The only prospect before them, upon a fair trial, was a sentence of twenty years to the penitentiary. This was by no means cheering, especially to those who had lived in ease and affluence, whose bodies were enervated by voluptuousness and hands made tender by years of idle pleasures. Crowds were gathering to witness their trial, and waiting in anxious suspense the issue. Disgrace, public disgrace and lasting infamy stared them in the face. They were put upon their last resources, and necessity became the mother of invention. They fixed upon the following plan to extricate themselves. Public opinion must be propitiated. An interest in their behalf must be awakened by some manifestation that would touch the chord of sympathy. A double part must be played. They would affect to change their sentiments. In this they acted according to the laws of the secret brotherhood. With them, any thing was honesty that would effect their purposes. But to consummate their design, another object must be secured--some innocent person must be implicated and made a scape-goat for, at least, a part of their crimes. This game they understood well, for they had been furnished with abundant means and instructions. It required also deep-seated iniquity of heart, and in this there was no lack, for they were the sublimation of depravity. They must also have time and capital. These were easily provided, as will be seen in the sequel. There was an individual with whom they had become acquainted in Cleaveland, and upon whom suspicion had rested for some time. He was the man fixed upon as their victim. Of course he was not a member of their organized band. "Honour among thieves" forbids the selection of such a one. It was necessary, however, that he should be somewhat of a villain. Here also they exhibited much sagacity in the selection. It now only remained to slip his neck into the noose that was in preparation for themselves. All the instrumentalities being prepared to their liking, they immediately set the infernal machinery in active operation. The first thing to be done was to change the direction of public opinion as to the real perpetrator. It must be called off from the persons who were now so hotly pursued, and put upon a different scent. The agents were at hand--The Secret Band of Brothers. These "dogs of war" were let loose, and simultaneously the whole pack set up their hideous yell after the poor fellow previously mentioned. Many of them being merchants and holding a respectable relation to society, and most of them being connected with the different honourable professions, their fell purpose was the more easily accomplished. A continual excitement was thus kept up, by breathing forth calumny and denunciation against one who, however guilty of other things, was innocent of the thing laid to his charge. At the same time, the ears of the principal bank-officers were filled with words of extenuation and sympathy toward the two brothers. Their former high respectability was adduced. That they were guilty was not denied, but they had been misled and seduced. Intimations were given that the name of the real villain who had caused their ruin would be given, provided they would ease off in their prosecution already in progress. And then it would be such a glorious thing to secure the prime-mover. By these fair and seemingly sincere pretensions, they soon kindled relentings in the hearts of the prosecutors. How could it be otherwise? for "they were all honourable men." Several of the individuals who assisted in maturing the plan were men of commanding influence, in the very town where I was bred. I had abundant opportunities to know them. A proposition was finally made through them by the instructions of the officers, that, as the brothers knew their guilt was fully established, it would have a tendency to mitigate their sentence, if they would expose the head man, by whose knavery many extensive property-holders were threatened with total bankruptcy. This was the precise position at which the secret band of brothers had been aiming. The next step was to secure, if possible, the younger brother as "state's evidence" against the appointed victim of Cleaveland notoriety, whom, for the sake of convenience, I will designate by his name, Taylor. He was a man of extraordinary abilities and gentlemanly deportment. He and the two brothers were mutual acquaintances. They had been accomplices, no doubt, in many a deed of darkness. But as "the devil should have his due," I am bound to exculpate him from any participation in the alleged crime. That he was innocent in this affair I have the fullest evidence. I was solicited by the pettifogger, (I will not say lawyer,) for the brothers, to take a bribe for perjury, and swear poor Taylor guilty of giving me five hundred dollars of counterfeit money, which money he would place in my hands. Of this fellow, I will speak in another chapter. The younger brother was now to declare himself and brother as having been seduced by Taylor. It was to be done without the apparent knowledge of the elder brother, whom we will hereafter call Colonel Brown. It was to be communicated to one of the officers, with a solicitation to keep it a secret from the colonel. He also had an appointed part to play. The character he was to sustain in this drama of well-concocted treachery, I will next present. CHAPTER III. The colonel's physician advised him to take medicine, to reduce his system, and give him the appearance of one rapidly sinking under a pulmonary affection. He consented, as such a plan was considered the most likely to succeed. It will be readily seen, that the design was to work upon the sympathies of the officers, and thus procure his enlargement. Nor were they disappointed. The colonel's health began to fail. The drugs acted their appropriate part. Some of his friends made vigorous exertions to have him removed to the hospital, declaring it necessary for the continuation of life. Others were actively engaged in giving forth intimations, and expressing their fears that he would die before his trial came on, always taking care to assert their confidence of his innocence. This was a mere ruse, to trick the officers into a consent for his removal. But they had mistaken the character of the men with whom they were dealing. They were not to be moved by exhibitions of suffering humanity. Their hearts had become insensible to human misery and they resisted all appeals to sympathy. There was now but one alternative for the friends of the prisoner. They must apply the drugs more assiduously, till they made a mere skeleton of their subject; and then try the virtue of the "almighty dollar." This now seemed to be the only thing that would move the hearts of seven-eighths of the police judges, marshals, wardens, and prosecutors. Such were the administrators of public justice, at that time, in New Orleans. The greater part were men, who, at some period of their lives, had been steeped chin-deep in infamy. Some were men of wealth and liberally educated. They were men who would shrink from giving an account of their early years. Several were verging upon three score years and ten. All the wealth they possessed had been plundered from another set of villains, whose misfortune was, a want of sagacity in escaping the rapacity of their more accomplished compeers. That there were a few honourable exceptions must be admitted, but I could not with a good conscience assert, that one-eighth of the police was as honest as is generally the case with those city officers, for I have facts to the contrary. The whole of that Southern Sodom at an early date had been inundated with this "secret band of brothers," or this fraternal band of land pirates. As they became wealthy they ceased their usual occupation, and began to speculate in a different way. Having it in their power, they would rob even their nearest friends, thus overleaping that common law of "honour among thieves." They would do this with the utmost impunity, whenever they saw proper. There was no redress. The very officers were, many of them, under fictitious names and would assume deceptive titles, for the more successful perpetration of their villany. The unfortunate prisoner discovered, when it was too late, that his supposed HONEST BROTHERHOOD were not what their profession had led him to believe. Poor fellow! he had not taken enough degrees to learn the full "mystery of iniquity." Every effort was made to procure a light bail, but it could not be effected. At last an arrangement was made, and for a stipulated sum he was placed in charge of a committee, who had him removed to the hospital. The colonel, by this time, was, to appearance, very dangerously ill. He was removed to his new quarters, but not permitted to regain his health, lest the spell of their deceit should be broken. His visitors were numerous. To his face, they appeared his most sincere friends. They seemed deeply interested in his welfare, and made bountiful proffers of sympathy and assistance. His true friends, who were capable of rendering him succour, were very few. He had many of the lower class of the brotherhood, the novitiates, who were ready to act energetically and in good faith. But the head men--the very individuals who had reaped the spoils of his doings--were his worst enemies. They had received the lion's share, without leaving the poor jackall even the scraps, but turned him over, unaided, to the tender mercies of a felon's fate. They had filled their pockets with the richest of the spoils, and would not now contribute a penny to reward their benefactor. At this time, there were one hundred of the brotherhood in the city, who might have procured bail; but gratitude found no place in their hearts. They had also violated their oaths. Day after day would parties of his old friends and neighbours visit him, both in the prison and hospital. They would tell him that arrangements were in progress to effect his escape. The whole, however, was false, as no action had been taken. The prisoner depended much upon a delegation from Dearborn county, Indiana, of whom he had a right to claim assistance; but they, like the rest, proved traitors. I have counted thirty different men from that county, who visited him from time to time. These, at home, were men of good standing, equally respected with other citizens. Several were leading men in all the moral and religious enterprises of the day, and generally individuals of wealth. Two of them, I knew, made great professions of religious enjoyment and zeal. One was a very strict church-going man, but with the heart of a Judas. His hypocrisy was of such a deep and damning character, I can hardly forbear giving his name. Duty might demand his exposure, but for the injury that would be inflicted upon an innocent family. These men may reform. I am delaying exposure. I hope ere long to have an evidence of their sincere repentance, but fear they are too far gone, too much in love with the wages of iniquity. They have too long turned a deaf ear to the pitiful cries of the widow and orphan whose ruin they have effected, whose natural protector they may have robbed, leaving his injured family in penury and want. Some of these, who were comparatively poor at the time of the colonel's downfall, in 1832, have since become rich. There is reason to fear that such sudden wealth, obtained without any visible means, was not very honourably acquired. It is seldom that honest industry will thus accumulate. The letters I shall publish will be accompanied with explanatory notes. The persons concerned will recognise their own productions, and I hope to see such a change in their future life as shall deserve a charitable silence. But I return from my digression. The sworn friends of the prisoner had forsaken him in the hour of need, and left him single-handed and alone to meet the stern rigours of the law. There was no remedy unless in his own stratagem, which was now being matured. It was as follows. His brother was to remain in prison as an evidence against Taylor, mentioned in the previous chapter, while he was to assume all the responsibility of the counterfeit money, plates, &c., as well as all the other villanies which had been charged upon them conjointly. The colonel was very sick from the action of the medicines. He supposed every effort had been made to bail him, but was greatly deceived. His fate was sealed. A conspiracy was formed against him. He suspected foul play, because his former associates did not come forward and bail him. His removal to the hospital was only a pretence set up by them, that might give more time to carry out their treacherous designs. He was a prisoner, and they were determined to make him such the remainder of his life. He had his friends, however, warmhearted, and true. He was almost worshipped by the poorer members of the brotherhood. The richer part envied him for his superior skill in his profession and general popularity, and feared the consequences. In this he differed widely from his brother, who was neither loved nor feared, and was only respected from his relationship. When the plan was devised for the younger brother to swear the counterfeit money and plates upon Taylor, it was intended by these professed friends, that he should be caught in his own net, and be thus prevented from rendering the colonel any assistance. The consummation of this plan, I will next detail. CHAPTER IV. The younger brother was to produce various letters which had been written to him from different parts of the Union, by different individuals. That this could be done will be seen by what follows. The colonel had been an extensive speculator in merchandise of almost every kind. He was extensively known. His correspondence was wide-spread. In his villanous communications, however, letters were never addressed to him in his proper name, unless some one should labour under the impression that he was an honest man. He used two fictitious names; the one was George Sanford, and the other that of his brother. These letters were placed in the hands of that brother for safe keeping. Thus the colonel, to all appearance, only maintained an honourable and necessary business correspondence. He consented that his brother should use these letters if they could be made useful in helping him out of difficulty. He was willing the letters should be produced and read, as the younger brother had promised to bring forth the plates. In the mean time there was an understanding between them, that no intimations should be given as to the "secret band of brothers;" not a syllable was to be lisped that would lead to exposure. To obtain the desired end, and give greater security, instructions were given to the wife of one of the brothers to examine carefully all the letters, and select out from them those of a specific character, and to keep them sacred, subject to the order of the colonel. These letters had been conveyed in a chest from Canada, where they had been preserved with great secrecy. This chest was sent for in February, 1832, and arrived the next April. Some three days after the reception of the trunk containing these papers, information was given that the removed letters had come, and were ready for the examination of those who were acting as prosecutors of Taylor. By this time, public opinion had become so much changed toward both of the prisoners, that a very little effort would have secured their acquittal. They had acted with great skill and prudence, and were in a fair way to succeed. This was perceived by the leaders of the fraternity. They were unwilling such a man as the colonel should escape. A deep plot was consequently laid and rigorously carried out to thwart him in his efforts to escape the penalty of the law. His trial was put off and the inducement held out that bail should be obtained. All this was done to keep up appearances. His enemies dared not openly provoke him. They dared not come out and proclaim their hostility, for they well knew he had the means to expose them. To seek his ruin by an open show of opposition would be to touch fire to the train, that, in the explosion, would involve them all in a common ruin. They must approach him, Joab like, and drive the dagger to his heart while saluting him with professions of friendship. But his patience had become wearied by a protracted sickness and continued disappointment. The letters above referred to were done up in packages of three hundred each. I was present when the trunk was opened, and witnessed the selection of many of the letters. The lady who assorted them threw about one out of every thirty in a separate pile. I made no inquiry respecting them, but my curiosity, as you may well imagine, was not a little excited, especially as I observed several familiar names. The lady finally unrolled six pieces of parchment, which were blank in appearance. She folded them up in a square form of about six inches. She then folded up some three hundred and seventy letters, and placed them upon the parchment. Upon these she placed a written parchment containing the copies of about six hundred letters, and having carefully enclosed the whole in a sealed envelope, she placed them between two beds upon which she usually slept. The remainder she packed up and sent to her husband's attorney. Immediately she left the room to visit her husband in prison. Scarcely had she retired, before my curiosity was intensely excited to learn the contents of the concealed package. I ventured into the room with the intention of satisfying myself. I no sooner placed my hand upon the package, than I felt the blood seemingly curdling in my veins. The thought that I was about to act the part of a dishonest man impressed me deeply. I reflected a moment, and then dropped the package, and hastened to leave the room. As I turned from the bedside, my desire to know the contents of the package came upon me with a redoubled force. The passion was too violent for resistance, for I was confident some of these letters were written by men I had known from my infancy. Whether I acted properly or improperly, an impartial public must determine; but after thinking upon the subject a moment, I turned, grasped the package, and bore it off under the keenest sensations of alarm and fear of detection. I hastened down stairs and made my way to the house of a man by the name of Watkins. He was a good man, and a sincere friend to me. His wife was a kind-hearted and benevolent woman. I met her at the door, and told her a friend of mine had given me this package to take care of, and I would let her see the contents at another time. She took it and laid it away; I then hastened to the prison to meet Mrs. B----, who I knew expected me to accompany her, or to be present with her that day. Could I get to the prison as soon, or sooner than she, suspicion of my having taken the package would be lessened. I soon found myself at the prison gate. The lady had not yet arrived. The prisoners were standing around the door on the inside. I waited some ten minutes, when I heard B. say he did not see what could detain his wife so long. I stepped to the door and remarked that I had been waiting some time, and was expecting her every minute. Immediately she made her appearance and remarked, "You have got here before me. I looked for you before I left." I had observed her looking into the room I occupied, when she was about leaving the house; I, however, was in an opposite one, occupied by another boarder. After conversing a short time with her husband, she remarked, that she must return to the house, as she had left the package where it might be found. She called upon me to accompany her. I did so, and we soon arrived at the house. I remained below while she hastened up stairs to her room. In a few minutes she came running to the head of the stairs and called me; I immediately answered her. "Green," said she, "some person has been robbing my room." I felt as though I was suspected, for "a guilty conscience needs no accusing." "What have you had taken?" asked I. "Oh! I have"----then she paused, as if studying what to say. In the mean time, the landlady had heard her say she had been robbed, and hastened to the place where we were standing, but being unobserved from the excitement, was occupying a position at Mrs. B.'s back. "Oh! I have lost a package of letters, of no value to any person but myself. They are family relics, but I will have them at the peril of my life. I will swear that I have lost other things besides the papers, and will get them back, or make this house pay well for harbouring thieves. Mind, Green, what I have said. Keep mum, and I will have them back at the risk of----" She was interrupted by the landlady, who very kindly assisted her in finishing her sentence by adding--"at the risk of perjuring yourself!" Mrs. B. being startled, exclaimed, "Oh! no, madam, don't mistake me. I only meant I would make a great stir about them--that I would offer a reward to the servants, and at the same time let on as if something very valuable was missing." "Of course I would not intimate, and do not, I pray you, understand me as thinking that any person has taken them with the design of retaining them. I have no idea that the individual having them, whoever he may be, will be base enough to keep them from me. Some of them are very ancient, and among the number are several sheets of blank parchment, which belonged to my grandfather. I have preserved them as a memento. Their loss would be a source of great grief." The landlady turned away, apparently satisfied with her statement and forced apology. She then turned to me and said, "I will have those papers at the price of my life. If they are lost"--here she made a stop and added, "I shall dislike it." I discovered an extreme anxiety depicted in her features--her breast was actually heaving with emotion. "Green," said she, "has old Cunningham been about here to-day?" "I believe not," was my reply. "I have not seen him." "Well," she continued, "I hope he may never enter this house again, though he appears to be the best friend that my husband and the colonel possess. He pays strict attention to his business, at the same time, which does not seem consistent." This Cunningham, so abruptly introduced, was a man quite advanced in years, a member of the fraternity, and, considering his age, was a very active and efficient agent. At this juncture, the old servant, who attended to the room, entered. She (Mrs. B.) inquired "if any person had been in her room during her absence to the prison." The servant tried to recollect. While he delayed, my heart palpitated violently from fear, lest he might say he had seen me enter her room. I was on the point of confessing the whole matter. I felt that I was suspected. At this critical moment he broke the silence--a silence burdened with anxiety to the lady as well as myself, by remarking that he had seen the old gentleman (meaning Cunningham) "go up stairs, and he thought enter her room." "I have it!" exclaimed she. "He has got them." I need not tell the reader I felt greatly relieved, that there was at least the shadow of evidence, which would serve to clear me and implicate Cunningham. The lady appeared to be intensely excited. I was in doubt what course it would be prudent for me to pursue. Finally, I went to the house of Watkins, and told him that the package I had given him was of no value to any person but myself; that it was made up of various articles of writing, containing hundreds of names, many of which were familiar to me. He looked them over in a cursory manner, and remarked, "I think there must be witchcraft in these. The letters, though very simple, bear upon their face a suspicious appearance." He, however, agreed to preserve them with care. CHAPTER V. After my interview with Watkins, I felt greatly relieved. I hastened to the hospital to see the colonel, as was my custom, often several times a day. I found him surrounded with visitors, all of whom appeared to be affected while in his presence. He needed sympathy. His mind was tortured. His whole life seemed made up of successive throes of excitement and desperation. His heart was torn by conflicting passions. His confidence and affection for former friends were evidently waning. If any remained, it hung like the tremulous tones of music uncertain and discordant upon its shivered strings. After the principal visitors had retired, the following individuals, three from Lawrenceburgh, two from Cincinnati, one from Madison, and one from Frankfort, made their appearance, accompanied by one of the colonel's legal advisers. They counseled with him for some time. The legal gentleman remarked, at the close of the mutual conversation: "It will do. I have conversed with your friends," calling his two principal attorneys by name. "They say something of that kind must be done. It will have a powerful effect. T. cannot ward off such licks as we will give him." The meaning of this fellow was, that bribery could be effectually used. This man, who thus offered to subvert, by the basest of means, the claims of public and private justice, was so lost to shame and self-respect, that he verily thought it an honourable and creditable act, if he could render himself notorious for clearing the most abandoned scoundrels. It argued the most deep-seated depravity, to commit unblushing crime and then glory in his infamy. He heeded not the means, so he accomplished his end. He would not hesitate to implicate himself, for it was but a few days after this, when he offered me a bribe, as before stated, and likewise the counterfeit money. (I here have reference to the five hundred dollars, to which I referred in my work called "Gambling Unmasked.") After the party had retired, the colonel said in a few days he would be able to secure bail--that they were waiting for an intimate friend,--a wholesale merchant from Philadelphia. He then conversed with me more freely, and told me much about his enemies in Dearborn Co., Ind., and also his intimate friends. Said he: "You may live to hear of my success in making some of those Dearborn county fellows glad to leave their nests, which they have feathered at my expense." It was the next day after this, that I made known to Mr. Munger the fact, that a bribe had been proffered me to swear against T., in favour of the brothers. Some two days after, I received the note containing the information respecting the hidden treasure. See the work above mentioned. These circumstances, with the excitement occasioned by the loss of the package, created a great sensation, especially with the friends of the colonel and his brother. Fear and jealousy were at work with the whole banditti of public swindlers. They knew not on whom to fix the imputation of purloining their valuable papers. Cunningham was suspected, and likewise Spurlock, another old confederate, who had frequently visited the room of the unfortunate lady. Sturtivant, one of their principal engravers, was thought to be implicated, and even one of their pettifoggers was on the list of the proscribed. They did not fix upon me till several days after. The circumstances of this suspicion I will now detail. The Lawrenceburgh members had not complied with their promises. One was waiting to turn his produce into cash, and when he was ready to fulfil his engagement, no action could be taken, because his fellow townsmen had their excuses for delay and non-concurrence. The Philadelphia merchant had arrived, but suddenly left, as the report says, "between two days." Two others of the intended bail were among the missing. I carried a letter to another, who owned a flat-boat. I went on board and found his son, but learned that the father had gone up the coast on business, to be absent several days. The son took the letter, broke it open, and read it. He told me to say to the colonel that his father was absent and had written to him that he intended starting home in a few days, probably by the next boat. I went back and bore the message. The lawyer who had given me the letter cursed me for permitting the son to open it. The colonel turning over on his bed, and fastening his eyes upon the enraged attorney, with a mingled expression of anger and despair, said, "I am gone, there is no hope for me. I see, I see, they have robbed me of my property, my papers, poisoned, and then forsaken me. I have not much more confidence in you than in the rest." "My dear colonel," said the implicated sycophant, "do you think I would ever treat so basely a client so liberal and worthy as yourself," at the same time wiping his cheek as if a tear had been started by such an unkind imputation. He then requested me to go for Mrs. B., and tell her, he requested her presence at the hospital. I went in search of the wife, but did not meet with her. I found some ten or fifteen of the band awaiting her return. Night came on, and she had not yet made her appearance. I perceived they were in great perturbation. This same day my room had been changed to a small apartment in close proximity with the one occupied by Mrs. B., separated only by a thin board partition. About two o'clock at night she came home, accompanied by two females. One left in a few minutes, as she had company waiting for her at the door. The other remained and entered into conversation with Mrs. B. I laid my ear to the partition and could distinctly hear every word which was spoken. I heard Mrs. B. say, "I have searched in a satisfactory manner, and am convinced that some one has removed the earth. I did not expect to find it, after my husband told me some one had answered him in my name and taken the note." I was now satisfied that she had been in search of the money I had found at the root of the tree, on the corner of Canal and Old Levee streets. I could not hear the opinion they entertained, but the strange female remarked, that "Colonel Goodrich suspects him, and will certainly catch him, provided he has got it." "I do not think he can have it," said Mrs. B.; "I have never seen the least evidence of guilt; besides, the colonel," meaning her brother-in-law, "says he is perfectly harmless." I was then convinced that it was myself they were talking about. My fears were awakened, so much so that I passed a very restless night. Early the next morning I hurried away to Mr. Munger's room and laid open my fears. It may be proper to state in this connection, that this Mr. Munger, whom I made my confidant, was the United States deputy-marshal. The search above referred to was for money which had been hid by Sandford, and he, at his death, had informed Mr. B. where he had deposited it. The particulars, together with the manner by which I came in possession of it, are detailed in "GAMBLING UNMASKED." I found Mr. Munger in his room, and related the incidents of the past night. He said he could not understand their meaning. I could, but I did not tell him that the letters had been taken. For the want of this information, things looked mysterious. He told me not to fear, but to flatter those who had requested me to perjure myself, with a prospect of compliance with their wishes. I went from his room to my boarding-house, and from thence to the hospital. Here I found the colonel surrounded with some twenty citizens, who resided in and about Wheeling and Pittsburgh, all members of the fraternity. Some were men of great respectability in the community where they lived, and doubtless remain so to the present day. They held out flattering hopes that bail would yet be secured, but all left the city in a few days, without rendering any assistance whatever. The preliminaries for the trial were arranged. Taylor was indicted. The younger brother being state's evidence, had an encouraging prospect of acquittal. Unfortunately, the colonel had taken a wrong position at the start. He had been betrayed by those of the brotherhood who had the influence requisite for assistance. The cheat had been carried so far by fair and continued promises, it was now too late to retrieve himself. I felt deeply interested for him. He was a noble specimen of mankind. He possessed abilities worthy of a more honourable application. He bore all his misfortunes with unexampled fortitude. The night after his Wheeling and Pittsburgh associates had betrayed his confidence, he conversed with me for some time. The main topic of his conversation was about certain men who resided in Lawrenceburgh and its vicinity. He gave recitals of things which had been done by men living in and near that place, which cannot be contemplated without a feeling of horror. I was actually shocked and chilled, especially as I knew the actors. The whole seemed to me like some dreadful vision of the night, and I could hardly believe the evidence of my senses in favor of actual perpetration. The colonel continued: "They fear me; they are seeking to crush me while professing the greatest friendship." He paused after adding, "to-morrow I will give you some advice which will be of everlasting benefit. Be careful that you do not mention it." Having returned to my boarding-house, I was very closely interrogated by Mrs. B. and the aforesaid pettifogger, in reference to my absence. "Where had I been all night, and what had detained me from my meals the day before?" I told them, at which they eyed one another closely. Mrs. B. observed-- "I think the colonel must be hard run for assistance, to keep two or three constantly waiting on him." To this I made no reply, but ate my breakfast fast, and returned to the hospital. I found Colonel Brown very restless. During the day several men, from different cities and towns at a distance, called. Three remained about two hours with him. They were from Charleston, on the Kanawha river, Va. After they retired, he lay in a doze for about an hour, when he was awakened by the arrival of four visitors, accompanied by his physician. One made a stand at the door of the colonel, three came in, while the doctor, with the fourth, passed along the gallery, to see some other of the inmates. I soon, learned that two of the three present were from Nashville, Tenn.; one a merchant, the other a negro trader. When they began conversation, I stepped to the door. They talked very rapidly. One said his friend from Paris, Tenn., would be down in a few days with several others, from Clarksville. The colonel listened to them with patience, and replied: "They had better come, and not disappoint me." These three left. In a few minutes the physician, in company with the fourth, came to the door. The doctor made a short stay, leaving the other man in the room with the colonel. It was a matter of surprise to witness the liberty that was extended to visitors, as well as the prisoner. He had a guard, it is true, but the steward of the sick rooms had been ordered not to permit any one to enter the apartment without a pass, signed by the Board of Trustees; yet all who wished to visit were allowed a free ingress, and no questions were asked. I had been taken there at first by Mrs. B., after which I had free access. But to return. CHAPTER VI. The man left there by the doctor, I knew. After viewing him closely, consider my surprise, when I recognised a person I had known from my first remembrance. It was the man who was said by his son to have gone up the river, and, as I supposed, had returned home. It was the usual custom of this man, not to go with his flat boats, but being ladened and committed to skilful pilots, he took passage upon a steamboat and waited their arrival at the place of destination. He seemed very much disconcerted in my presence, but I said nothing to strengthen his suspicions that I knew him. He cast several glances at me, at every convenient opportunity. When he left, it was near night. I was requested by the colonel to go to my supper and then return. I went away, and being weary I laid down upon my bed, from which I did not awake till daylight. On examining my clothes, I found some person had rifled my pockets. My wallet was robbed of one paper, which contained a list of names, but nothing else. Fortunately, however, I had written the same on my hat lining. I expected to have heard something concerning the affair--especially the record of names, but in this I was happily disappointed. Having eaten my breakfast, I went to the Custom house. The United States court was then in session. Hundreds of the colonel's acquaintances were there every day. They were frequently giving their opinions as to the issue of the trial. Some entertained one opinion and some another,--their chief conversation was in reference to the two brothers, and their connection with Taylor. One of the group I discovered was from Lawrenceburgh, Indiana. I knew them all, and with the exception of this one, they extended to me the hand of friendship. They seemed glad to see me, and were in fact honest men. He, however, did not seem friendly, though he did speak, but at the same time gave me a look of disapprobation, as much as to say, you have no right to be in company with such honest men. I paid no attention to his looks, as I knew him better than any man in the crowd. He knew he had laid himself liable to detection, and hence did not wish me to be in communication with his old friends, lest I might become an informant. He rather desired to have them discard me, but as they were upright, unsuspecting men, they did not give heed to his conduct. They conversed freely, and tried in every way to amuse me. At length he discovered there was a growing sympathy in my favour, and assumed another attitude to secure my departure. He began to talk somewhat in the following strain. "I know Green is a smart boy, but they say the Browns have him here to run on errands, and he is strongly suspected of not being what he should be, in regard to honesty." One or two of the honest countrymen spoke in my behalf, and the whole was turned off in a jovial way, not wishing, as I suppose, to injure my feelings; at which he, with a sigh that bespoke the consummate hypocrite, added: "Well, Green, God bless you. You had a sainted mother, and I always respected your old father, but you boys, I fear, are all in the downward road to ruin. You had better return home and be a good boy. Beware of the company of the Browns, as you know they are bad characters, and that I, and many others, held them at a distance, when they were in Lawrenceburgh." The rest of the company retired while he was thus lecturing me so sanctimoniously. No one can imagine the feelings I then had. I was at first confounded, then enraged, to witness the conduct of that black-hearted villain, he little suspecting that I knew him to be the very man that was in the room the day before, dressed in disguise. How could I feel otherwise. There he was lecturing me about duty, as if he had been a saint. It is true, he sustained that character at home. I had known him for many years as a leading man in the very respectable church to which he there belonged. Had I not been satisfied of the base part he was acting, when I met him the day before in disguise--his hypocritical lecture might have been beneficial. But I discovered he was an arrant knave--a real whitewashed devil, and I could with difficulty refrain from telling him my thoughts. I left, wondering how such a Judas could go so long "unwhipt of justice"--how he could avoid exposure. Probably it was by a change of dress. It was now time I had visited the hospital, to show reason why I had not fulfilled my engagement on the previous evening. The colonel received me with a welcome countenance, and remarked, he "was glad I had returned, for," said he, "I feared you had gone away." I told him I was weary when I went home; that after supper I had laid down to rest a few minutes, and slept longer than I intended, and that was the reason I had not returned. He was satisfied with my excuse, and introduced another subject. He inquired if I had heard any news, or seen any of the Lawrenceburgh citizens; and if so, had his name been mentioned? I replied, that it had been the principal topic of conversation, some speaking well of him, and others illy. He then wished to know, who had spoken evil of him? I told him the man's name. "And he talked about me, did he?" inquired the colonel. I replied, "He has spoken very hard things against you, alleging that he never associated or had any dealings with you." "He told you, he never had any dealings with me? What did you think of that?" I answered, "When you resided in Lawrenceburgh, I was too small to notice such things." I answered thus designedly, for I had seen him walking arm and arm with the colonel, time and again, but I was afraid to let the colonel know that I had even a moderate share of sagacity. "Green, how often have you seen him," continued the colonel, "and where, since you have been in the city? You know his son said, he had returned home, a few days since, when you carried him the letter." I told him I had not seen him before, since I came to the city. "Are you certain of that?" "I am confident I have not seen him." "You are mistaken," said he, "you met him yesterday." I knew what he meant, but dared not let him know that I had recognised him. Again he interrogated me: "Do you not recollect him?" at the same time eyeing me with an intensity of expression. I replied that I was certain I had not seen him. "You are mistaken," said the colonel. "You met him here yesterday. He was the man that remained after the doctor had left." "It cannot be," I rejoined. "You must be mistaken, as I was certain that man had light hair, nearly red." "It was him, Green," said he. "He had a wig on, but for your life mention not a syllable of this to your best friend. He is a villain of the deepest dye, and I know him to be such." I, of course, agreed that I might have been mistaken. "He knew you," continued the colonel, "and was the worst frightened man I ever saw, for fear you would recognise him. I am glad you did not, for it might have cost you your life." "I suppose, then, colonel," said I, "he intends furnishing you with bail, does he not?" "He did not manifest such a determination, did he, when you met him?" I replied: "He might have had his reasons for acting as he did; it may be, it was to find out whether I knew him as the person I met here yesterday. You say, colonel, then, I actually met him yesterday?" "Yes, he is the very villain. I know enough about him to make him stretch hemp, if he had his dues." I told him he was esteemed by many, where he lived, to be a very good man. "Yes, they respect him for his riches," said the colonel; "but they would not respect either him, or many of his neighbours, if all knew them as well as I do." After this, he proceeded to give me the promised advice, and addressed me thus: "Green, I believe you are a good boy, but have been imposed on by the world. I am about to give you some advice. I feel it right I should do so. I am in bad health, and can never recover, and my only object in procuring bail was to secure a decent burial, but I have no hope. Green, I tell you this, that you may know the condition in which you are placed. You are surrounded by a set of devils incarnate, and you know them not. You are just entering upon a life of misery and crime. You can now see, to a limited extent, what has caused me to lead a wretched and abandoned life. As soon as you can, leave this place. You know not your danger. You have about you some desperate enemies. I have told the most inveterate of them, that they were mistaken as to your character." I here inquired what they accused me of. He continued, "Of being treacherous to one of the brotherhood, of which my brother is a member." "I never knew before that such a society existed," said I. "They accuse you of three different crimes. You know whether there is any foundation for the charges. First, that you agreed to swear against Taylor; then, after the spurious money was placed in your hands, you gave the facts to Taylor's lawyer, and that your evidence will now be used in his favour. If such is the case, I advise you to abandon such a purpose, for you will certainly lose your life if you persist in this thing." I denied to him any such intention. "Well," said he, "what have you done then with those five one-hundred-dollar notes given you by one of the assistant attorneys of my brother?" I replied, "They are in my chest." "If such is the case, it will make every thing satisfactory in that matter." I now left, and went to Mr. Munger, and related the substance of my late interview. He handed me the notes that I might make good my declaration. I took them immediately to the hospital. When I entered I found two merchants, who resided at Memphis, in close conversation with the colonel. He told me to call again at two o'clock. About that time, I returned. The visitors were gone, but the colonel appeared much distressed. Some new event must have added to his former anxiety. "I wish you," said he, "to bring those notes and let me see them." Having them in my pocket, I presented them to him. "I am glad you have them. You have been strongly suspected of foul play--of giving them into the hands of the defendant." I was well convinced from this, that it was one of the clan who had rummaged my trunk and pockets a few days previous. I then asked him, what else they had laid to my charge? He replied: "A man by the name of Sandford gave information to my brother, that a certain amount of money had been hidden by him. Sandford died, and gave the money to my brother, and gave directions where he could find it. My brother prepared a note for his wife, and told her where she could find the money, and my brother reached the note to the wrong person." [See GAMBLING UNMASKED.] "Some person told him you were the receiver; that they had seen you take the note." I knew, however, that no one had seen me take it, that the whole was a mere conjecture--a plan to worm a confession out of me. Hence I denied it stoutly. "I do not believe it myself," affirmed the colonel, "but the whole clan, remember, dislike you; among others, a negro trader, by the name of Goodrich. He has marked you out as a transgressor, and is determined to put you out of the way." I have mentioned this same Goodrich, once before. He is well known as one accustomed to sell runaway negroes, as a kidnapper, who lives with a wench, and has several mulatto children, and probably does a profitable business in selling his own offspring. I replied, "I do not know Goodrich, and know as little about Sandford's money." "Well, Green, I believe you are innocent of the two first accusations, and hope you may be of the third." But now came the "tug of war." These others were only a preparatory step for a fearful inquisition. I knew what was coming, and mustered all my fortitude to meet the exigency. If ever there was a time when I was called upon to summon my collected energies, to express calmness and betoken innocence, it was on this occasion. The colonel, fixing his eagle-eye upon me with severest scrutiny, proceeded: "A certain package of papers has been taken, which has produced a great excitement, and has caused me serious injury." When he mentioned PAPERS, there was a sensible pause, and a piercing look which exhibited a determination to detect the slightest expression of guilt. I was enabled to command myself, however, in such a way, that I think I satisfied him I was not guilty. In reply, I asked the colonel "Why they should accuse me of acting so base a part?" "Unfortunately for you," said the colonel, "you have been seen talking with the friends of Taylor." I replied, "Perhaps I have, for I cannot tell who are his friends, or who his enemies." I likewise asked him if he thought it possible I could or would do any thing to injure him. "I think not," said he, "yet mankind are so base and deceitful, I have but little confidence in any one. I will now show you how dreadful must be my position in regard to the package, and then you can understand why its loss will go so hard with me." I listened with the utmost attention, and he entered upon this part of the subject as follows: "I am a member of a society called 'THE SECRET BAND OF BROTHERS.' It is an ancient order, of a religious (?) character. The leading members carry on an extensive correspondence with one another. All letters of business are subject to the order of the one who indites them, allowing the holder the privilege of retaining a copy. I had many letters written by leading men in my possession; besides a large package of copies. These with the original letters have been taken. Now, Green, you promise secrecy, and I will give you the whole plan, so far as in my power, and you can then judge how seriously I shall be affected if those papers are not recovered. "At the time of my arrest, on the charges for which I am to be tried, my friends were numerous and wealthy, and I had the utmost confidence in all their promises. The excitement was intense, and I did not deem it proper to call upon them until it should subside. After waiting a suitable length of time, I wrote to many of my acquaintances, and, among others, to several whose names are familiar to you. They were under personal obligations to me, aside from the common claims of friendship. They had made their thousands by plans of my own invention, and much of the very wealth which had given them distinction and influence was the fruit of my ingenuity. To my letters they made ready and satisfactory replies. They made the largest promises to give me any requisite assistance, when called upon, yet as often left me in suspense, or to reap the bitter fruit of disappointment. This was the reason why my trial was put off during several sessions of the court. My brother having been indicted with me, made the prospect of both more dubious. I had property, but not at my disposal. My wife betrayed my confidence, for having it in her power to send me pecuniary aid, she neglected to do it; indeed, all her conduct had a tendency to involve me in the net that was spread for my feet. Through her, information was given that I had friends who would assist me, which served as an excuse for her dereliction. This awakened the suspicions of community. There was an anxiety to know who would step forward to my rescue. Hence those from whom I expected aid became alarmed, lest their characters, which had hitherto been unblemished, should come into disrepute. Two of them are merchants in Dearborn county, Indiana. Some five of the most wealthy men of that county were driven almost to desperation when they learned that my wife had it in her power to use their names in connection with deeply dishonourable acts. I, however, satisfied them that she would not expose them, and they in turn promised to assist me, writing several letters of commendation in my behalf, giving me an untarnished character as a merchant of high respectability in Lawrenceburgh. From time to time they promised to secure me bail, and yet they as often failed to make good their word. In this they violated the most solemn obligations. We were pledged to sustain each other to the last farthing, in case either became involved in difficulty. That pledge I had never broken, and I looked for the same fidelity on the part of my associates. I never before had occasion to test their sincerity, but found all their solemn promises a mere 'rope of sand.' I found I was gone, as far as they were concerned, and turned my efforts in another direction." "I now had recourse to my friends in Chillicothe, Cleaveland, Buffalo, Detroit, Zanesville, Beaver, Lexington, Nashville, Philadelphia, New York city, Boston, and Cincinnati. As usual, they gave me the most liberal promises, but in no case fulfilled their engagements. I was now driven to new measures. I found those in whom I reposed the utmost confidence hollow-hearted and treacherous. I next entered upon the plan of making a certain villain share in my wretchedness and disgrace. In this I was joined by my brother, who, in perfecting the scheme, acted somewhat imprudently. I advised him to take a different course, but he listened to others who professed to befriends to us, and were, indeed, members of the same fraternity,[1] but turned out the worst kind of enemies, especially those who were wealthy. The poorer members were true to a man, and I am confident will remain so; and if I am spared, I will make the wealth of the others dance for their vile treatment. I have a thousand men who but wait my call. When I say the word, though they are of the same brotherhood, yet having also experienced the treachery and oppression of the higher class in common with myself, they will make war upon them whenever the signal is given." Here he stopped for a few minutes, and then began to state the little trouble it would have given his friends to have aided him if they had felt disposed. "But I am an invalid, and God knows I do not deserve such treatment." (The reader may think it strange that such a man should call upon his Maker, especially when he reads the constitution of the secret conclave, of which he was a member. The phrase "God knows," was used often in his private conversation.) "These persons I have always considered my friends, and have never given them occasion to be any thing else. Finding, however, that I had no hope from them, and that I must stand my trial, I was willing to make use of other means. I therefore agreed to proposals made by the most wealthy of my friends, and yielded to their arrangements, in order, if possible, to escape punishment. There was a man by the name of Taylor, the same whose trial is now pending, whom they feared, and who was known to community as an accomplished villain. He was the person selected upon whom it was designed to heap the burden of the guilt. By that means, the attention of our prosecutors would be diverted. The plan was set in operation, and soon the infamy of Taylor was sounded from Maine to the confines of Texas. They had their agents in almost every city to help on the work. From the first, I had but little hope of success in this manoeuvre, but consented reluctantly to the trial. I was confident he had many enemies, and not without cause. Having been foiled in all my former plans, I now experienced the deepest anxiety. I was especially solicitous that as long a time should elapse as possible before he was arrested. Some time after the report of his guilt he was arrested, and my brother promised to secure evidence to prove him guilty, and likewise to establish my innocence. It was also agreed by the committee of arrangements at that time, that I should take medicine upon a feigned sickness, in order to secure a change in my situation. In this way I could be removed to the Marine Hospital, when reported by the committee of health as being in danger. I was to appear ignorant of my brother's design, of which in truth I was. I took medicine, which had the desired effect. It made me desperately sick, producing excessive prostration. Application was made for my removal to the place where you now see me. Being conveyed hither, arrangements were made for my bail by my supposed friends. I was persuaded that I should continue in this state of unnatural disease from that time till the present. My brother carried on his treacherous part, and it required no little effort to convince the community that Taylor was really guilty of what was charged upon himself. Although he was known to be a desperate man, yet the charges were of such a nature, it was most difficult to sustain them. My brother's main dependence was in the fraternity. He founded his hope of success upon a concert of action among so many, apparently reputable witnesses. Some of them would be used in behalf of the state, and consequently receive regular pay for time and services, and at the same time could employ a false testimony against Taylor. Two objects could be thus secured; first, they would be detained as witnesses and used as necessity required; and, secondly, be ready to make up my bail. My brother further gave community to understand, that he would be able, by the production of certain papers, to convince them of all that had been rumored against Taylor. For this end, a quantity of papers were forwarded to this city, among which were some bearing my name, that were mere business letters. The ordering these letters was not approved by me. It was a plan of my brother. When it was discovered by several of my most intimate friends, they became alarmed, thinking I was concerned in the affair. As the fraternity required, by their constitution, that all letters should be returned at the request of the author, permitting the holder to take a copy, it became my duty to comply with this requisition whenever made. There was a great alarm. Many visited the city with whom I had held correspondence, whose letters had never been returned. They learned as to the disposition that was to be made of the papers, and report said we were about to give each individual's name concerned, as we were intending to turn state's evidence. This accounts for the many different visiters you have seen. You also saw several from Lawrenceburgh, and the very man you said spoke so disrespectfully of me, and gave you the long moral lecture, is here on the same purpose--the same individual you met two days since, whom you designated as having light hair." I here found his strength would not permit him to pursue the narrative further, and upon his promising to resume and finish the subject the next day, I left the hospital. [1] When he spoke of this fraternity, I then supposed he referred to some of the benevolent societies of the day. CHAPTER VII. In returning to my boarding-house I was met by the blackleg pettifogger, who treated me with great coldness. I met him again the next morning at the prison, and he treated me in like manner. But I was especially anxious to hear what more the colonel had to say, and hastened to his room. He began his account where he had left off. "This man, who was dressed in disguise, was greatly alarmed, lest certain of his letters in the package should come to light, which had not been retained. He started for home, as stated by his son, but returned to secure his letters. You have witnessed the tremendous excitement which exists, the running to and fro, and the many strange visitors that frequent my room. There is a cause for all this which I will now relate. "My brother sent for those papers, which, upon arrival, were submitted to his wife that she might select the most important to be produced as testimony in court against Taylor. In accordance with directions, she examined them all and laid aside all the business letters, (meaning the package lost,) which in some way have been mislaid or stolen. These, you are accused of having taken, and also of having taken a note that was reached through the grate by my brother, as he supposed to his wife, but it proved to be some other person, and they suspected you as that one. They also charge you with giving information as to the man who gave you five hundred dollars, and also that he used my name, saying at the same time, 'If you will swear that money on Taylor I will make you a rich man,' and that you concerted in this thing to act a deceitful part." I replied: "I promised to take the money and swear according to directions, but it was not for any respect I had for the man who offered me a bribe, or the pecuniary compensation, but for you and your brother." "Green," said he, "have no respect for my brother. He has not an honest heart. He would betray his own father, and be sure that you refuse to do what the pettifogger has advised." (See a full account in Gambling Unmasked.) "Green, take care, or you will lose your life. You have enemies that watch you closely. They also watch me, but I cannot help myself. I wish you well and believe you innocent." This last was uttered in a suppressed and pathetic tone, and I perceived his eye was intently fixed upon mine as if he would read in its expression the secret workings of my heart. I was determined he should not effect his purpose, and managed to evade his glances. "I am aware of their foul intentions," continued he, "but know not how to evade it. Green, I have all confidence in you as an honest boy, and do not think you would do any thing to injure me, but have thought you might have had a curiosity to know the contents of some of those letters, and have mislaid them with the intention of giving them back when you had read them." I again protested my innocence, and solemnly declared I had no knowledge of the package. "Then," exclaimed he, "I am a doomed man. There is no hope, and I will tell you the reason why. "You know I have had many friends calling upon me, day by day, from all parts of the country. You have seen among them some of the most wealthy in the town of Lawrenceburgh. They are my sworn friends and all members of a Secret Society, which obligates each one, under a most solemn oath, to assist a brother member out of any difficulty, provided he has not violated his obligations. Now my brother has acted most imprudently in pledging himself to produce certain papers, and to bring other witnesses besides himself against Taylor. These men were apprehensive that we had mutually laid a trap to expose the whole band. This has involved me in the most unjust crimination. I am subjected to the charge of conspiracy, and hence you see how difficult it is to procure bail. It is true I have had promises from all parts of the Union, but my brother concerted, without reflecting upon the consequences of his conduct, to bring one thousand men, if necessary, to this city, who would be ready to do any thing he might direct. These men were brethren of the same band, but of a lower order, none of whom were possessed of wealth or extended influence. The others, who possessed both, were kept in silence, for fear of being betrayed or proving false to the fraternity of which they were members. That we are circumstanced as you see us at present, is not for the want of friends. They are abundant and powerful; we have them on sea and on land, and they are ready to assist us out of any difficulty, and would do it in a moment if assured that all was right on our part. You see the city is full of them--many have come to secure their letters, which they knew were in my possession, and if exposed, would bring upon them certain ruin,--but alas! they have come too late. You will notice I have had no visitors while I have been giving you this history. I told the steward to admit none but yourself. Be assured, Green, I have many friends, but they dare not act--they dare not help me and they dare not convict me. You may live to know the truth of what I am stating." I inferred, from the last remark, that he had reference to the judiciary. I had noticed that during his two days' conversation, no person had visited the room but the physician and a certain judge who lived near Florence, Alabama, and the latter remained only a few minutes. I found out his name by seeing it written upon his hat lining, which had been placed upon the window opening on the piazza. After the judge had retired, the colonel resumed the conversation. "I am accused by my friends with treachery to the brotherhood. They think that I, in concert with my brother, have laid a plan to clear ourselves by their downfall. When the news was out that the papers were lost, I saw the most marked indications of hostility. They came forward and pledged to bail me in any amount, provided I would return their letters, but swore that I should never go from this room alive, if I did not produce them. I am certain to suffer death. My sentence is fixed, and I have no hope. My brother and his advisers have ruined me. They have had me borne hither that I might not understand their plans. I am satisfied the papers are in the hands of the intimate friends of my brother and those who had manifested such an interest in my removal to this place. I have been reduced by medicine, and my inability to exercise--so contrary to my general habits--has seated a fatal disease upon my lungs." His disease had been occasioned by the constant use of medicine, which exposed his system to cold, and this, by constant repetition, had entirely destroyed his constitution. I have no doubt that a slow poison was mingled in his medicine. When he had finished this tale of sorrow, he gave me some affectionate advice in something like the following words: "Green, I advise you to leave the city as soon as possible. There are two parties of the 'secret band' that seek your life; those who are so much enraged at the loss of the papers, because their reputation, fortunes, and lives, are thereby in jeopardy, and those who are the personal friends of my brother, and who support him, do or say what he may. They take his word with the infallibility of law and gospel, and are by profession great friends of mine, as well as of the other party, who swear they will have those papers at all hazards, right or wrong; meaning if you have them, they will obtain them in some way; that if I have them they shall be returned. I therefore advise you to leave the city immediately." I told him I had no funds. "I have not one dollar," said he, "to help you off, or I would give it to you." I told him I was under great obligations for his kindness. He further remarked: "Now pledge me secrecy to what I have related, for it can have no effect in assisting you, and will ruin me." I did so, and bade him farewell. I hastened to see Mr. Munger, and told him what the colonel had said about the counterfeit money and the money I had found by Sandford's note, but not a word as to the mysterious package. CHAPTER VIII. Shortly after the events detailed in the foregoing chapter, I had a conversation with Mr. Munger, who told me, he was satisfied that my life was in danger, and advised me to leave the city for a few weeks, or, at least, to change my boarding-place, and keep myself in seclusion. Accordingly, I changed my quarters as soon as possible. I could not well leave the city, as Mr. Munger informed me I must be present to appear in court when Taylor was tried, in case the younger brother acted the part he had promised; and if not, it would be equally important for me to be on hand, as they intended to indict him and his pettifogger, for their wicked designs upon the man they were endeavouring to ruin. As I could not go far out of the city, under these circumstances, I considered it more safe to remain concealed: I waited, therefore, several days, until the colonel's death, which occurred not long after I bade him farewell. I had met Cunningham--the old man at first charged with having the package by Mrs. Brown--several times after the colonel had advised me to leave the city, and in our last interview, he gave me to understand that the colonel would never get out of his bed alive, or leave the hospital, except when carried to his burial. I asked him, why. "There are many reasons. His health will never be any better; he cannot recover from his present illness. I know it is hard, but there are many who think it is preferable that one should suffer than thousands, who consider themselves better men. He has brought this trouble upon himself, by not living up to his oath. He and his brother are both traitors, and have placed the fraternity, of which they are members, entirely in the power of their enemies, but it will all come out right; there is no mistake. You heard that Madam Brown had lost a certain package of papers, letters, or the like, did you not?" I replied in the affirmative. "Well, they believed for a time that I had them, or would have made others think so; but that kind of accusation would not take with men who knew me. They next laid the charge against you: I have satisfied the interested party, that they are not in the possession of either of us, but that the colonel and his brother have them, and intend thereby to slip more necks into the halter than poor Taylor's. I am of the opinion, their own necks will pay the price of their treachery." I then replied, that I knew Mrs. Brown had said she had lost a package of papers, but what they contained, I knew not. "Nor ever will know," said he. "I have no curiosity about the matter," I replied. "And you might as well NEVER have, for curious people will pay dearly for reading them, especially if they undertake it in court, as evidence against the brotherhood." The reader can hardly imagine the intense desire that was created, by this time, in my heart, to learn all about this "brotherhood," and "fraternity," so often introduced, and yet so obscurely as to give me no certain information. I took this opportunity to ask Cunningham, what title this society had assumed; whether they were Masons or Odd Fellows? He laughed, and said: "I thought I had explained some of the particulars to you." He then stopped, as if to consider, when he continued: "Certainly, Masons and Odd Fellows both, and all other good institutions--but, I can tell you, Green, the brother who has turned state's evidence swears terrible vengeance against you. Do you be careful. He has many who are watching you. I belong to the party opposed to him and the colonel, and they throw all the blame upon you. You are the victim of their suspicions and hate, and you will do well to leave this place without delay; but tell no one, by any means, that I have given you this information." I bade him good day, and we separated. I now thought I would call once more, and see the colonel. I hastened to the hospital, but as I drew near, I discovered two men riot far from the steps, and the third coming down. I walked by them, without being recognised, and as I passed, the third man had entered into conversation with the other two. He was asked, "Is it a fact, that he is dead?" "Yes, certainly. He has been dead about three hours." "I knew," said one, "that he could not stand it long." Two of the men, I perceived, were from Lawrenceburgh, the two who stood remotely, one of whom was the identical person who wore the wig, and gave me such good fatherly instruction. I passed to the room, where I found the steward, with three assistants, laying out the corpse. "We do not wish any more assistance at present," said the old French steward. I understood his meaning, and left immediately. The news of the colonel's death soon spread through the city, and many gathered to witness the burial, but owing to the inclemency of the weather, few followed to the grave. When the hearse bore the body away, it rained very hard. I did not make my appearance on the occasion, for I well knew that many would be present to relieve their anxious minds--to rejoice rather than mourn over the dead, and who would sooner see my dead body deposited by that of the colonel's, than any other on earth. I was determined not to be mourned for in that way, by the desperate villains. I therefore kept aloof from their society. Several days elapsed, during which time I remained in concealment from all the clan, but Cunningham, who expressed a concern for my welfare. I also had frequent conferences with my friend, the deputy-marshal. Three days after the colonel's death, Cunningham informed me, that he was convinced that both of the Browns deserved death. "But I dare not tell you why," said he, "and if I should, you would not be able to comprehend my reasons. Be assured, if they are guilty, the other brother will never come from that prison alive. He will find out, that the brotherhood are wide awake." All his insinuations were perfect Greek to me, for some weeks after; but when Taylor had his trial, the whole matter was explained. Their import I will now unfold. CHAPTER IX. From the time the plan was concocted, for making Taylor suffer the penalty of another's crime, the utmost promptitude was required for its execution--the machinery must be actively employed by the friends of the colonel, and his brother. First, the colonel must be made sick, and a sympathy thereby awakened, and hence the plea for his removal would be the more plausible. His enlargement was important. He was a principal man, with whom it would be necessary to have much consultation--an intercourse more vital to the cause of his pretended than his real friends. Besides, there were many who really desired his escape, but being among the first class of society, as to wealth, respectability, and influence, they were unwilling to frequent the prison to visit the unfortunate colonel. Though interested deeply in his release, they were not willing the public should understand that they were sworn friends. The part the younger brother was to sustain, has already been detailed in a former chapter. The medicine was administered with the desired effect, and the colonel was removed to the hospital. He was now in a situation to be consulted. Many would now visit him, who never would have gone to the prison. If a reason was required for their familiarity with so base a man, it could be found in the dictates of kindness, called forth by suffering humanity. After his removal, his brother was under obligation to do as he had promised, to produce the spurious plates, the counterfeit money, and the correspondence, and swear them upon Taylor, as the real agent and proprietor. As the signatures of the letters were anonymous, other testimony was required to establish the real author. It will be remembered that the plates and letters were in Canada for safe keeping, and must be sent for, and conveyed to the city before the trial of Taylor could proceed. In the mean time, jealousy and consequent dread on the part of the colonel's confederates were daily receiving new strength. Conscious were they of having acted a most dishonorable and deceitful part with one of whom, under ordinary circumstances, they were accustomed to stand in awe; but now they were more especially apprehensive of danger, because there was a provocation for seeking vengeance. They knew he had every means to involve them in a more signal overthrow than that which awaited himself. The only alternatives were, either to wrest the weapons of destruction from his hands, or render the possessor incapable of wielding them. They were driven almost to desperation, when they reflected on their deeds of wickedness reaching through many years, the record of which was in the hands of a powerful and justly provoked enemy, who in a day might spread out for the gaze of the world the portraiture of their former characters, in which were mingled the features of darkest villany and the more glaring expressions of open violence and crime. Goaded on by an awful apprehension, they were prepared for any thing that might save themselves and families from exposure and disgrace. Colonel Brown was a Grand Master of the band of Secret Brothers. The members of the fraternity who sought his ruin were of the same degree, together with those holding the relation of Vice-grand Master. He had nothing to fear from the common brotherhood, who were kept in perfect ignorance of the transactions of those more advanced. Indeed, they were his warmest friends, and regarded him with especial reverence, because he commended himself to their confidence and esteem by his naturally good disposition, and, most of all, by his relation of Grand Master, which is always accompanied either with dread or marked respect. The inferior order was very numerous, but seldom wealthy, generally of a suspicious character, who had no fixed residence, but wandered from place to place, preying upon the community in the character of bar-keepers, pickpockets, thieves, gamblers, horse-racers, and sometimes murderers. They may be found in all parts of the United States and Canada. These were controlled by some two hundred Grand Masters, conveniently located, who were generally men of wealth and respectability, and often connected with some learned profession, yet but seldom applying themselves to their profession sufficient to gain a livelihood. These men, of both orders, would often confer together, especially when one had been detected in any crime--or some dirty job was to be done, which was likely to bring into the hands of the superior order any considerable wealth. In fact, these so-called respectable men would lay plans which they dared not execute for fear of detection, but having any number of agents in readiness among the common brotherhood who had nothing to lose in point of character, they would employ them, and if successful, be sure to pocket all the spoils--except enough to satisfy the immediate wants of their jackals. If they were not successful, but detected in their villany, these unfortunate agents could lay claim to their aid, and were permitted to make drafts of money to procure bail in case of indictment or to defray the expenses of a trial. We have sometimes wondered that certain felons should get clear, when their guilt has been established beyond a doubt. We will not wonder when we learn that there are men of wealth and influence in almost every town, who are sworn to aid and befriend these villains. They are sometimes lawyers, and jurors, and even judges. But their conduct and relations will be more clearly seen, when I publish their letters and constitution. It is only necessary to remark in this connection, that the only persons really benefited in this organized system of land piracy, are their Grand Masters. They lay most of the plans, and receive and control the money,--confer among themselves, but never with a common brother, only using him as a tool for the accomplishment of some foul purpose. Here is policy. It would not be safe to commit their secrets to the many hundreds under them, but only to such as are judged suitable after years of trial, and those beneath are often looking forward for promotion, which is a pledge of their fidelity. The reader will perceive that if this higher order was ever to be fully exposed, it must be by some one of their own number, for one of an inferior degree knows no more of their proceedings than the uninitiated. The danger of a full exposure now threatened them in connection with Colonel Brown; at least they apprehended it. They knew they deserved it, and the circumstances of their accomplice pointed in that direction. He had the means--their own letters, and a knowledge of their deeds. It was only necessary to give information to a third person, and the work would be done. Besides, he was a man of extensive acquaintance and influence--a ruling spirit among his fellows. A revelation from him would have been direful in the extreme, as, in addition, he had in his possession the constitution and by-laws of the fraternity, which were always lodged with the ruling Grand Master. Under these circumstances we need not wonder that there was excitement, that every expedient was employed to rescue the documents or make away with their possessor. He was now in confinement. It was vital to their designs to keep him there till they could secure the letters and constitution above referred to, or, in case of failure, make his life pay the forfeit. They cared but little for his brother, as he was of an inferior grade. The Grand Masters, then in office, had but one object in view, and that they were intent upon accomplishing. The acquittal or conviction of the two brothers was a matter of no consequence compared with their own personal safety. To secure this they would not scruple even to commit murder. That this is the case, will be seen by an article in their constitution. I may further remark in this connection, that their laws required, that the Grand Master shall be assisted by six Vice-grand Masters, but these latter cannot be admitted into the secrets of the former till they are promoted, although they are obligated to do his bidding. The members who had been advanced to the highest degree, and hold the principal secrets of the order in connection with the colonel their leader, were about two hundred. These were the individuals conspiring against his life, in case they could not procure their letters and other documents. Their main and first object was, therefore, to bring those papers to the city. The papers were sent for, as before stated, and all their designs, of a public and private nature, set in active operation. Of this the colonel had no knowledge at the time. Mrs. B. was to give them up to the committee appointed for the purpose of inspecting them. All that would have any tendency to injure or expose the fraternity, if brought to light, were to be selected, and the rest brought forward for the purpose of convicting Taylor. The intention of bringing these papers to the city being, in the mean time, made known to the colonel, he gave directions to his sister-in-law to reserve such papers as he specified, and hand the balance over to the committee. The trunk in which they were deposited having arrived, Mrs. B. acted according to directions, reserving the notable package which she concealed between her beds, while she conveyed the residue to the prison office for legal purposes--to be used by the committee, who met there by consent of one of the prison keepers--he being a Grand Master of the secret band and one of the principal policemen. After delivering up the papers, she returned and found her valuable deposit had been removed as previously stated. The fact of their removal being made known to the brotherhood, they thought some base person had robbed the lady of her important charge. This opinion prevailed with the fraternity generally. Not so with the two hundred grandees. Their opinion assumed the character of their former suspicions, while their suspicions were converted into fact. They were now fully convinced that the colonel contemplated the destruction of their order, and was intent upon keeping the papers in his own power: that he had even entered upon the act of defeating the very purpose they had in view, in bringing those papers to the city. At this time the city was crowded with the members of this secret society, and private rewards were offered by the two hundred or that portion of this band then in the city, for the recovery of the papers. These rewards made a great stir, especially with the officers of all parties, both those for and against the colonel. Taylor was a mark to be shot at by about seven-eighths of the band, and the remaining one-eighth was ready to go to the highest bidder, to do service for him who would give the highest wages. He found means to secure the friendship of the latter, many of whom were considered quite respectable men, and were never suspected by the brotherhood of any thing dishonourable. The head men constituted still another party. Thus these villains were divided into three factions. These were the friends of Taylor, known as Taylorites, and the supporters of Brown, called Brownites. These only were publicly known; while the third party, embracing the royal grandees, were actively engaged in disengaging themselves from the coils which they supposed had been deliberately laid for their destruction. They showed, by their efforts, they had more at stake than all the rest. Though their movements were not publicly recognised, yet they had every influence that would favour their cause in operation, to consummate their hellish purposes. The constitution, by-laws, and about one thousand and three hundred letters, including copies and original, were missing; and the destiny of the whole band of Grand Masters depended upon their recovery, before ever they fell into the hands of one who could explain them to the brotherhood; and still more calamitous would be the condition of the entire fraternity, if they were ever revealed to the public. Those more immediately concerned were confirmed in the opinion that the colonel had secreted them for future use. Finding they had not accomplished what they intended, in bringing the papers to the city, they had recourse to a certain clause in the constitution, to compel the colonel to produce some of them, if in his possession. That clause required the holder of an original letter to return the same, when requested by the writer, after copying, if desirable. This law applied, however, only to letters having the secret "qualities," or, in other words, the private description of the bearer in full, which was written in acid, and could be read only after subjection to chemical action. Three hundred and seventy-nine of the letters in the package were of this kind; one thousand were copies, whose original had been returned. The former had been written to the colonel, and one bore date as far back as July 9th, 1819; the latter had been addressed to various individuals, and some bore date as far back as 1798. To secure these letters was a work of great delicacy. Though the constitution granted the right of asking the unreturned letters, yet the writers feared to make the requisition of the colonel, lest he might suspect them of a conspiracy, and being thus exasperated, let loose his engines of destruction. They finally fixed upon the following plan. They were to hold out the idea that they were ready to bail him, provided he would leave the country. In case he consented, they were to request the retention of the letters, feeling confident he had not destroyed them. The plan was laid open to the colonel by the man from Dearborn county, Indiana, the same who was dressed in disguise. He was told by the colonel that the papers (meaning the package) had been taken, and he could not furnish them, as he had no possible knowledge who had done the deed. This reply, to the council of Grand Masters, was like "a clap of thunder in a cloudless sky," so confident were they that he had them and would produce them when thus requested. There was now only one alternative, the life of the colonel must be taken, which they could and did accomplish, as the sequel will show. CHAPTER X. From the time of the visit by the Dearborn county man till the death of Colonel Brown, embracing about six weeks, there were constant and fierce wranglings among the fraternity. A considerable change had been made in the feelings of some of the colonel's former sworn friends, which of course made those who knew him innocent more bitter against any one they might suspect guilty of bringing such a calamity upon him. His friends and foes were equally interested in finding the retainer of the lost package, but all to no purpose. There was, however, but one sentiment in the Grand Council; they still believed that the colonel had them, and designed, as soon as he was liberated, to make a general exposure of the whole organization to the world. But their own consciousness of personal injury--of having acted a treacherous part against this man--was, in reality, the ground of their conviction as to his guilt; for it was not in the nature of the man to be false to his pledged honour. It only remained that they should prevent his liberation; and the most effectual way was to act in accordance with the assassin's maxim, "Dead men tell no tales." Their hatred rose to such a pitch that they began to exhibit their enmity toward any one that either sympathized, befriended, or was even familiar with the colonel. Here was the ground of their deadly animosity toward me. They supposed I was his confidant, and might be an agent for the execution of his designs. These murderers,--(I ask no pardon for so harsh an epithet, for they were such in thought and deed,)--these Grand Masters, who visited the colonel while I waited upon him, and thus became personally known, have, ever since that event, assumed a hostile attitude toward me. It is true they have never attacked me publicly, yet I am confident they have hired others to do it. From the time I drew the money put in deposit by Sandford, and bore off that object of curiosity, so carefully concealed in the bed, until the day I was chased as a mad dog by an infuriated mob through the streets of New Orleans, and finally made good my escape through a troop of less hostile cotton snakes, as recorded in my Gambling Unmasked, I was singled out as an object of open and private hate by the whole tribe of organized desperadoes. To recover those papers, no steps were too desperate for the Grand Masters--they having any amount of money to accomplish their object; and I am now about to present the reader with another exhibition of their daring and indefatigable perseverance. They now came to the conclusion that those papers had been given to the officers of the bank, and were deposited in the clerk's office of the United States court, to be used against them at some future day. They offered rewards to several of the inferior grade, for the purpose of getting possession of the box containing the plates, counterfeit money, and, as they supposed, the lost package. Their only hope now lay in getting that box. The time of Taylor's trial had been fixed. Mr. Munger informed me I could leave the city for a few days, and he would let me know when my services were wanted. I went to Bayou Sara, one hundred and fifty miles above New Orleans. A few days after my arrival, Mr. Munger came after me in great haste, bringing the information that a great and daring burglary had been committed the same night I left the city. The clerk's office had been entered, and the box, containing Taylor's indictments, plates, and spurious money, had been taken. Taylor's jury had not agreed, and he would get clear, in case the box could not be recovered. He informed me that I had been suspected and accused of the deed; but that he knew I was innocent, for he had inquired of the boat, and found I had left on the previous night, some time before the robbery was committed. He did not wish any one to know that he had any knowledge of my location, but told me I had nothing to fear. Indeed, I knew I could prove an ALIBI by more than one person, and I consented to return. While on our way back to the city, I told Mr. Munger I did not wish to go into the prison where the younger Brown was confined; I feared he had some designs upon my life. "Do not have any apprehensions," said he, "on that account. You will not be hurt, for you will be put into the debtor's apartment, where Brown is not permitted to visit, and of course can have no chance to do you an injury." I was placed in prison upon my return--a position of greater safety to me than any other. Being assured by Mr. Munger of protection, I went without hesitation--expecting to be released the next day. The next morning I was brought out and informed, to my great surprise, that if discharged I must furnish a very heavy bail. This was a source of alarm; but my friend calmed my fears, by saying that all would be right when I was examined; that the excitement was great, and it was only necessary to wait for the return of the Lady of the Lake--which was on a trip to Natchez, and would be back in a few days--when abundant evidence in my favour would be secured, and I would be acquitted. In a few days, I was accordingly set at liberty. The plates and papers had been found in Natchez, and a man by the name of King had been arrested--who confessed the crime, but alleged that he had been hired by a certain party to do the deed. This King was one of the brotherhood, and had been employed by the committee of Grand Masters to enter the office and secure for them the box, by which they expected to obtain the package. In this they were mistaken, and placed in a worse dilemma than before. On the day of my discharge I was visited by a man, to me unknown. He informed me that he had procured my acquittal, and was my sincere friend and well-wisher; that he desired always to remain the same--and would, during life, on condition that I acted in accordance with his wishes. I considered him a strange person, to introduce himself in so singular a manner. He advised me to leave the city as soon as possible. I told him that was my intention. I likewise informed Mr. Munger of the same, and he readily consented, as Taylor's trial had been put off. Arrangements being made with him, I expected to leave the next day. In the mean time, I had an interview with Cunningham, who told me I must look out, for the brotherhood in general suspected me of foul play as to the papers. I denied all knowledge of them--for I found it my only safety to pursue one uniform course. He continued: "The party are determined to have them at all hazards, and are now more convinced than ever that you are in the secret. All the circumstances are against you--more especially since the custom-house was broken open, which robbery was perpetrated for the express purpose of finding the papers. It was thought if the colonel had disposed of them, they would be found there; but now they will hold you responsible. I bid you farewell." On the same evening I had this conversation with Cunningham, I went with Smith to the gambling-house: the same day, too, on which I won seventy dollars in the flat boat--the first and dearest money I ever won at gaming, as it nearly cost me my life--the full account of which is given in the work previously mentioned. On the second day after this, as I was about leaving for Mobile, I met the gentleman who had procured my release. He advised me to depart forthwith, promising to meet me at another time. As we were separating he placed in my hands a box. "Here," said he, "is a box, containing something I wish you to keep with great care. You must not open it till I give you permission." I took the same. It was a small box, made of oak, three inches high, eight long, and five wide. Its possession gave me much uneasiness for twelve years--during which time I remained faithful to my instructions. I frequently met with my benefactor. The last time I saw him was in Philadelphia, in 1841. I have received from him nine letters, in all, of a good moral character, and always referring to the box. This individual's name I have never been able to learn. No two letters ever bore the same signature, but the identity of their contents convinced me they were all from the same person. That mysterious box I have preserved to the present day. It will be remembered by the reader that I confided the papers, taken from Mrs. B., with a man by the name of Watkins. This individual died with the cholera, in 1832. I called upon his wife for the package, who returned the same to me at Cincinnati, in 1833. I found every thing as I had left it, excepting the blank parchments. They were gone. Here was a mystery I could not solve. How should a part be missing and not the whole? I never gained any satisfactory information until last summer. While travelling through the state of New York, I had occasion to visit the state's prison, where I met with a certain convict who passed by the name of Wyatt, but whose real name was Robert H. North. He gave me information about a certain "FLASH," or comprehensive language used among professional gamblers and blacklegs. Many of the phrases were familiar, but I never could ascertain their origin. He was soon convinced of my ignorance, and then informed me of the society whence they originated. He likewise explained the reason why I was so persecuted by the notorious Goodrich. "It is known," said he, "wherever the fraternity exist, that you obtained the package; but they are satisfied you destroyed the same, and it is well you did, or else you would have been put out of the way long before this." I told him I had taken the package, but there was nothing in it save letters and a few blank parchments. He laughed and said: "If you had WARMED those parchments, they would have presented an exhibition worthy of your attention." This information made me restless with excitement and anxiety to peruse those letters and notes which I still had in my possession. I may here remark, the letters were, for the most part, unintelligible to a common reader, because of the secret language in which they were written. I had examined them again and again, without much satisfaction. I knew they were penned for the purpose of clandestinely carrying on a wholesale plunder--a deliberate imposition upon public and private rights. By frequent perusal I had become familiar with many of the terms which were often explained to me by those who were acquainted with their use, though they are used by thousands, without any knowledge of their origin. After I commenced an exposure of the vice of gambling, I was often attacked by certain low, vulgar editors in a manner that indicated deep-seated malice. I could not account for their abuse. They would admit that society should be rid of the evil in question, but at the same time exhibited the most bitter hostility to me as one who had dared to expose the abominations of gaming. I was conscious there was something that moved them in their work of calumny not yet developed. The mystery rendered me unhappy. I was anxious to know the cause of this public opposition, and the more so, that I might satisfy the people that the whole arose from influences akin to the vice I was labouring to destroy. The secret was soon discovered, and I am now prepared to satisfy the public mind that the attacks upon my present relation to society have arisen from something more than an ignorant prejudice. These hireling editors knew I had the materials to draw their portraits at full length in all their moral hideousness; and they feared society would be thrown into spasms at the sight, and they would be hurled from their stations of trust by an enraged and insulted people. It has only been necessary in one or two instances to give them a few hints of the information I possessed, and they were hushed up INSTANTER. A long time had elapsed since I heard from the mysterious stranger who gave me the box,--long enough, I had supposed, to free me from obligation of further restraint upon my curiosity. It had now been in my possession several years, and I felt myself at liberty to examine its contents. Having consulted with a few friends previously, I then made known, in the fall of 1842, to Rev. John F. Wright--formerly of the Methodist Book Concern, Cincinnati--that I had such a box, and my intentions. I likewise gave the same information to Arthur Vance--formerly of Lawrenceburgh, Indiana--Mr. John Norton, of Lexington, Kentucky--Thomas M. Gallay, of Wheeling, Virginia. I informed each of them how I came by the box, and the unaccountable conduct of the man who placed it in my hands. Having opened it, I found the same number of parchments I had missed from the package, all blank in appearance. In these was a note, which read as follows: "THE PARCHMENTS, NOW IN THE HANDS OF THE POSSESSOR, CONTAIN MUCH SAD INTELLIGENCE, AND CAN BE READ, PROVIDED THEY ARE HEATED. THEY ARE EXPOSED BY A BROTHER OF THE BAND, A DOOMED MAN, ONE THE WORLD HAS KNOWN TO ITS SORROW FOR FORTY YEARS. MAY THE OWNER AND HOLDER CONSIDER THE DOOMED ONE A MOST KIND FRIEND FOR EVER! "New Orleans, May 3d, 1832." I soon hastened to ascertain the contents of the parchments, and found the statement made correct. CHAPTER XI. The contents of these papers are such as almost stagger belief, even in the most credulous. They not only go to prove the existence of a league of villany, but also laid open the machinery by which their wickedness was concealed; still, from many incidents of my own life, and from what I have learned by observing events which have transpired around me, as well as from narratives of undoubted truth which I have heard, I am constrained to believe that the band above alluded to does now exist, and that it has flourished for a long time, with astonishing power. I have reason to suppose that many of the band settled in and about Lawrenceburgh, Indiana; and from the year 1800 to 1827, they were very numerous, and some of them wealthy; they were mostly close traders, who turned every cent they got, honestly or dishonestly, into real estate. Many of them, also, were well educated, and composed the _aristocracy_, while the _poor honest_ man was crowded down by these _influential members of society_. There are now three classes of wealthy men in that neighbourhood: the honest, whose property was obtained fairly; the members of the band; and some, of whom I am doubtful whether they belong to the band or not. If they do not, they are villains by nature, and do not need their assistance. In the year 1846, I delivered a lecture at Lawrenceburgh, in which I exposed this band, and showed the manner in which their correspondence was carried on. The old members of the band had art enough to persuade the doubtful rogues that they were the persons alluded to, and they believed it. Whether conscience had any thing to do with their belief or not, I do not pretend to say; but the community generally seemed quite ready to grant them that honour. It was very amusing to notice the difference between the conduct of the guilty and that of the innocent, in relation to the exposure. The "Brotherhood," all at once, were very much concerned about the fair fame of their neighbourhood--called me a slanderer, and in fact caused a much greater excitement against themselves than would have occurred, had they kept still; while the honest citizens quietly asked for the names of the "brothers," and whether any of their relations belonged to them; they begged me to go on, and expose every member. Since 1802, many robberies have been committed under circumstances which strongly indicate that such a band existed. Public agents, and other highly respectable citizens, have been robbed of funds which they held in trust, and no trace of the robbers could be found, and no curiosity seemed to be excited by the fact. Sometimes the person robbed shared in the spoils, and sometimes they were innocent; and it has sometimes happened that the innocent man was suspected. The honest citizens of Lawrenceburgh have, for forty years, known what a curse it is to have bad neighbours. During the excitement occasioned by my lectures above mentioned, a resident of Lawrenceburgh related the following incident, which is only one among many which might be named to show the nature of the transactions in which these men engaged, and their facilities for carrying them out. I will give it as nearly as I can recollect in his own words: "During the year 1832, a stranger came into the town of Lawrenceburgh, and for several days was noticed in the public places watching every one who passed, as if looking for some one. At length he came to me, and told me that he wished my assistance in the business on which he came, but that it would be necessary to keep the matter secret. I answered, that if it were proper, I had no objections to secrecy. He then related the following facts as introductory to his business. "He resided in Ohio; some eighteen months previous a friend had been induced to purchase a large drove of hogs for the market; he made the purchase on credit, with a promise to pay when he returned. While he was preparing to start, Daniel and James Brown bargained and contracted for them, to be delivered at a certain landing on Lake Erie, at a certain day, at which place and time they promised to meet and pay him. He gathered his drove, and proceeded to the landing, where he arrived several days before the time appointed. He was there met by some men, who told him that Brown had been there, and left word for him to drive the hogs to a landing two or three days' journey further on, where he had made arrangements to butcher and pack them. He went as directed; he found neither of the Browns there, but found the men who had directed him before; they informed him that they had orders to commence killing and packing the hogs, and that Mr. Brown would be there that day, or the next. He consented, and the hogs were killed and packed. A merchant at the landing advanced money to pay the man, and also furnished salt, and barrels on credit. On the day that all was finished, the two Browns arrived, bringing with them another large drove. They pretended to be very much surprised to find our friend there, and much more so to find the hogs butchered. They declared that they had not bargained for the slaughter of the hogs, and that they contracted for them in another place, and would have nothing to do with them here; that he had broken his contract, and they should demand heavy damages. He sought for the men who had directed him hither, but they had dispersed as soon as paid, and no trace of them was to be found. He told the Browns how he had been deceived, but they denied all knowledge of the affair, and again talked of damages. The merchant then presented his bill for supplies, and money advanced to butchers and packers. Our friend not having the money, he seized on the pork. What could he do? The case was desperate. He had bought on credit; would his pitiful story satisfy his creditors? His character was ruined. You may imagine the state of his mind. At this crisis, the Messrs. Brown took him aside, and told him that since he was in difficulty, they were willing to befriend him, and to show him how he could soon make money enough to pay off his creditors. An oath of secrecy was required and given. They then offered to settle the merchant's bills, which were very extravagant, and pay him for the pork in counterfeit money, at twenty per cent., with which he was to buy stock through the country. In his despair, he consented; a few days after he was detected, arrested, and tried, under a false name, and condemned to the Ohio penitentiary. His friends, remaining entirely ignorant of his fate, began to suspect foul play. The Messrs. Brown effected his pardon, and hurried him away; but not before he had contrived to make known his story, and the fact that he was under restraint among a band of bad men, and that he could not escape without assistance. He was never heard of more. "The stranger gave me his address, and requested that I would keep an eye upon the people who should come there, and if I should see the Browns, or hear of his unfortunate friend, that I should let him know. He had visited Lawrenceburgh, because that was the former residence of these two men, and he hoped to see them; but being disappointed, he was compelled to go back to the family of the lost neighbour without having received any intelligence of his fate." The reader will have seen by this time, that, probably, the whole transaction was arranged before the man bought the first hoof of that drove of hogs. Some emissary of the Browns advised him to speculate in pork; to use his credit, which was good, and he did not see the Browns till he was preparing to start. They make him liberal offers, because they never intend to pay, and it matters little what they offer. He then sends some of the meaner members of the gang to the landing, to order him a few days' journey further, and there they meet him again, and butcher, and pack the hogs. They are well paid for their villany by the job, which they take care to make a fat one. The merchant was paid for his part of the rascality by the profit on his stores, and perhaps by a bonus out of the money advanced. They then thought that if they could implicate him in any unlawful business, he would tell no tales about them; accordingly, they entice him, or rather drive him to the counterfeit trade. But conscience makes bad men cowards, and they felt uneasy, so, by means of some of the band, they have him arrested; the proof is so positive that he must be convicted, and the poor fellow was thrown into the penitentiary. But even here they did not consider him safe, although under a false name; so, through the influence of some of the _aristocracy_, they get him pardoned; and then the moment he is free, they meet him, tell him of all they have done for him, and propose a new scene of action. Poor fellow, what can he do? He goes with them to this new scene of action, but in all probability he finds it a state of _rest_, for "dead men tell no tales." Thus, for the paltry price of a drove of hogs, was an honest man ruined, and, for fear of detection, murdered. CHAPTER XII. Probably in no era of the world, and certainly never among a Christian people, was there formed a more bold, daring, and, at the same time, secret association, than the one whose constitution and by-laws we now present to the reader. Composed of men of all classes and grades in society, from the priest at the altar, the judge on the bench, the lawyer at the bar, down to the most common felon and street thief or pickpocket, all bound together by a solemn oath, they laboured for the general cause of secret plunder, to the enriching of themselves at the expense of the mass. But having previously shown how I procured my information regarding these desperadoes, I shall leave farther comment on their acts, for the present, to the public, before whose tribunal they must be arraigned, and proceed at once to present their CONSTITUTION AND BY-LAWS. _Hanging Rock, Western District of Virginia, July 12, 1798._ SECTION I.--_Art. 1._ This society shall be known by the name of the SECRET BAND OF BROTHERS. _Art. 2._ It shall be governed by brethren who have become prominent by their many valiant deeds for the promotion of the society. _Art. 3._ The officers of this society shall be known as Grand Masters, and shall be duly authorized, by this constitution, to initiate, as members of this society, any male or female, who comes well and duly recommended by a brother, in good standing, as having served the probation which this constitution requires. _Art. 4._ It shall be the duty of a brother, before he gives the applicant information who the Band of Brothers are, to take him on probation three months, during which time he shall notify the Grand Master, that at such a date he will introduce the person, on probation, for initiation. _Art. 5._ It shall be the duty of the Grand Master to notify all the Brotherhood, so far as he has it in his power, that such an individual will pray for the privilege of becoming a member of the Honourable Brotherhood, at such a date; and to likewise apprize them of the duty set apart, so far as in the power of each member, to carefully scan the motives of the said candidate, and, if they can ascertain by word, deed or action, that the candidate is not a fit person to become a member, to convey the same to the brother who recommended him, and the same must, in all cases, apprize the Worthy Grand what has been said against, and in favour of the said candidate;--and it must be strictly observed, that in no case shall the Worthy Grand condescend to be introduced without proper notice; and the same must in all cases be strictly obeyed. _Art. 6._ It shall be the duty of every member to make the candidate the subject of trial, in every secret manner which he may think profitable to test his qualities as a true believer in the virtue of the Brotherhood; and likewise to throw every temptation in his way, which may be likely to sour his disposition against the formalities of the world, and thereby lead him into a closer commune with the Holy Brotherhood, of which he is to become a member, and which he is to believe to be true and honest in every sense of the word; and that all other religions and creeds are base, and founded upon speculative motives--that this is the only TRUE, by which he must stand through good or ill, and never secede, on pain of death on earth, and punishment eternal hereafter. _Art. 7._ It shall be the duty of every brother to be strictly on his guard, concerning this brave and generous band, and give no intimation to any mortal being of its existence, unless he is fully persuaded that he or they are worthy by thought and act of the high and honourable character which the honourable body will ever confer upon them, by receiving them as men and brethren, worthy of the protection of the only true society under Heaven. _Art. 8._ It shall be the duty of all, both members and Masters, to guard against the influence of party spirit, either political or religious, as termed by a certain class of people, who, from their weak and shattered principles, have been led to suppose that the great and overruling Bible, among certain classes, is the Divine inspiration of the Deity, and was hewn from a solid rock, for the purpose of satisfying all men of the power of God, whom this band hold sacred, as a being of unchangeable character, who will, in the immortal state, prepare an everlasting place of rest for all who do not by their oaths confirm the total disapprobation of his supernatural power. _Art. 9._ It shall be the duty of all brethren of this benevolent band, in their becoming members of this Christian (!) fraternity, to deny the principles of the book called the Bible, to be other than the work of priestcraft, got up to delude the weaker portion of mankind, and whose principles have been carried out to the uttermost parts of the earth, until even the heathen have suffered by the base intrigue of missionaries, of this rascally compilation of nonsense, by being made subservient to their most outrageous and villanous transactions. _Art. 10._ That we do deplore the perversion of the power of God, as men and Christians, and believe it highly commendable to this, the only true society of Christian principles, to associate and connect ourselves with all churches, of every denomination, and with all societies, not for the purpose of supporting them, but through these means to the furthering of our own designs. _Art. 11._ That we labour to make proselytes of all with whom we come in contact, when it can be done without suspicion and danger to ourselves; that we believe this a true principle--founded upon Nature herself, our ruler--that policy dictates to us the necessity of keeping at peace with the world, and often appearing humble and Godlike, that we may be taken as pious and God-serving people: at the same time, that we keep our "lights so shining," that all who wish, may be able to understand, appreciate, and embrace our principles. _Art. 12._ That we hold, as a duty to mankind, that the God of nature, the only God, has made a benevolent donation to all his beings; and that it is against the principles of true Christianity, to allow one man to fare sumptuously day by day, while his neighbours, as good by nature, and far better by practice, shall be made his servants;--and therefore, we, the members of this honourable body, do pledge ourselves to try, by every means in our power, to diffuse the necessaries of life throughout the universe, that all may fare alike who live as Nature's Christians. _Art. 13._ We pledge ourselves to take from the rich, and give to the poor; and, as none of the honourable body wish for more than the God of Nature has given--which is an abundance of this world's goods--we agree to take from the one, and give to the other; and that the wealthy, or the enemies of this society, shall be the ones we will strive to harass, by disapprobation of their tyrannical course; and no respect will we pay to persons, either politically or religiously, but swear to prove true to all the bearings which we have laid down in this our Constitution. _Art. 14._ We pledge ourselves to strive for the promotion of the true principles as set apart by us, and to use every means in our power to enlarge our institution, and to abhor--save when dictated by policy--everything like priestcraft, (such as may be found in that book, called the Bible, in the twentieth chapter of Exodus, and known as the "ten commandments," which were said to have been written by the finger of God, and which have since been the cause of nine-tenths of the crime against the welfare of mankind,) and yet to take every means in our power--knowing, as we do, that we are the only rightful Christians, and few in number, in comparison with the other denominations--to carry out our motives, as dictated by policy, by linking ourselves to them by bonds of this same priestcraft; in other words, to be, if possible, promoted to the charge of their flocks, as priests or ministers; and all advancement of the like shall be duly appreciated by every worthy member; and the industrious and honest brother, so succeeding, shall be looked up to, and respected as one of more than ordinary talent. _Art. 15._ We pledge ourselves to educate our children so as, if possible, to prevent them from becoming members of any society save that of the Holy Band,--known as the Secret Band of Brothers--the only correct and Christian people that strive to place all men upon an equal footing,--and, furthermore, to destroy all principles we may from time to time see developing in favour of that class of people whom the world calls Christians, and that we do sincerely feel it a duty we owe to ourselves and the God of Nature, to try, by every means in our power--and in this case all means shall be considered justifiable--to overthrow all institutions which take the Bible as their standard--as we hold that the God of Nature has set apart for us three principles and no other. First: That all men are made to live their time of probation on earth, and are not answerable hereafter for any deed they may commit, so it be sanctioned by the laws or constitution of this society. Second: That the course mankind in general pursues, particularly the so-styled religious class of community, is wholly contrary to our views, and therefore wrong; and that the God of Nature, as our God, requires that we put down the fabulous book called the Bible, to save mankind from priestcraft and delusion, and bring them over to our principles. Third: That there is but one unpardonable sin, which is, to allow Christians, our tyrants, to progress when we can make them retard, by leaguing ourselves with, and instilling into their minds, and more particularly their offspring, all the noble sentiments which may tend to overthrow former prejudice and eradicate the present false views of moralists, until the Bible shall be looked upon by them in the light it now is by the followers of Mahomet, and until all the present laws of society be considered tyrannical and unjust. _Art. 16._ The God of Nature, we hold as our God, has in no principle required us, through his wise construction of our component parts, to be in any manner driven by, or subject to man,--that He, as a wise, intelligent being, created all mankind upon an equality, and that all men should so stand in regard to each other--that no being was ever placed upon this earth to rule as monarch over others,--and, therefore, that all monarchies, all governments, which are headed by rulers, such as kings, presidents, governors, &c., are unlawful in the sight of God, and unjust--and that we, as men and Christians of the Holy Brotherhood, do hereby pledge ourselves, aye, do swear by all we hold sacred, that we will use all the cunning of our natures to put down all kingdoms, all governments which are ruled by crowned heads, presidents, or governors, or ruled by any principle of religion other than, nature--and that all religion, priestcraft, &c., is unholy in the sight of the Most High God, and that He requires of us, as a paramount duty, that we labour zealously for its final extermination, to the glory of Him and the benefit of mankind here and hereafter. _Art. 17._ We hold that the foregoing articles are wholly correct, and fully sanctioned by the God of Nature--that whoever of our fraternity proves in anywise recreant to them is a traitor to us, to himself, and his God;--that the candidate for membership, in view of this, does by this article most solemnly declare and avow that all the foregoing are according to his most unbiased views--that such, and only such, he will ever support, nor shrink, nor waver from, nor expose the same, even in the agonies of death, on flood, or field, in prison, on the rack, scaffold, or feathered couch--that he understands this fully, and all the bearings of it, with all of the foregoing, his name, which he deliberately, without compulsion, sets to this constitution, stands as lasting, undeniable proof--that he has come to this solemn determination after calm, mature deliberation--that he is over twenty-two years of age--and, finally, that he is willing to go through with all the oaths and ceremonies which this band sees proper to impose; in proof whereof, he now repeats the following PRAYER. Almighty and all-merciful God! the Great Author and Disposer of all beings! I hereby pledge myself, in thy sight, to keep sacred the holy principles, one and all, which I this day have had set before and disclosed to me, by the Worthy Grand Master of the most ancient order under heaven--known by the appellation of the Secret Band of Brothers--and I pray thee, Almighty God! to watch the workings of my cultivated nature; and, Heavenly Father! keep me sane in mind, that I may always know the everlasting punishment which awaits me, if I prove recreant to the vows which I herewith do take upon me, with my own free will, in thy holy sight--and I pray thee, Almighty God! should I prove false to the vow or vows I now make, in becoming a member of this Holy Brotherhood, to shut from me the light of thy countenance--to visit the wrath of thy indignation upon me--to let my walks here on earth be paths of desolation, at the end of which be famine and death, and, in the world to come, torment and more tormenting pains racking my soul for ever! But, Almighty God! should I keep and carry out these, the only true principles, which thou in thy wisdom hast set aside for thy children to follow, then mayest thou be pleased to grant me a well-spent closing life on earth, and an undying existence with thee in thy holy kingdom of heaven!--Amen. _Art. 18._ The foregoing articles having been read and acceded to by the candidate for membership, and the prayer having been repeated by him, he shall be considered a member of this fraternity--known as the Secret Band of Brothers--and the Grand Master shall then proceed with the following:-- Most worthy Brother! You have now been initiated into some of the secrets of the Holy Brotherhood, otherwise called the Secret Band of Brothers; you have become a member of an Order which, I trust, you will ever cherish--feeling it is worthy of any of God's children; and, if you so consider it, and also consider yourself a true and lawful member, you will now make the same manifest by an inclination of your head, in token of assent, _Art. 19._ The member having bowed in assent, the Grand Master shall again proceed, as follows:-- Now, Brother, you, through choice, can take one degree, which will entitle you to a benefit in sickness or in distress; and likewise entitle you to the use of the SCALE, which will enable you to converse with any Brother without any possible chance of detection, by paying the trifling sum of twenty-five cents per month, to the Worthy Grand, who is the proper person for you to apply to for assistance, which in all cases must be done verbally:--in token of assent that you wish this degree conferred upon you, you will now lay your hand upon your heart and answer in the affirmative. _Art. 20._ After conferring the foregoing degree, the Grand Master shall again proceed, as follows: Brother, it is now my pleasant duty to inform you that the degree just taken entitles you to a full membership of the Holy Brotherhood, and also entitles you to a benefit of thirty-three cents per day, if imprisoned, or confined by sickness, caused by exposure or otherwise,--which you, in all cases, must make known to the Worthy Grand, if possible, through a Brother, but by no other process; and you must be careful to observe one particular point, which is, NEVER, under any circumstance, to approach the Worthy Grand as an intimate acquaintance, for fear of being suspected as such, and thereby bringing mistrust upon him through some person who may have had their eye upon you, as a man not carrying out the principles which they approve of as being the ones best calculated to promote their priestcraft. _Art. 21._ The Grand Master shall thus continue: You being now a member of this Holy Brotherhood, it falls to my lot to apprize you of the position which you now occupy, and some of the duties incumbent upon you. This society claims you as a Brother, and, should you be sick, will prepare hospitable means for your comfort--should you be in difficulty, through misfortune, you will ever find friends ready and willing to assist you: should you for any offence be brought to trial, your judges, jurors, witnesses, &c., you will find composed of men selected from this Holy Brotherhood: you have the privilege at any time to go and come as you please, to retire or live in public life; but you are to make known every transaction whereby certain classes may be considered as dishonest--and if the person offending is not committed by a Brother, you are bound, if possible, to see that the offender is brought before the tyrannical bar, and, likewise, if it lies in your power, to have the said offender convicted; and, if convicted, it shall furthermore be your duty to apprize the Grand Master the length of time he is sentenced, to what prison, and what punishment--as we, as men and Christians, hold it a duty for each member to throw every obstacle in the way of the people CALLED Christians, for the purpose of bringing them to the laws which Nature's God has set apart. _Art. 22._ Having now informed you of some of the benefits and duties falling upon you, as a Brother, I now come to an article of penalty, which you will find requires your close attention, as follows: If you betray a Brother, this Constitution allots to you but one punishment, which is--#DEATH BY VIOLENT MEANS!#--AND THIS SENTENCE WILL SURELY BE CARRIED INTO EFFECT--as sure as that there is a sun at noonday, or stars at night; and the Brother, so terminating your career, shall receive, in compensation, the sum of THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS, which shall be paid to him by a Grand Master, for this society. _Art. 23._ If you are ever true and faithful to the Brotherhood, you shall be sustained by them, in all your undertakings, right or wrong; and should you meet with danger, by reason of the Brotherhood, which sometimes happens, by your making the same known to the Grand Master, he will, if your quarterly and annual payments have been regularly made, refund you the full amount. You will be charged, annually, five dollars for your head, and a half cent per annum on all your common chattels and freehold property,--which you will be required to pay in advance, yearly, to ensure you the benefit and full privilege of the Secret Band of Brothers' Mutual Insurance; the principle of which is adopted for the special benefit of the Brotherhood, as we feel no interest in befriending any, not even our own blood relations, unless with a motive of sooner or later bringing to bear our Christian creed, and making them true and faithful Brethren. _Art. 24._ If at any time you think it would be policy for you to withdraw--or, in other words, retire--you will find it beneficial for you to watch for, and detect every species of fraud--done by any other clan than the Brotherhood--and convey the same to your worthy Brethren; and in all cases, do all you can to make war with what the self-styled Christians call moral principles; and whenever you see or hear of an imprudent act in a Brother, it shall be your duty to convey the fact to the Brother--if not by your own tongue, by that of some Brother of the band,--and if you see any manifestations made throughout the community of a moral, or, what is termed of a religious nature, it shall be your duty to oppose and oppress the leaders in every shape and manner possible, as we hold all such calculated to keep in darkness many who might, otherwise, be made true and faithful Brethren, and followers of Nature's God: and the moral part of the community, so termed, who will not give us an opportunity to enroll their names, watch; and if by aping them you can make inroads upon their creeds, or false views, you will add not only to the promotion of the society, but will sustain a character throughout the Brotherhood, not to be forgotten; and, furthermore, as there are many ways to find out the principles of men, it is to be the constant duty of each member of this Brotherhood, to take advantage of every opportunity of finding out the opinions of the mass--by talking as much as possible about the villanous transactions which happened at an early day, in the new settlements, and the active part which he took in detecting the band, &c.--by which means he not only learns who are friendly towards the promotion of this Brotherhood, but also who are the ones for this society to watch as their most deadly enemies;--and a Brother must, in no case, refuse to give money for the construction of the most popular churches, and must always pay great respect to the priests--for through them we hope to hide many of what might be termed, by our enemies, deeds of darkness; but such as we, as men and Christians, believe to be lawful and proper duties: and one who does not comply with the rules and regulations of this band so far as in his power, after having taken the solemn oath, shall be treated by all honourable members as unworthy of their protection, and shall be proscribed by the Brotherhood--WHICH PROSCRIPTION LEAVES HIM LIABLE TO SUDDEN AND VIOLENT DEATH, AT ANY MOMENT! _Art. 25._ Each member who has been duly sworn in, as Grand Master, can have the privilege of withdrawing his name from the Holy Brotherhood, by recommending one whom he considers worthy, and in whom he pledges himself can be put unbounded confidence, and one who has never failed to pay his quarterage and yearly dues in advance; (as such a failure assuredly prohibits him from promotion;) and this office grants to the holder his travelling expenses, and two dollars per day, while on business of the society, and, likewise, secures him double the benefit of a private, in sickness or difficulty. Now, therefore, Brother, you have the full meaning of the foregoing, and the same chance of promotion as either of the Brethren. SECT. II. _Art. 1._ The Grand Masters of this society shall consist of six, to every fifty mile square,--five of whom have no power, other than to bear the annual returns, in case of absence or sickness of the principal Grand--in which case they are entitled to his pay, for their services and expenses--said pay to be deducted from the moneys in their possession, at the meeting of the society; and in case of death or resignation, the seat or seats of the former Grand or Grands must be filled by the next Grand or Grands, in rank--said rank to be through the official age of the subordinates; whose seats, as THEY rise, must again be filled by some one of the private members, whose appointment must be confirmed by a petition, signed by three-fourths of the Brethren; and, in case of two or more candidates running for the same office, the one having the most names shall be considered duly elected--whereupon he must solemnly pledge himself to keep the funds intrusted to him, belonging to the Brotherhood, secure; that should he, at any time, be required to resign, by three-fourths of the Grands, he will make due returns of all moneys in his possession; and that, in all cases, he will be ready to render a correct account of all moneys received and paid out by him, which account shall, also, be duly made out and handed in at every annual meeting. _Art. 2._ It shall be the duty of every Principal Grand to keep his accounts, and the Constitution of this society, written on paper, with a certain kind of acid, which cannot be read, unless held to the fire, when the heat will bring to the face of the paper the desired intelligence; and it shall, furthermore, be the duty of the Grand Master to commit to memory this Constitution and By-laws,--that he may, at any time, be able to give any passage verbatim, without the assistance of referring to the article itself, as it endangers the Brotherhood to have the documents on hand;--and it shall also be the duty of the Grand Masters, in office, to supply the five, who are not matured officers, with one article at a time, until they commit the same to memory; when it shall be their duty to instruct them the manner in which the same is written in acid; and then to demand a written Constitution from each, which, if not written correctly, must be corrected and returned every three months, until perfected. _Art. 3._ It shall be the duty of the Grand Masters to examine their five subordinate officers, four times each year, until they find each capable of drafting a constitution, and of giving each article its correct No. and proper place,--with full instructions as to secrecy, in keeping all the six words, with their proper tables, from the ordinary members--as the ordinary members are not entitled to the use of the six words, which are termed Qualities;--and, furthermore, if any of the Grand Masters know of a letter of importance, which one of the members has written to a Grand Master or Subordinate Grand, it shall be the duty of the said Grand Master, if possible, to QUALIFY the letter, either upon the inside or outside, as the case may be--for the qualities are highly essential,--and it shall still, furthermore, be the duty of all Grand Masters, to teach their Brethren the necessity of their committing as much of the language as shall be given them on their initiation; and, likewise, the great importance, for the general safety, that all letters shall contain as much of the secret language as can be made to answer the purpose,--because it will be easily read by the Grand Masters, and common members, but will be impossible for the worldly people to unravel. _Art. 4._ It shall be further observed, that no Grand, if known to reveal to any common member more than the initiation prayer, and what has been specified in the foregoing--with the exception of the meaning of the figure 9, in the fourth column, to which all are entitled--can be thought worthy of the honourable Grand's station; and in no case can such an offence be forgiven--and that, as a punishment for such an offence, he shall not only be discharged from the high and honourable office of Grand Master, but shall have a vote of censure passed upon him, which shall for ever disqualify him from holding office; and he shall, thenceforth, be closely watched, and in case he shows, or in any way manifests, any sign of malicious disapprobation, he shall be tried in secret, by the Grands and members of his District; and upon three-fourths giving their opinion that he is an enemy to the Brotherhood, it shall be the duty of the Grand Master to take him on probation, six months, and apprize him of the fact, that he is, in the opinion of the Brotherhood, acting, or about to act, a treacherous part,--and that he has been granted the state of probation, and the privilege of leaving the District, or changing his treacherous principles:--if he choose the former, his name must be sent to every Grand Master in the Union; if he choose the latter, his after good works must recommend him; but in case he should refuse either, it shall be the duty of the Grand Master to put upon his head the usual reward--of a traitor, which is three hundred dollars, to whoever takes his life, with the highest approbation which can be placed upon the Brother, so doing, by his honest Brethren. [The following qualities are known and used by the Grand Masters alone, the common members being wholly ignorant of their existence; and thus it is, that these grandees can so completely foil their followers, without the least risk of the latter being the wiser. The qualities are made for the special purpose of designating each individual, and at the same time be entirely safe from the least suspicion. When a Grand Master has had the honour of promotion conferred, he is supplied with the table of qualities; likewise the secret of correspondence is submitted to his confidence, under an oath, the penalty of which is death, if he, by word, deed, or action develop, or by any means expose, the principles of his special charge. After he has taken the solemn oath, the chief Grand gives him the secret for preparing the sympathetic ink, which is used upon all occasions where one Grand is corresponding with another; and where a Brother is about to travel, it is the duty of the Grand Master presiding, in the district where he resides, to give him a plain letter of recommendation, with the private qualities in cipher, in a definite manner, that the Grand Master who receives the same may not be deceived; and ofttimes has the poor ninny carried in his supposed letter his death warrant. As the secret of the cipher is not known to any but those of the fraternity who have been promoted above the ranks of the subordinate, it leaves the latter completely in the hands of their Grand Masters. But we would not have our readers to understand, by our explanation, that it is our belief, that the private qualities are always carried out to a letter, as laid down in their constitution and by-laws; yet we have no hesitation in saying, that we believe that the members live more closely to their profession than many of our Christian institutions; and that there are many that walk as near the line of their profession as they know how, we have every reason to believe from the daily illustrations we have of depravity among us. We therefore give you the correct qualities of the Grand Masters, which are held entirely apart from the common Brotherhood, by the preceding restrictions set forth in this note.] _Art. 5._ The Grand Master shall be fully invested with power to give out the following catalogue of useful flash words. The six words of QUALITY are highly beneficial in conversation, and must, in all cases, be used when one is present who is not known to be a member. By this means can be found out the strange Brethren, who are ever ready for any sound so familiar to their ears. The dualities, also, serve to advance the Brethren, who are made acquainted with them, to the higher seats of honour, and are as follows: First: HUSKA--a flash word, signifying GOOD--is fully described by the subjoined numbers, the signification of which is annexed: No. 1 signifies Bold. " 2 " Intrepid. No. 3 signifies Artful. " 4 " Undaunted. " 5 " Cunning. " 6 " Active. " 7 " Assiduous. " 8 " Temperate. " 9 " A true Brother, without cultivation--meaning one who, from infancy, has had sufficient strength of mind to carry out his principles. This number is considered highly honourable to the Brother bearing it, who is said to have the same conferred upon him by the God of Nature. Second: CAUGH--a flash word, signifying BAD--is also described as follows: No. 1 signifies Treacherous. " 2 " Ungrateful. " 3 " Presumptuous. " 4 " Meddlesome. " 5 " Quarrelsome. " 6 " Impudent. " 7 " Imprudent. " 8 " Dilatory. " 9 " Intemperate. This last number is one which will prohibit whoever is entitled to it, from holding the high and honourable office of Grand Master; and whoever is known to sell or give intoxicating liquors to a Brother, for the purpose of making him subserve to his avaricious purpose, shall be highly censured, and made to pay over double the amount which the victim has lost. If a Brother sees proper to distil, or vend intoxicating spirits, and at the same time notifies the Brethren, when they call on him, that he does not make and sell the same for any other purpose than to prostrate the minds of the tyrannical priestcraft, and their victims, he shall be sustained in his noble enterprise. Third: NAUGH--a flash word, signifies SIZE AND COMPLEXION--and, therefore, each number has a double meaning. No. 1 signifies the person to be Large and Tall. " 2 " " Low and Heavy. " 3 " " Tall and Slender. " 4 " " Medium. " 5 " " Small. " 6 " " Sandy Complexion. " 7 " " Light Complexion. " 8 " " Dark Complexion, " 9 " " Coloured. A person of the last-named colour is never to be admitted, unless as an outlaw, who is to be used by the Worthy Grand, and who is to be so educated that he will not dare to commit any daring act, without permission from the Worthy Grand; and it shall be highly reprehensible in any Brother to converse with any coloured Brother, upon any business pertaining to the Brotherhood; and all such shall lay themselves liable to a vote of censure--as the man of colour is not admitted for other purpose, than to carry out deeds thought highly honourable, but which many worthy Brethren dislike to execute, but for which the Worthy Grand can always depend on his coloured Brother; and, furthermore, should he be detected, the Brotherhood will be in no manner endangered, as the coloured Brother's testimony cannot be used against them. Fourth: MAUGH--a flash word, signifying PROFESSION--is designated thus: No. 1 signifies a Brother of wealth and a Labourer. " 2 " Seaman. " 3 " Lawyer. " 4 " Physician. " 5 " Mechanic. " 6 " Merchant. " 7 " Sporting Man. " 8 " Planter or Farmer. + " 9 " Felon. This last number is considered in a different light from any of the others. When a cross is placed over it, it signifies that the Brother bearing it has been a martyr in the great and noble cause of Equal Rights; or, in other words, that in performing his duty as a freeman, he has been seized and cast into prison by the tyrants of the world: and it shall be considered a deed worthy of censure, for any Brother to mistreat, or throw any obstacle in the way of another, who may be entitled to the cross over the figure 9, in the fourth line of Quality;--and all members, both officers and privates, are entitled to know the meaning of the mark over the figure 9; and if any Brother says he is entitled to said mark, all Brethren are, in a measure, bound to believe him--as it will be expected that no Brother will be base enough to attempt a deception of this kind; for the truth can always be ascertained by writing to the Worthy Grand of the District where he was sentenced--whose duty it shall be to answer the epistle correctly and promptly; and in case any Brother shall make a false statement in this respect--or in fact in any other--he shall be branded as dishonourable--shall be publicly exposed to all of the Brethren present--and his name sent, by the Grand Master, to all other Grand Masters of the several Districts, so that it may be marked on their several books as a Brother who cannot be depended upon under any circumstances. Fifth: HAUGH--a flash word, signifying DISEASE--embracing under it, imperfections, scars, marks, &c.--is described as follows: No. 1 signifies Consumptive. " 2 " Rheumatical. " 3 " Gout. " 4 " Dropsical. " 5 " Hypochondriacal. " 6 " Scrofulous. " 7 " Stoppage in Speech, or Stuttering. " 8 " Pox-marked, or Hair-lipped. " 9 " Loss of an eye, tooth, or limb--a bald head, or any noted scar exposed. This number will require close inspection, in order to avoid being deceived; as the mechanical construction of wigs, glass eyes, false teeth, wooden legs, false whiskers, &c., has been brought to such perfection, that, without the very closest scrutiny, they will, many times, escape our observation, and pass as the real members created by the God of Nature. Sixth: GAUGH--a flash word, signifying AGE AND MANNER OF SPEECH--is described as follows: No. 1 denotes the person to be 70. " 2 " " from 50 to 60. " 3 " " " 40 to 55. " 4 " " " 30 to 40. " 5 " " " 21 to 30. No. 6 denotes the person to be Very Gray. " 7 " " Dappled. " 8 " " Quick Spoken. " 9 " " Slow and Indistinct. These private Qualities are not to be explained to any but Grand Masters; and when a Brother becomes familiar with these private dualities, he can correspond with other Masters, without any fear of detection, as all of the Qualities, though apparently simple, are impossible for any one to understand, unless he has the key; and he who shall DARE to instruct another in this mystery, unless entitled to it by the law of our constitution, will find it would have been better for him had a mill-stone been tied about his neck, and he been cast in the bosom of the deepest sea. [The table of "flash" words contained in article sixth, section second, are words used among the fraternity in general, and by the common members believed to be the only secret language of the order. In this they have been kept wholly ignorant, by the cunning of their leaders. We have but little doubt in our mind that there may have been a great many words added to the original vocabulary, since the adoption of the constitution, as we find among the gamblers, and other dishonest men, language entirely incomprehensible to all without a key. The gambler, though not anywise connected, stands in his profession ready to conciliate them in their works of death, under the horrible idea that Nature, as their God, has plainly sanctioned the profession. And the religion of Nature they aver to be the only true religion on earth.] _Art. 6._ It shall be the duty of the Grand Master, upon the initiation of a member, to supply him with a list of flash words used by the Brethren of this society, and shall likewise inform them of the great importance, for the safety of the Brotherhood, that they commit the few words given them to memory,--which they will also find of great importance in conversation and correspondence--as, in the few words which are diffused in their respective places, no person, without a complete key, can explain or interpret their true meaning. The words adopted are but few, yet answer, with common language, to enable the Brothers to converse with ease without being understood by others concerning their business, or matters and things pertaining to the Brotherhood. It likewise enables a Brother, in common conversation, to designate another; or, in addressing thousands, he may be identified by, as it were, accidentally using any one word of his discourse in connection with the Brotherhood:--the latter, however, is never to be done, unless in extreme cases. The most essential service is in conveying the meaning, which, in all cases, must be done in its proper place. If you wish to ascertain if a Brother be present, you can easily do so by SOUNDING. SOUNDING signifies FEELING, or ASCERTAINING; and if you wish so to do, use the word CULLEY, which signifies Brother, Friend, Partner. The word CONEY means Counterfeit paper money. " BOGUS " Spurious coin, &c. " CRABBING " Robbing, Stealing, &c. " DUMBY " Pocket-book, purse, &c. " DROP " Pocket, &c. " CADY " Highwayman, murderer, &c. " GLIB, STRIKER " Incendiary. " CRACK " Break. As crack a crib. " CRIB " House, trunk, desk, &c. The word THIMBLE means Watch, crome, clock. " PRAGUE " Horse, mule, or ass. " GLIM " Light. " SIFTER " Burglar, house-breaker, &c. " GEISTER " An extra thief. " FEELER " Dirk, sword, knife, &c. " REACHER " Gun, pistol, &c. " PAD " Bed. " BLOTTER " Writing--such as letters, &c. As Nature, in every feature, dislikes a traitor, no provision has been made for dissembling. This society is ruled by Nature, as our God!--and it is the duty of each and every member to do all in his power to promote the welfare of his Brethren, as, by so doing, he must in time convince all observers that the Secret Brothers are the only true Christian sect on earth; and this we, ourselves, individually and collectively, believe; and we make this manifest, by placing our names to this scroll, and thereby pledging our fortunes and our lives to maintain and carry out these principles in all sincerity and truth; and should we ever offer to take up another faith, and renounce this, may our prayer-oath be fulfilled to the extent of all its agonies; aye, and more: we now again doubly pray, that if we ever offer to secede from this, our religion, that we may thereby seal our immortal state with an undying existence in a world of torment, prepared for all priestcraft and treacherous mortals. * * * * * The singular circumstances connected with my obtaining these papers, and the awful obligations contained in the constitution, will prepare the reader for some strange developments. The constitution, although not elegantly worded, proves its author to have been a man of uncommon shrewdness, and knowledge of human nature, and forethought. We may therefore expect that the plan of operations should be so laid as to baffle detection by ordinary means. I will try to give some idea of it. It was necessary that letters should be transmitted from one member to another, in a distant location, yet the person to whom the letter was addressed might be miles from a government post-office, and it might not be safe for him to present himself for a letter, lest he should be recognised as a desperate man, and letters were liable to be opened and their desperate projects exposed. To avoid this danger, they established a line of communication, extending from Toronto, Canada, to New Orleans. Not precisely direct, but lying through large towns. On this route were post-offices; consisting of hollow trees, caves, cavities in rocks, &c. Those who wished to send letters deposited them here; with full directions. All the "brothers" knew these post-offices; and when, in their travels, they came near one, were bound to stop, and examine the letters. If they found letters directed to persons on their route, they must carry them along. If the letter was directed to a person beyond the extent of his journey, he must at least carry it to the next post-office, if he was going so far; and from that, some other Brother would pass it along. It was death, in all cases, for a member to open a letter not directed to him. As Brothers are constantly passing along the line, in both directions, considerable despatch was secured. If a letter should chance to be lost, it was written in such a manner that one not knowing the secret would suppose it to be an ordinary business letter, and the persons alluded to were so mentioned as that only the individual to whom the letter was addressed, or some person interested in the same transaction, could understand the allusion. The person to whom the letter was addressed must return the letter, if requested, but might keep a copy. Along this mail line lived many of the Brotherhood, and as they knew each other by signs, and were able to converse in a _flash language_, unintelligible to the community generally; when we recollect that they were bound by solemn oaths to aid and defend each other in every emergency, right or wrong--that both men and women belonged to the order--the reader will see what security a villain could enjoy when hunted by the police; how easily the _respectable_ citizen, the country merchant, the lawyer, the captain of a steamboat, could conceal the fugitive, and put the officer upon the wrong scent. In addition to this caution, any thing which must be so explicit that a stranger to the order might understand, if he should see it, was written with sympathetic ink, which would appear only when heated, and would disappear again when cold; and even this was written in a perfectly unintelligible cipher, to which, however, I very fortunately found the key among the letters. I insert it for the benefit of the curious. One of the most profitable branches of their business was that of _trading in horses_. For this, as will be seen, their combination gave them peculiar facilities. One of the _common_ robbers steals a _horse_, rides it fifty or a hundred miles, and offers it to a _respectable_ robber, called a _trader_. If it do not appear a dangerous bargain, he makes the transaction as public as possible; he takes a bill of sale, and enters it on his books, and the common robber goes on his way rejoicing. Presently the owner comes along, and _claims the horse_. The _respectable_ trader is very much astonished at the discovery, but makes no resistance. The owner, rejoiced to find his property again, gladly pays the expenses of keeping and goes home. But the respectable trader is very sure to have not the slightest clue to the whereabouts of the man who sold him the horse, and although it was done so publicly that the owner cannot have a doubt of the innocence of the trader, yet, strange to say, nobody knows which direction the thief took, even when he left the settlement. Lest some member should get another into his power, it is provided in the constitution, that for every transaction they shall "pass" or exchange receipts. This gives to each the same power, provided they are both of the lower grade. That is, whoever has bought a stolen horse of some member of the band, can be proved to have done so by the thief, from the receipt; and the thief in like manner is in the power of the trader. Again, it is of importance to the poor robber to have a receipt from some eminent trader, since it gives him character as a man of business, and serves as a letter of introduction. They are written in the usual form of an ordinary business transaction. The Grand Masters, who, alone, it will be recollected, have the secret of using sympathetic ink, and the cipher, always add to the receipt, with invisible writing, the description and character of the individual who bears it, thus holding the poor fellow completely in his power. But should a poor scamp get caught, and lie in prison a year or two, he is entitled, by the constitution, to thirty-three cents per day for the whole time. By the same constitution, also, he is directed how he must proceed to get it. He proceeds, therefore, in due form, as follows: Going to the Grand Master of the district in which he was convicted, he addresses him thus:--"Most worthy Grand Master, I have this day come before you, to place my hand upon the seal and swear that upon ---- day of ----, in the year ----, I was confined in prison, (or _by sickness_) for ---- months and ---- days; during which time I have contracted the following expenses; I therefore make my petition that such money as may be my due may be given me for my assistance." The Grand Master, or Grand as he is called, then asks the following questions: "How long have you been a member? "Where were you initiated? "To whom have you paid your dues? "What evidence have you that such are the facts?" If, then, the poor brother have not receipts proving the transactions for which he was imprisoned, and further, proof of his actual imprisonment, (or evidence of his sickness,) no further notice is taken of him. But if he have such regular proofs as are required, the Grand declares that they have but a small amount of funds in the treasury. But that the Brother may get his dues, he gives him drafts upon the various Grands in the country, to the amount of his dues. If the amount were five hundred dollars, he would receive fifty ten dollar drafts upon fifty Grands, scattered over the country, from Canada to Alabama, and of whom, in all probability, he will never see three; and they are payable to none but the person in whose favour they are drawn. And "to make assurance doubly sure," with sympathetic ink, the cunning officer writes a full description on each draft, of the age, size, complexion, profession, peculiarities, &c., of the bearer, so that if he should undertake to send by another, he would have his labour for his pains. We have now submitted the constitution to the judgment of our readers, as we found it, having only added a few explanatory remarks, which we are enabled to do from knowledge acquired in various ways; and we now select from those letters which came into our possession a few, written by some of the individuals noticed in this work, which will throw additional light on the character of the Band. The note to each letter is explanatory of the language contained in the ciphers. No. 1. Lawrenceburgh, September 24, 1825. _Most Worthy and Respected Brother_,--Let me introduce the bearer of this, who visits you for the purpose of promoting our benevolent institution and his operations. I have not the least doubt you will find his visit not of importance to him alone, but to you and all the friends of humanity and kind feeling which belong to our benevolent society. Yours, in great haste, 101000 000000 000300 000004 500000 000000 000000 800088 + 000900 [This letter bears upon its face the following ciphers, which interpreted read as follows:--The bearer is BOLD, CUNNING, TEMPERATE, LARGE, and TALL; by profession a LAWYER, and has been a CONVICT, he is marked upon the face; his age is from THIRTY to FORTY, and QUICK in speech. The cross (+) upon the number 9 designates the bearer to have been a convict, and that he is entitled to much respect among the Brotherhood. This, however, the Grand Masters teach their subordinates to acknowledge, for the purpose of finding out among them such as they can have confidence in in carrying out any desperate scheme; and likewise to prevent them from exposing others, through their associations; and thus it is that they, as brethren, feel no delicacy in acknowledging to a brother, the honour of having been a martyr.] No. 2. Lawrenceburgh, October 13, 1825. _Friend Brown_,--According to our agreement, I was at the place appointed, where I remained until three o'clock, much distressed on account of your absence; and my situation was very little better when I learned you had been detained through the negligence of our friend in Boon county. I have no confidence in him, nor ever will have, so long as he makes use of so much whisky. I exchanged the coney I had for four hundred pounds of feathers, and left them subject to your order at friend ---- ----, grocery store, Lower Market street. I called and took breakfast with the judge, and he tells me times have never been so close upon the coney trade since he resided in the city. I likewise called upon the Irish friend, and the first word he spoke was an oath that Cincinnati was bankrupted; that constant calls were continually made by the boys, and not one dollar to accommodate them with. I hope you will be at home before I leave for Indianapolis, as I cannot remain long upon the way, and I have many calls to make, and be there by the 20th, as that is the day appointed. Raise all the funds you can, and I have no doubt every thing will come out right. This will be handed you by one whom I recommend strictly honest, as I have had recommended. Though he has lived in the burgh ten years, I never knew him until our old friend told me that he was a member. He knows you only by sight. Yours, ---- ----, 000110 000000 003000 000000 000005 600000 000000 888000 000009 [The figures of this letter describe the bearer as follows: ACTIVE, TEMPERATE, DILATORY, TALL, AND SLENDER, DARK-COMPLEXIONED, WEALTHY, without any particular occupation. That he is CONSUMPTIVE; his age is between TWENTY-ONE and THIRTY; his speech SLOW and INDISTINCT.] No. 3. Greensburgh, October 20, 1825. _Friend Brown_,--I have, as you see by this letter, arrived at Greensburgh, having travelled several nights over some of the roughest roads I ever placed foot upon; my journey, otherwise, has not been so disagreeable; but night-travelling always disagrees with me. I was joined by our friend, the doctor, and his intimate friend from Brookville. They tell me they have been absent from Brookville twenty-one days. We met at our good old friend's house, near York ridge. He is as pleasant as ever, and full as religious, and paid me one hundred and twenty-five dollars--squaring accounts--and traded me two notes on our Madison merchant, amounting to one hundred and thirty-five dollars, which are as good as gold, as he endorses them, and I believe and know the principal to be as good as any man in Madison. The doctor tells me some of the boys have had a flare-up in Buffalo; but that is nothing new, as our Canada friends act very imprudent. He tells me since he left us, that several cabs have been traced out, and no traces of the workmen left which can injure any one party. He came through Columbus, Ohio! He says they are hard at work, but scarce of material, and no means to procure it. I have not the least doubt but you might find it profitable to go or send some one to supply their wants, so we can make it very profitable. Our friends, ---- ----, ---- ----, _take_ Fort Meggs, and at Manhattan (I have reference to our judge and the lawyer we met in Manhattan, Ohio) have made out well with the horses, taken them in the summer, and say they wish the boys would bring them one hundred head before the lake closes. The doctor brought me a letter to that effect. I leave this place to-morrow evening for the Forks of the road, where I shall expect a letter from you. Let my friend ---- ---- know I am well. Yours, ---- ----, 000000 002200 000003 400000 000000 600600 077000 800008 000000 [This describes the bearer to be UNDAUNTED, ACTIVE, TEMPERATE, IMPRUDENT, LOW, and HEAVY, LIGHT-COMPLEXIONED, by profession a LAWYER and MERCHANT; age from FORTY to FIFTY-FIVE, QUICK-SPOKEN.] No. 4. Four Corners, October 24, 1825. _Friend Brown_,--I have arrived at the Four Corners, where I was pleased to receive your favour of the 17th, and having the good luck to learn that five of the brethren of Virginia are in the neighbourhood, and would leave to-morrow evening for their homes by the way of Lawrenceburgh, I make ready this and forward it by them for the purpose to inform you that our friend ---- ----, the cooper, cannot, without my consent, have any more stock, unless he pays for it in advance, as I am satisfied he does not wish to act out the correct principles. He tried, the day before I left, to make me agree to take cooperage for the last stock he got; and though he made it answer to the whole face, two hundred, yet he did not wish to pay me thirty in cash, and said you promised to supply him at fifteen cents per hundred, and take it out in cooperage; if so, your contracts must be for your own private benefit, not mine; he has gulled me enough, and I cannot stand his slabbering discourse any more. I am satisfied he has no moral honesty. Our friend, the grocery-keeper, must pay for his last, as he has bartered it all off. I met an intimate friend of his from Burlington, Kentucky, on Clifty, in company with our light-complexioned friend, who lives not far in the county back of the burgh. Two who accompany this are crossed (+) 9's, immediately from Tennessee, and have been travelling fifteen nights. They are accompanied by a brother from Charleston, Virginia, another from Parkersburg, Virginia, and a third from Marietta, Ohio; all wealthy, the bearer and all, worthy brethren. The bearer is a Grand. Yours, ---- ----. 100000 002000 300000 000004 000000 606600 000000 800008 000000 [This describes the bearer as being BOLD, ARTFUL, ACTIVE, TEMPERATE, LOW, and HEAVY, SANDY-COMPLEXIONED, by profession a MERCHANT; age from THIRTY to FORTY, QUICK-SPOKEN.] No. 5. Sugar Creek, October 24, 1825. _Esteemed Brown_,--After two nights' hard travelling, I find myself well provided for, in company with our old "Bogus Friend," who informs me he has just returned from Toronto, Canada; and has brought some of the most splendid bogus I ever have seen, and sells it, in trade at 33-1/3, 28 in cash. I purchased two thousand of him, part trade, part cash; and he is to deliver it to you. He has sent a large quantity to Brookville, Indiana, and he will send your two thousand from Brookville. I let him have four horses, which I purchased from our Rising-sun Brethren. He sent them immediately to his lawyer, in or near Sandusky, who will forward them immediately to Michigan. I believe the horse trade is better, and a great deal more safe than the slave. There are many brethren living here, and of the best order, and live up to the principles of the Brotherhood; and of the many which live here, and in fact all through these parts, very few are considered other than men of the highest respectability. But I hear many making inquiry about our Lawrenceburgh Aurora, and Rising-sun brethren, and say the brethren have acted in many respects badly, and our friend ---- ----, in the burgh, who purchased the pork he shipped from some of them; they say that he has deceived them. I feel mortified to think he has no more principle: I want you to call and tell him he must settle, and I think he ought to know the same without advice. They are the wrong men for him to try to gull; I have every right to suspect him of dishonesty, when I think how much the Brotherhood has done for him, you and I in particular, and know how he treated us; and though we have given him all of the start he has, he would sacrifice us both, with our families, for a hundred dollars. I have found out that Sulivan did not make his escape, as he assured us he did, but was sold for seven hundred and fifty dollars. So you can depend he has swindled you and I; do not trust him farther than you can see him, and recommend him in the right numbers. This will be handed you by a brother living near the islands Sixty-two and Sixty-three, on the Mississippi; he is about to make a permanent location, and wishes to purchase six or eight blacks. If the lot we have an interest in have not left the burgh, he is the man: he says there are large bands of the brethren settled near him; I hope you can please him. Yours in haste, ---- ----. 101000 000000 300000 000004 000000 000000 007007 800800 000000 [This describes the bearer as follows: BOLD, ARTFUL, TEMPERATE, LARGE and TALL, LIGHT-COMPLEXIONED, PLANTER by profession, HEAD DAPPLED GRAY; age from THIRTY to FORTY, QUICK SPOKEN.] No. 6. Indianopolis, November 5, 1825. _Friend Brown_,--I have been waiting four days for your answer to mine of the 24th, and this day have the pleasure of receiving it. I am glad to hear that your friends in the east have not forgotten you; I had a letter forwarded me to this place, speaking of your liberality to the people in Pittsburg, when you visited there last spring, and our friends ---- & Co., the iron traders, are very anxious for another trade. I think they have made better use of their trade than our two Marietta merchants ---- ----; the latter, I believe, some of the boys got hold on, as he was going east, and he returned, one thousand minus, in clear dust, and his twelve hundred in coney. The Steubenville merchant is here, and has contracted with me for two hundred dollars' worth of coney, assorted; he tells me that a brother in a flat boat has been put aside for his plunder, which, sad to relate, was but little; and that he saw the wife of the deceased was trying to make up the amount at this time in Cincinnati; if she has not effected it, I think some attention had better be given her before it is too late, as she is satisfied it was done through mistake. You had better go or send some one to see her; you will find her on Sixth street, at the widow ----, or if you inquire at, ---- ----, cabinet-maker, on Sycamore. I will give ten; you will give the same: tell ---- ----, on Lower Market, he must do the same; it is a pity she should suffer through mistake. She is a fine woman, and all of the Brotherhood should befriend her. I hope you have, from your letter, become satisfied with the friendship of ---- ----. I told you they would not do--I have known them from boys, and the day they got that bogus from you so cheap, I would sooner have thrown it in the river. The airs they put on about that negro, satisfied me that they had forfeited all principles of honesty, which is the way with such men after they become able to live--never think they are beholding. I will write you again in a few days. The bearer of this I have learned is a good brother. Yours, ---- ----. 110000 002000 300000 040004 000000 006660 070000 800000 + 000900 [This describes the bearer to have been BOLD, ARTFUL, TEMPERATE, TREACHEROUS, MEDDLESOME, IMPRUDENT, LOW and HEAVY, SANDY-COMPLEXIONED, a MERCHANT by profession, and that he had been a convict; his age between THIRTY and FORTY, disease SCROFULOUS.] No. 7. Indianopolis, November 9, 1825. _Friend Brown_,--The town is full of our warm friends, and I am happy to say that there is a fine spirit existing. To-morrow night I will leave for Fayetteville; I have received your package of coney, and disposed of three thousand to the old doctor we met while we were in Canandaigua; he is the man we sold the flour to at Buffalo. He resides in St. Louis, Missouri, I hope he may do well, as he is a great man, and has more knowledge of mankind than any man of his age in America, and will trade from a pin to a steamboat. He tells me he purchased the lot of negroes which were in Madison, and he says that he heard, since he left, that three more had been deposited for sale by the same man; if so, he wishes you to write him a few lines to Terrehaute, and a copy of the same to Vincennes. He tells me he will be able to get rid of every dollar at these two places, and that he can purchase one hundred head of horses if he wished, all which have come from other states, and some fine blooded stock. I learn through friend ---- ----, of Bairdstown, Kentucky, that there has been some hard talk about Judge ----, at Lexington. I have no confidence in a man who drinks and gambles, as he does; I do not care how wealthy he is, nor how great a title he wears; for my part I intend to keep clear of him, with all of his wealth and title; and your friend in Maysville is another. I write in haste, and send it by our brother. Yours, ---- ----. 101000 000020 300000 000004 000000 000600 070007 808000 000000 [This number describes the bearer to be BOLD, ARTFUL, TEMPERATE, IMPRUDENT, LARGE and TALL, of DARK COMPLEXION, by profession a MERCHANT; he is diseased with RHEUMATISM; his age from THIRTY to FORTY, hair DAPPLED.] No. 8. Lexington, June 3, 1827. _Dear Brown_,--I have at last arrived in this wealthy part of Kentucky, which I assure you is a treat for a man that has been so much exposed to the fatigues of travelling over cliffs, and swimming creeks, and all other inconveniences that man could imagine. I arrived at Winchester, Kentucky, where our old friend resides. It was two o'clock when I arrived, but I found him in his shop playing cards with a black journeyman old sledge, at twenty-five cents a game, and you ought to have seen him scrabble for the cards when I rapped upon the window. I left Winchester for Maysville, where I remained four days with our friend, the same old block of sociability; yet he tells me he does well in the stock trade. He says he sold forty odd horses in one year. Since he has lived in Kentucky, over two hundred, which you know is over fifty per year. From Maysville I crossed the river through the Sciota region, by the way of Portsmouth, then to Chillicothe; from there on to Zanesville, from there to Wheeling, and then to Washington, Pennsylvania; returned to Wheeling, then to Parkersburgh. I did not call at Marietta; there has some difficulty taken place in that region. From Parkersburgh to Charleston, Kanhaway, with but little delay. Our saline friends are great dealers in "coney." I met twenty-six in one day at the old "Col." He is doing his work clean, without any risk. There are, he tells me, upon an average, five horses sold per week from Sandy among the friends of the trade. I left Charleston; had a tedious journey to this city. Lexington is a humane place, but dangerous to move, unless you do it through some of the old wealthy friends of the trade. I must now say to you that I have done well in my small way. I have cleared over two hundred per month. I found our friend, of the Blue Lick region, who tells me the house trade is good along the road; that the coloured boys do it all, and are not suspected. (_In speaking of the house trade, he had reference to the entering of houses by the slaves, pillaging, &c., which would be laid to white men._) Well, now, I am through with my travels for the present. Let me give you some little of the history of our Dearborn brother, which I assure you is novel. I told you he would never do, and I suppose, ere this, you have found I was right. I cannot be fooled easy. You thought that from the simple fact that he traded in horses well, (_meaning that he stole horses well_,) that he would not fail to be useful anywhere I wished to place him; but he returned home, I suppose you discover, without a dollar, and made sixty the first night we arrived in Cincinnati, off of a cheese trader that slept in the adjoining room. He wanted to return the next day to the burgh, but I prevailed upon him to stop, as suspicion rested not upon us. He remained according to my request, and I never have come across such an industrious man; but he had not much courage, less than any man of his age I ever met, and not one particle of judgment in human nature. When we arrived, I cautioned him about trading with any of the brethren of the city without my consent, knowing, as I did, the city brethren were "celish;" however, he assured me his trade was "bogus;" that you had supplied him with cut quarters, which no other person dare offer, and that he had done well even with them. (Cut money was, at an early date, used as change; one dollar cut in four pieces answered as twenty-five cents each.) I found he was bent on the "bogus" trade, and I told him to hold on a few days, and that I would assist him to some; that I had not the first dollar, but would find out through the brethren when I returned from our friend's in the country--nine miles. I then left him at the boarding-house, and promised to return the next day. I returned according to promise; called at our boarding-house, and upon inquiry learned he was out in the city. I took a stroll up to our friend's, the coffee-house keeper, in Market street. While I was passing through the market-house, I passed by a man with a large load upon his back. I could not discover what the bulk was. I passed on to the coffee-house, where three of the boys were dividing one hundred and sixty-five dollars, the proceeds of the day's work, which, they informed me, they had obtained from one of the soft-shell brethren. That in the course of the day they had met a countryman, and seeing he was apparently upon the look-out for speculation, they had finally entered into conversation with him, and had accidentally shown him some bright half dollars, and told him they were counterfeit. "What," said he, "bogus?" "Bogus, indeed," said one. "And do you know what, bogus is?" He said he ought to, and they then tried him, and found him one of the right kind of brethren to skin; and that they did in the following manner: Finding that he had money and wanted "bogus," they set upon a plan to deceive him; which they did by showing him the new half dollars, and telling him they were good coin; and that if he wished he could have them at fifteen dollars for a hundred dollars of "bogus." He agreed to purchase one hundred and sixty-five dollars' worth, which they were to supply that evening. That they were to meet him in the Fifth street market-house, and deliver his bogus in a tobacco keg headed up. He of course took it for granted that all was honest. They separated from him, purchased a tobacco keg, filled it with stone-coal cinders, within an inch of the top, packing them very hard to make them weigh heavy. They then put a false head one inch from the top, upon which they put two hundred copper cents. They then placed another head upon that, confining it tight with a hoop. After preparing it, they rolled it into the market-house where they had met. He had paid them the one hundred and sixty-five dollars for the cinders, which he supposed to be the most beautiful bogus, and when he lifted the keg he was satisfied all was right; _and how could he doubt it, they were brethren!_ and they were then dividing the spoils. I suspected, from description, it was our Lawrenceburgh friend, but remained silent, and returned to my room where I knew I could ascertain. When I went, I discovered my friend just ascending the stairs, with a large keg upon his shoulder. "Halloo," said I, "what upon earth have you here?" He dropped the keg, as though he had been shot, making a crash to be heard a half mile distant, but fortunately no person about the house appeared much disturbed. The old lady came to the door, and wanted to know what was the matter. I told her my friend had fallen, but that no damage was done. She retired. As soon as he discovered it was me, he raised his burden once more, and carried it to the room. "Come in, sir," said he. "What have you here?" said I. "That I will show you, in a few minutes." I knew all the time, and though I was vexed, I could not refrain from laughter. "You laugh," said he, "and well you might, if you knew the speculation I had been making to-day." He soon got a hatchet to show me his treasure. I never saw a man so perfectly carried away at the prospect he had in store. He was nearly exhausted by carrying such a burden so far. The perspiration drops were oozing out of his forehead, and he effected the opening of the keg with no little trouble. "Now, sir," said he, "you may laugh, if you please; raise that head and see if there is not something in store to laugh at." I did as he bade. I lifted up the head which covered his treasure, when to his surprise a few black copper cents made their appearance. "Copper bogus," said I. "I believe in my soul they have mistaken; let's examine further." He soon discovered the false head, which he raised, and in a double surprise cried out, "My conscience, I won't trade. No, I will have my money back! I will sue them." "Who will you sue?" said I. He came to a stand, then remarked, "Really, I can't tell who they were. They gave me no name, but I will take them for swindling if they don't give it up. I will swear," said he--then he paused and I took the word from his mouth, and told him that I would swear that he was a fool, and had better return to Dearborn county and plough corn. He laid the coppers one side, being about two hundred, then carefully headed the keg up. We went to bed. During the night he arose. I heard him going downstairs. The next morning I discovered that both him and the keg were missing. I never heard from him afterwards, but hope, if he is at home, that you will hereafter keep him there. Yours, in haste, P.S. I hope you will answer this immediately. Direct to Nashville, Tennessee. This Brother is a true blue. 100000 002020 000003 000400 500000 000600 070000 800088 000000 [This describes the bearer to be CUNNING, TEMPERATE, TREACHEROUS, IMPRUDENT; size LOW and HEAVY; by profession a PHYSICIAN and a MERCHANT; disease RHEUMATISM and FACE DISFIGURED; age from FORTY to FORTY-FIVE; QUICK-SPOKEN.] No. 9. Lawrenceburgh, April 9, 1827. _Friend Brown_,--I am happy to have the extreme pleasure of introducing to your acquaintance one of my most intimate friends. He visits the city on business, which may require assistance; if so, you can confer no greater favour on your humble servant, than by serving him. Yours, in haste, The following was taken from the same sheet, having been interlined in fine hand in sympathetic ink, which was entirely a secret to the bearer, and read when warm, as follows: _In a side pocket made upon the inside of an old black velvet vest, you will find eighteen hundred dollars in United States money. In an old hair trunk, tied around with a rope, he carries twelve hundred dollars in silver. He is fond of spirits, and occasionally gets drunk, and when drunk, has no memory, and would not acknowledge the fact of being drunk for twice the amount. He is a man of wealth and of honour. Destroy this immediately._ The history connected with the above letters may be considered of great importance to explain the villanies of this band; and from the circumstances connected with this history, I have every reason to have full confidence that the same letters this note refers to, were the occasion of the bearer being robbed of some thirty-one hundred dollars. We will now give the foundation for our belief. During the examination of my original package of letters, I discovered a very familiar name attached to one of those apparent business letters, which caused me to examine the import, and upon so doing, I found that it contained the same which I have given, with a few omissions which I considered of importance to my personal safety, viz., the names of the parties, the place of residence of the man robbed, &c. When I found that I had a familiar name to so base an article, to satisfy myself that it was not a forgery, I examined the same person's signatures which had been written in the year 1827, and found they compared satisfactorily to my mind. I then set upon a plan to ascertain from the man who lost the money, without his having an idea of my intention, which I did as follows. I wrote to a responsible man living in the same place, to know of him if such a man of his village had ever lost any money, and if so, what amount, the date he lost it, &c.; to which I received the following brief note: "Sir,--You have written me upon a subject which I was not familiar with at the time I received your letter, but have made inquiry, and found that in the spring of 1827, the person alluded to in your letter was robbed while in Wheeling, on his way to Philadelphia, out of rising three thousand dollars: which money he has never heard of. He is a man in good circumstances, and was at that time, in fact he has always been, considered wealthy. I conversed with him one time upon the subject, but he dislikes to have it mentioned to him. You likewise wished me to inquire if he received any letters of introduction or recommendation previous to his departure, on the date mentioned. He had several, and with one exception, they were all from his best friends. One he had given him by a man residing in Lawrenceburgh, Indiana, was for the purpose of introducing him to Daniel Brown, a merchant of Dearborn county, whom he met in Cincinnati, on his (Brown's) return, and had but a few moments' time to converse with him, after he gave him the letter. You, therefore, know all I can ascertain about your request." I could then see through the whole lead of his misfortunes, and it is about in this way. The letter which he bore to Brown, having the particulars concerning his temperament, likewise the amount of money, &c., enabled Brown to set the band upon him, who robbed him, and then divided with Brown and his Lawrenceburgh friend. These letters I had transcribed and put them up and lectured to the citizens of Lawrenceburgh concerning the horrible fact of their existence; and these are the letters spoken of, that made the pigeon's flutter, and likewise caused so many threats of my assassination; and all that prevented them was, that they feared whoever might have the handling of the papers hereafter might handle them with less mercy. CHAPTER XIII. I have frequently, in the course of this work, had to notice the very intimate connection which those concerned in the administration of justice, or ostensibly in the suppression of crime, had with those who perpetrate it. In all of our large cities, this occasionally forces itself into public notice. Anxious as the authorities always are to conceal any thing of this kind, it accidentally leaks out. The opportunity for concealment, and the advantages afforded by official station, have not been overlooked by the Brothers, and the police of every city contains several of the fraternity. In all fairness, however, the great mass of crime connected with such establishments ought not to be laid to their charge. The very wish to be connected with the police, indicates a morbid disposition of the mind--a desire to be familiar with crime; for it is necessary to detect it successfully, to come in contact frequently with the criminal. In consequence, by familiarity, crime loses its enormity: the police officer sees how seldom the perpetrator is detected; how often, when detected, he escapes unwhipped of justice; he connives at some petty offence, in the hope of entrapping the criminal in some more flagrant act, and tampers with crime, till the little moral sensibility he had when he entered the service is destroyed. This is obviously a true picture of human nature; but I must proceed with the story, which suggested these remarks. In no city of the Union has the depredations of the Band of Brothers been more extensive than in Cincinnati, Ohio, yet there seems to be a prevailing wish, entertained even by those who have witnessed their ravages, to doubt the existence of any such organization. Nor am I surprised at this incredulity--the thought that we are surrounded by hundreds of individuals, sworn to protect and assist one another in their ravages upon our lives and property, is no very pleasant prospect for contemplation. Sincerely I wish it were merely a dream of the night, but the unaccountable and sudden downfall of some of the most respectable and talented families of that city convince that it yet exists in all its awful realities. In confirmation of this I will introduce the history of one family, guarding myself as much as possible from saying any thing that might hurt the feelings of any of the relatives yet living. It consisted of five boys--at least that number is all that has come under my notice; the eldest, at the age of sixteen, connected himself with bad associates, was committed to the jail on a charge of theft, and convicted. In a short time the next brother followed in the same course, and shared the same fate. The remaining children were yet young, and to preserve them from the vicious habits of the elder ones, the father kept them at hard labour every day. We are not intimately acquainted with the character of the father, but we never heard any thing laid to his charge but that he was a dissipated, and so far an immoral man. He at least gave his children an example of industry, and could not be suspected of training them in dishonest practices. The eldest son was pardoned, or served his time out, we forget which, and came home to his father's house; but was soon taken in another misdemeanour, and sentenced to ten years' confinement in the Kentucky State Prison. At the expiration of his term the second also returned, but fearfully depraved and abandoned. He seemed to take a delight in all manner of wickedness, and bore evidence that he came from a good school. After a few months of dissipation, supported by robbery, he was again taken, convicted the second time, and sent to the State Prison. From it he made his escape, and found his way to Vicksburg, but on attempting a robbery, he was detected, and shot through his left shoulder, the ball fracturing the bone very badly. One day while he was under arrest, several men visited him; he was alarmed when they first entered, but soon regained his self-possession. One of the party inquired why he seemed so much affrighted at their entrance; to which he replied, that at first sight he had taken one of them for a man of the name of Phelps. [A robber who was afterwards taken, and attempted to break from jail, but was shot down in the streets of Vicksburg. For particulars see "Gambling Unmasked."] A very friendly feeling was soon established between the robber and his visitors; in a few days he was taken from jail, and bent his way for New Orleans, where he was again detected in the very act of robbery, but in attempting to make his escape was shot down by the captain of the guard. This same year of his death the third brother got into difficulty, and was sentenced to the Penitentiary for three years. Before the expiration of his sentence, the fourth was convicted. The fifth boy at this time was about seventeen, and he too was caught stealing, convicted, and received his sentence about the time the fourth regained his liberty. The third brother, after serving the specified period in what is called the _Penitentiary_, took his way south, where he was again committed for robbery, and sentenced to five years' confinement in the Louisiana State Prison. At the expiration of that period he started for home, but when near the island of Sixty-six, on the Mississippi, he concluded to take a trunk and jump overboard. This feat he accomplished successfully; but unluckily for him, it was in the same year in which so many outlaws were put to death by the citizens, and having connected himself with a band who were at that time flooding the river with counterfeit coin, negro-stealing, and indulging in all manner of villany, he was taken by a company, and with about forty others put to death, some being shot, and others tied up in sacks and thrown into the Mississippi. The fifth brother was now in the Ohio Penitentiary, the fourth in the Indiana State Prison, but the eldest brother was released from confinement, and returned to Cincinnati. His long confinement, however, seems to have had no very beneficial effect, for in a few months he was again convicted of petit larceny, and sentenced to serve in the chain gang. Here he conducted himself so well as to gain the unqualified commendation of one of the drivers, who in consequence treated him indulgently. About this period, there was much excitement, caused by the frequency of night robberies, and no trace of the thieves could be found, by which they could be detected. The most vigilant means were used, and many were sent to the jails and penitentiary, but still the robberies went on. Among those committed at this period, was the fifth brother, who for a short period had enjoyed his liberty. The eldest brother served out his time in the chain gang, and after being liberated, suddenly disappeared; and, which surprised many, the driver of the chain gang disappeared at the same time. A day or two after their disappearance, a drover from Kentucky, who had been at Cincinnati, and was on his way home, was taken from his horse, robbed, his throat cut, and left for dead upon the road side. They had, however, merely severed the windpipe, and on being discovered, he was able to give such information as led to the detection of the driver and his friend, the convict. They were arrested, and identified by the mangled drover; and the citizens, knowing the desperate character of the elder brother, who had served an apprenticeship in their own State Prison, gave them a trial according to "Lynch" custom, and hung them both. Thus ended the life of the eldest of the brothers--the third who had suffered the penalty of death for their crimes. The suspicions of the people were excited by this occurrence, and a train of investigation set on foot which left no doubt but that the recent robberies were committed by the chain driver and his gang. At night they were freed from their chains, allowed to prowl about and plunder, and brought their spoils to the prison, where it could easily be stowed away without suspicion. We believe that we are quite within the mark, if we attribute one-eighth of the robberies committed in large cities, to the police, or perpetrated with their connivance. Many, we hesitate not to say, are done by men whom the public believe to be in prison. It has become a proverb, "Set a thief to catch a thief," and the public seem to have acquiesced that thus it shall ever be. There is an allowed and constant connection between the criminal and the officer engaged in suppressing crime, but whether it be necessary and unavoidable, or the best disposition possible, deserves some consideration. The hangman is in general only a little more fortunate than his culprit. The leader of a band of Regulators is commonly more ferocious, and as lawless as the victim against whom his fury is directed. The lawyer unscrupulously pockets a fee, which he knows has been obtained by the plunder of the citizen. Not a few of them hang about our jails, prying into the means of the prisoners, and divide with them the spoil, sheltering themselves from communicating any disclosures they make under their judicial privileges. But if justice be the end of the law, why should the communications of a prisoner to his counsel be held sacred? If the case be undefensible otherwise, why should it be defended, unless it be to give a fee to the lawyer, at the expense of justice? With all deference to the legislators of our country, and to the gentlemen of the legal profession, this seems a privilege not to be envied: to _know_ that you are assisting to defraud, but debarred by custom from disclosing it; to know that the culprit is guilty, and deserves punishment or restraint, but to send him forth again upon society to commit further crime. Our readers may be anxious to know what became of the other two brothers, the fourth and fifth. At this moment we believe they are both in the State Prison. Now how was the ruin of this once respectable family accomplished? Why did the fate of the elder not deter the younger from crime? Were they merely drawn along by the contagion of ill-example, or were there more potent influences at work in their destruction? And why did punishment and penitentiaries do so little in their reformation? The greater part of their lives were passed within their walls, cut off from the influence of evil, but we see no sanitory effect. We will not answer these questions directly, but in the course of this work will supply the reader with materials to answer them for himself. We have every reason to believe that the eldest and the second were entangled in the meshes of The Secret Band of Brothers, in a manner from which there was no escape. They are ever on the look-out for any individual who has forfeited his character, and who promises by his ingenuity or dexterity to be a fit tool for their purposes. Their agents are to be found in all the professions, in the magistracy, and in the prisons and penitentiaries; sometimes, under the vail of hypocrisy, assuming a fair exterior at the time they are engaged in all manner of villany; at other times, when their influence in any place is in the ascendency, openly showing their real character. Men can be found in many of our towns so notoriously profligate, that not one individual in the place could be found that would say they were honest men, yet through solicitation, party spirit, and sometimes through fear, they are elected to official stations. It is one of the leading objects of the Secret Band, to have as many of the brotherhood in the magistracy as possible, and neither money nor importunity are spared to effect their object. They know what they are about: they are too sagacious to suppose that a thief will catch a thief; that a gambler will suppress gambling, or a drunkard promote temperance; and it would be well that those who really desire any of these objects, were equally "wise in their generation." CHAPTER XIV. The spring of 1833 found me travelling through the Choctaw nation, which, at that time, with the exception of the government posts, was a wilderness. Fort Towson, Duxborough, Jonesborough, Lost Prairie, Horse Prairie, Pecan Point, and several other places throughout this wild and newly settled country, were crowded with every kind and description of people from the states, from, the government agents and contractors to the wild and mysterious refugee--the latter being very numerous, and having settled upon the south side of Red river, to evade the pursuit of the United States' officer of justice, that portion then being considered within the boundaries of Texas. The whole region was one of peculiar debasement in all respects. As might be suspected, seasoned as it was with such a population, drunkenness, debauchery, and murder walked abroad, hand in hand, day and night. Human life was valued no higher than the life of an ox or a hog, and the heart of the settlement was cold, and palsied to the most remote touch of feeling, and hardened to the recital of brutalities and crimes of the most indescribable enormity. Men talked of their evil doings, their deep, revolting guilt, with the most impudent freedom, and laughed and chuckled over them as though they were the best jokes in the world! It was in one of the Texan settlements, in this rude, wicked tract of country, that an incident came to my knowledge, quite by accident, which I will relate. The settlement contained some seventy to eighty people, men, women, and children, white and black. I was taking a stroll with one of the settlers among the cabins and huts, he being familiar with the occupants of each, their habits and history. When we passed a spot worth notice, he gave me the character of the owner, his wealth, &c., and although all about the settlement wore an appearance of the most abject poverty, I was surprised to find the wealth which many of the inhabitants of so desolate, dreary, and forbidding a place possessed. We finally came to a small log cabin, at the extreme end of the settlement, apparently about twenty feet in length by eighteen deep, a story and a half high. "Who lives here?" said I. "The widow ----," replied my guide, whose name was Edmonds--"the widow of ----, but--yes--the widow of Dr ----, who was killed a few days ago." I was struck with my companion's pauses, and thought there was something singular in them, especially as his countenance at the time seemed to change slightly. I soon mustered resolution to ask him who were the murderers of Doctor ----, but his reply was simply that he did not know. "I should like to see the widow," said I; "will you introduce me?" He declined, stating that he must then leave me, and go along some half a mile further, where some men were at work, chopping down a bee-tree. "Very well," said I; "I will step in and introduce myself. You have awakened some little curiosity in my mind to know more about the murder of this man." He left me without making any reply, and I entered the cabin, the door of which was standing ajar. I found, seated near the fire on a rude bench, a female, perhaps thirty years old, whose countenance wore a look of deep dejection, but at the same time betrayed strong evidence of having been once quite attractive. A little girl sat in her lap--two boys of the ages of perhaps seven and eleven occupied a bench at her right--an infant of, I should think, three months old, slept in the cradle, which a little girl apparently about five years old stood rocking. The group was a very imposing one. As I entered, I gave a tap upon the door, which caused the mother to turn towards me; but she did not speak, waiting, it would seem, for me to introduce my business. I apologized for my unceremonious entrance, saying, that I had learned she was formerly a resident in the states; and that I being also from thence, felt some interest in her and her family. She beckoned me to a seat, and after some time, told me she was born in Philadelphia, but that, having married a Kentuckian, she moved there, and lived some eight or nine years in that state--that her husband, at the expiration of that time, had taken his family to Little Rock, Arkansas, where they resided one year, and that from thence they had come to the place where I found them. Here there was a pause; in fact, I discovered that the poor woman's voice faltered the moment she approached the subject of her arrival at her present residence. The silence was broken by the child, who stood rocking the cradle, and who said, "This is a bad place, ain't it, Ma? Here the bad men live that killed Pa." At this the mother burst into tears. As she did so, she kindly told the child to hush. After the mother's tears had partially subsided, I told her to talk to me without restraint; that I had visited the settlement on the other side of the river on government business, which I expected to transact, and leave in a very few days. I here was guilty of falsehood. I had not visited the settlement for government, of course, but to pursue my iniquitous course of gambling with the refugees. The woman implored me to be watchful; that I was in the midst of the most abandoned description of men that could possibly be conceived of; and that they would make a victim of me the more readily, on account of my extreme youth. I told her that they could want nothing of me, for the simple reason that I had nothing valuable about me. She assured me that it was not always avarice which tempted these men to deeds of blood. They had butchered her poor husband in the very house where we were, within hearing of herself and children, and when all were imploring that his life might be spared. And yet money was not the temptation. She then gave me a history of the cruel murder of her husband, which was as follows:-- Doctor ---- was educated a physician in the city of Philadelphia, though a native of Kentucky. He married his wife in that city; after which he went back to Kentucky, where he settled down in the practice of his profession. It was not many years after he took up his abode in his native place before he became involved, and subsequently being accused of committing a forgery, he concluded it was best to leave his native state. His first stopping-place, after leaving Kentucky, was Little Rock, Arkansas, where he remained until his brother-in-law joined him with his family. Becoming uneasy and unhappy there, he finally removed to the settlement, where an end was put to his earthly career by the band of assassins. His wife, when she came to this portion of her husband's career, was again deeply affected; but she soon mustered composure enough to continue the story. After my husband came here, he proceeded to build this house, and we all moved into it in a very short period after the first log was laid. He was a changed man, and my health had become impaired by the exposures which it was necessary to encounter, in travelling through this wilderness. Doctor ---- was a changed man; most painfully was this the case. He was not only moody and sullen in his temperament, and at times unhappy to the last degree; but he did not seem to take that pleasure which he once did in the society of his wife and children. Now and then he would drink hard, and become intoxicated, in which case he abused me most shamefully, and I bore all for the sake of the children. Some few days before his death, he entered into a speculation with some bad fellows here, to smuggle spirits through the nation, which they succeeded in doing, and with great profit. About this time, or just after, when in a calm and subdued mood, he confessed to me, that he was not an honest man; that he was a refugee from justice, and a doomed man; that a trap had been laid for him a short time after he was married; that he fell into it; that he was a sworn member of a band of desperadoes and villains, and that he was doomed to be a guilty wretch so long as he lived. I thought he was crazy, but his assurance was in a few days fully verified. Not long after my husband made this confession to me, he ran a partition across the cabin--making two rooms. In the other department he put two beds, and whenever any of his cronies called to see him, he would order myself and the children into the room. Here we remained while he and his companions drank and played cards--making sometimes such a noise that it seemed as if the very roof would be raised. They often kept it up all night long. One morning, after one of these frolics, he said to me he wished I was at home with my father; that he never intended to return to Philadelphia himself; but he would see that I was safely taken there. I asked why he was so much inclined to part from me. He stated that that was his business; I must leave him. Only the night before, he had been accused of divulging secrets to me in regard to his companions; that he had promised them to send me home. He added, that I might take all the children but the two eldest boys. I protested against separating me and my children. His only reply was, that his determination on the point was fixed. That night he ordered myself and the children into the room, in a more angry tone than ever, and barred us in. It was not long after this before his wicked companions arrived and planted themselves down at the table. I listened at the door, and while my husband had gone out of the cabin for some purpose, I heard them whispering busily together. As he entered the apartment, however, the whispering ceased, and one of them said, "Let's play for the liquor first, and decide that point afterwards." After this, they played and swore, and one would have supposed the room to have been occupied by fiends incarnate rather than by men. At about twelve o'clock, one of the company said, "Well, boys, now is the time; what are we here for?" "Out with the light," said another. My husband now asked what they proposed doing, when, without giving him the slightest notice, the light was put out, and a heavy blow descended. I heard my husband cry out, "Do not murder me;" but the strokes fell heavy and fast, and spite of my screams and the screams of my children--spite of our efforts to beat the door in, the bloody work was kept up until I heard my husband's body fall upon the floor. In a short time his murderers left. I tried to burst the door open, but without success. At last, I raised my eldest boy to the window, and he crawled outside, and ran round, entering the door which led to the room containing his father's corpse. As the child moved towards the door of the room, for the purpose of unbarring it, he fell over the dead body of his father. The door was finally unbarred, and I rushed into the room where my murdered husband lay. Oh, sir, I cannot tell you what were then my feelings. The lights which the children brought into the room exposed the whole scene, and it was one which I could not describe if I would--my husband's body lying upon the floor, weltering in blood. I tried to lift it up to the bed, but could not. I then, with the assistance of the children, rolled it up in a counterpane, and we sat down and watched it till morning--fearing that, if we did not, it might be carried off by wolves--a large number of which howled about the house until day dawned. Oh, sir, it was a sorrowful night! The next morning several of the neighbours called in, and after expressing their horror at the deed of blood, assured me that they would aid in bringing the murderers to justice. That they knew them, and that they resided on the Sabine river. Would you believe it, sir? Two of the very sympathizers I knew to have been concerned in the murder of my husband. A coffin was made, into which my poor husband's body was laid, and then the neighbours buried him, but in such a manner that he lay but a foot or two below the earth's surface. I have been afraid the beasts of prey which infest this region would get possession of his corpse; so, with my children, I build every night a fire near his grave. "Now, sir," added the woman, "I have told you the painful story, and you will see in what a dreadful situation I am. I am here in this dreadful place, with perhaps one hundred dollars in money, and five children, nearly all of whom constantly require my watchful care. Can you not assist me in my wretchedness?" I told the poor thing I would endeavour to do something for her. I had hardly done so, when Edmonds passed the door of the cabin on his way back from the choppers. Seeing me, he turned back and said, as I passed out to meet him, "Well, Green, what do you think of the widow?" My reply was, that she was so shy and distant that I could not learn much about her, one way or the other; that she appeared unwilling, or afraid to converse. "It is well enough that she did," was Edmond's reply, "she does not know what she talks about. When she does choose to speak, I believe her to be either crazy or foolish, and d----n me if I know which." Edmonds invited me to go with him to his home. So I went along. I found there a man, named Scoggins, with whom Edmonds got into a very free conversation. I heard him say, "We must send that woman away; she talks to somebody every day; she must be taken care of in one way or the other. She must, Scoggins, she must." It was not long after this, before Scoggins took me aside, and in a friendly manner advised me not to go to the widow's again; that she was a bad and a meddlesome person withal. I did not visit her afterwards; indeed, I had no opportunity to do so, for the day following the incidents I here related, in company with Edmonds and Scoggins, I left the settlement for Fort Towson--about one hundred and fifty miles east. Our object was to play cards with the officers at the fort, and lighten them of some of their change. We also expected to fall in with some of the half-bred Choctaws, who are not inexpert in the shuffle. Edmonds and Scoggins were ordinary players, and depended on my skill. The former was a shrewd fellow, a Georgian by birth--aged about forty-five; the latter, a Canadian, was about the same age. They had served together during the war of 1812, and in the same company. Two more peculiar men could not be found. Like a pair of well-trained horses, I saw very soon, after we joined company, they pulled together. They had a negro with them, who was deaf and dumb; and he was one of the best servants I ever saw. He had been Edmonds' attendant for fifteen years, and was, I should think, about fifty years old. This old negro knew every route from Canada to Texas. He would stand and sleep, like a horse, for hours, and seemed to care much more for horses than he did for himself. I thought there was something more than at first appeared about the old darkey. While at the fort, he would, in our company, stand for hours, it seemed to me listening attentively to all that was said, and appearing to understand it. He was very submissive and polite to any one who noticed him, and, from the beginning, appeared to take a wonderful liking to me. At Fort Towson I tried to get rid of Edmonds and Scoggins, telling them I had resolved to leave them, and that I was going to cross the Nation to Fort Smith, about one hundred and fifty miles distant. They appeared to like the route I had chosen, and said they would accompany me. While at Fort Towson, I discovered that both of my companions had a large number of acquaintances there, mixed in among the Indians; and, likewise, that many of the slaves appeared to know them. We finally left the fort, in company with ten Choctaws. I had purchased, while in the nation, twelve head of horses, two of which were quarter horses, that is, intended to run a quarter of a mile in singularly quick time. I obtained them of a half-bred Choctaw, and they were valued at five hundred dollars each. We encamped, the first night after our departure, about thirty miles distant from Fort Towson. The next morning I found that my two valuable quarter horses, with six others of the drove, were missing. I said something about my chance of finding them again, but soon had every hope of the kind destroyed, by being informed that the Pawnee Indians were very numerous in the neighbourhood; that they were great horse thieves; and had undoubtedly appropriated to themselves my valuable beasts. We went fifty miles further, when we again encamped. Here the horses of the dumb negro and Scoggins were missing. They appeared to think their animals might be recovered, and turned back for that purpose, promising to overtake us, if possible, at Fort Smith. When we arrived at the fort, I disposed of the horses I had left, and took passage on the steamboat Reindeer, for the mouth of White River. Edmonds insisted on accompanying me. I made no objection, of course, but was anxious to get rid of him. It was about the twentieth of May, when we arrived at Montgomery's Point, on the Mississippi. Edmonds, daring the passage, frequently sympathized with me on the loss of my horses. He also, now and then, spoke to me about the widow of Doctor ----, commiserated her forlorn situation, and stated that he had a strong desire, and in fact determination, to communicate intelligence of her deplorable condition to her friends in Philadelphia. He asked me, if I did not, myself, think of doing something of the kind. I told him that I had forgotten her name, and had I remembered it, I hardly thought that I should trouble myself about her or her affairs. He said, he, too, had forgotten the name, but he could procure it of Scoggins when he returned. We remained at the Point several days, awaiting the arrival of a steamboat. Finally, the Chester came along, bound for St. Louis. I took passage in her, and left Edmonds behind, not a little to my gratification. We had not proceeded far from the Point, when the Chester broke down, and I was obliged to get on board of a down boat, and return to the Point. On arriving there, the first person I encountered was the dumb negro, who told me that Edmonds had died suddenly, since my departure, of the cholera, which was raging at that time on the Mississippi, and which cut men down almost without warning. On inquiry, I found the negro had told me the truth, and must confess I was not a little astonished at it. But a few hours previously, I had left Edmonds, apparently well; now he was a corpse! The thought gave me a shade of melancholy, especially as I knew and felt that he had been cut down in guilt; for that he was both a robber and a murderer I could not for a moment doubt. I made some inquiry about the amount of money left by Edmonds, and discovered that after paying all the expenses of his funeral, the amount of nine hundred dollars would be left, which, according to his request just before his death, was to be sent to his friends in Savanna, Georgia. Not long after I got back to the Point, when walking out alone, the dumb negro joined me, and motioned me to follow him: I did so, without hesitation. We had not gone far out of the way, before he placed himself near me, and, to my surprise, spoke to me as plainly and distinctly as any one could. He said he knew he would surprise me when he talked like other folks; but he would give me a good reason for having seemed to be dumb. He then gave me a sketch of his chequered career. He was once a slave, but had been a free man between thirty and forty years. At the age of twenty, he was purchased from his master, at Petersburg, Virginia, to save his life, by a band of outlaws of which he became a member, in a servile capacity. These men had freed him, soon after they purchased him from his master, and in consideration he had taken the oath as one of their gang, and had sworn, with other things, to appear to be deaf and dumb, so long as he should live--the penalty for any forgetfulness, or otherwise, that should betray that he could either speak or hear, being death! That he had been educated to this end; that the band had men who could converse with him readily by signs, and that he had been so much accustomed to communicate his thoughts in that manner, that it had become second nature. He told me he was now determined to go to Canada, where he proposed remaining for the balance of his life. I asked him how he meant to go? His reply was, that he should make the journey by land; that he knew every foot of the route, and had hundreds of warm friends all the way along. He further said that he could communicate to me a secret, which he thought it would be better for me to keep--and this is the first time I have ever publicly revealed it. The secret was, that he and Scoggins, after leaving Edmonds and myself, had retraced their steps to the skirts of Texas; that my horses had not been taken, as I supposed, by the Indians, but that hired tools of Edmonds and Scoggins had stolen them. That it was well for me I laid my money out in horses: had I not done so, they would have murdered me, to possess themselves of it. He further assured me, that I had been for three months in the most heartless and desperate region which the country affords, and among my worst enemies. The negro added, that he had heard hard letters read concerning me since I was in the country. That they were written a year before, by certain men belonging to the same band, whom I knew, but least suspected. One of them lived near Lawrenceburgh, Indiana; another was Goodrich, the notorious villain to whom I have alluded in the preceding part of the work. This negro also told me that Dr. ----, who had been murdered on the Texan frontier, was himself a member of the Secret Band, and that he was killed to save many a better man. That he and Scoggins had gone back to see that the widow and her family were removed; but they found, on reaching the settlement, she had left. We had learned, moreover, that when seventy or eighty miles on her journey to her friends', she was taken sick and died, and that she had lost her youngest child before she left the settlement. It was further stated that the remainder of her family were at Little Rock, with a friend of her husband's, who would provide for them till her family could either send for them, or give some directions in regard to their disposition. The negro advised me never to divulge my opinions in relation to the doctor's death, nor to the history of his family out west. I told him I did not recollect their names, and therefore could not do so if I would. He assured me that it was well for me, perhaps, that it was so; and that it could do me no good if I did. I spoke to the negro about the lively sympathy which Edmonds had expressed for the family, a few days before I parted with him; that he had told me, in case he could procure the name and residence of their friends at the east, he would write them; and that he had asked me if I remembered them. I told him I did not. The negro assured me that it was well for me I had been so ignorant on the subject; Edmonds was only trying me. Had I appeared to have known any thing, and betrayed any disposition to give publicity to what I knew, he would have prevented me, even if he had taken my life. I discovered from the negro, that the secret band of outlaws, to whom I here alluded, had a large number of members scattered among the different tribes of Indians; that they are all about the western country, in fact, and that all are true to each other as steel itself. The negro assured me that he could find friends at every turn; yes, those who _would die for him!_ He was well off, however, without them, and had determined to pass the remainder of his days in living a life of honesty; hoping that, by so doing, God would forgive him, if man did not. The negro told me much more in regard to himself and his companions. He said he had been deaf and dumb, in order to find out what was going on. He stood about and heard much said, which would not have been said had it been supposed he could hear, and much, too, that was at times extremely valuable to the band. I told him that I had often noticed and pitied him. His reply was, that he saw I felt for him, and it was none the worse for me that I did. This very county where we were, was afterwards infested by Murrill and his gang; and it was here that, in 1841, the citizens turned out and put to death, by shooting and drowning, some forty or fifty villains. But to return to the negro. I told him that his intelligence startled me. He assured me, that while with him I was not in danger; that, to tell the truth, where we then were was not a very bad tract of country. For, said he, the brethren of Arkansas and Mississippi are not "clear grit." That a few weeks preceding, a man by the name of Jeffries, who had passed counterfeit money, they permitted to be taken and put to death. He had, it seems, got off about one thousand dollars of the spurious money on some river boatmen and traders; who returned when they found the money was bad, pursued the counterfeiter to an island on the river; where, after having stripped him naked and tied him to a tree, they beat him to death! It was true this man was not a member of the secret fraternity; but he would have been had his life been spared. At this point of my conversation with the negro, I discovered the steamboat HURON near by, so I shook hands with him and left him. Rejoicing that a boat had at last come along, I was soon on board her, bound for Louisville. We "wooded" some thirty miles distant from Montgomery's Point, and at the wood-yard, I overheard one of the workmen telling about the skeleton of a man which had been found on an island near by; that it was tied to a tree, and that it was the remains of a man who had been whipped to death for passing counterfeit money. The woodman added, that the poor victim's watch and clothes were found hanging near his skeleton. This story confirmed the statement of the dumb negro on this point, and gave me confidence in all he had told me. CHAPTER XV. In the first chapter of this work, I have spoken of various attacks upon my character; but not knowing from what motives they originated, I paid no attention to them, nor should I to the one I shall here attempt the exposition of, had it not been to satisfy the public that it was made through a motive which I have every reason to believe a sinister one. I will not offer through any remark intentionally to say such is the fact, in relation to the intention of my imprudent opposer in my lone work of mercy, for of the motives of a man no other man can judge; but will lay our correspondence before the public, that they may examine and judge for themselves. No. 1. State Prison, Auburn, April 7, 1845. _To the Editor of the Tribune:_ We have had a recent visit from Mr. J. H. Green, the "Reformed Gambler," of whom you have previously spoken favourably in the editorial department of your paper. Many are highly pleased with the man, and think he should be sustained by public patronage and the press, inasmuch as he comes with good credentials of moral and Christian character from the church. Many think his course calculated to do much good, for this and coming generations. He appears admirably calculated and accomplished for exposing the deceptive marks and tricks of this heartless race of land-pirates, called Gamblers, alias "_Sportsmen_." His description of their infernal conduct and character cannot fail to put men on their guard in season to shun them as they would a deadly pestilence that walketh in darkness, and destruction that wasteth at noonday. The grog-shop, the brothel, and the gambling-room, are three of the blackest fountains of human misery over which the devil presides. From these he gathers the bitterest waters of hellish destruction, and spreads them broad-cast over creation: of which eternity can only measure the full amount. The Temperance Cause has attacked one of those sinks of Satan; the Moral Reform enterprise has commenced upon another, and Mr. Green has now taken the third "bull by the horns." Money and talent, and the press, are enlisted against the two former, and shall we stand aloof, and leave Mr. Green to combat the dragon single-handed and alone? It is high time the whole community was aroused to the desolating evils of Gambling; and the press, too, in thunder-tones, should be made to speak out upon this, as upon other soul-destroying vices of the land. Mr. Green has given five Lectures in our village: two in the Town Hall, two in the Methodist Church, and one in the State Prison. On Sabbath, sixth instant, at four o'clock, P.M., he addressed the children of the several Sabbath-schools of the town, in the Methodist Episcopal Church, to good effect; and in the evening, the same house was filled to a perfect jam. Here Mr. Green was listened to with the best possible attention; and I believe the great bulk of that immense throng, not only believed him a reformed man, but also that he was doing a good and necessary work in this country. At nine o'clock, Sabbath morning, Mr. Green spoke to the unfortunate inmates of this prison, numbering some eight hundred convicts, besides a large concourse of citizens, who flocked to hear him at the same place. His discourse was listened to in breathless silence by those men, and hundreds of them wept freely, while listening to a recital of the horrors of Gambling, as experienced during twelve wretched years of his own gambling life, and of his reformation and salvation by grace in Christ. A deep and powerful impression pervaded the vast concourse, while all was graced by beautiful strains of vocal music by the "Boston Quartet Club," and all passed off finely. After Chapel service, Mr. Green and myself visited the cell of Henry Wyatt, the murderer of James Gordon, of which the papers have spoken. They readily recognised each other, as having been members of the same gambling fraternity in the south and west. More than fifty gamblers were named by them, whose doleful history was equally familiar to both. Previous to this visit by Mr. Green, Wyatt had told me that gambling was the cause of his ruin. At the close of our visit of some two hours, Mr. Green gave Wyatt a pathetic exhortation to read his Bible, and pray much, to repent of sin, and believe in Christ, and to seek religion as the only thing which could prepare him for his approaching doom. Tears flowed freely, and Wyatt exclaimed, "What a pity it is that you had not come out in this way four years ago; then I should not have been here in _chains_, as you see me now." We wept together, and left his cell in silence. Respectfully yours, &c., O.E. MORRILL, _Chaplain_. No. 2. From the Christian Advocate and Journal. GREEN'S FIRST VISIT TO AUBURN STATE PRISON. Doctor Bond:-- _Dear Sir_,--I shall be happy to contribute to your valuable sheet the following communication: I visited the Auburn State Prison, upon the morning of the 4th instant, accompanied by the Boston Quartet Club, better known in New York city than in this region for their valuable services in calling out so many thousands to hear the eloquence of John B. Gough, in behalf of temperance. We passed through the different workshops of the prison, where many hundreds are doing the different labours allotted to them by their agents. The health of the prisoners is as good, and spirits better than any institution I have ever visited. Though the gloom of the prisoner was not made manifest by his haggard countenance, yet I could not prevent the melancholy reflection, that every heart knew its own sorrow. I have seen much of human depravity in this wicked world--I have felt the sensitive nerve made like an ice-drop by the cold finger of scorn--I know how to sympathize with the child of circumstances--with the heart-broken parent, whose pale, care-worn cheek but too plainly speaks, "We feel trouble, but ye know it not." How many friends and relatives are now bemoaning the loss of that boy who was once the pride of all that knew him in the days of his affluence! Rising eight hundred souls are now confined in the Auburn State Prison; and as my thoughts expanded in their melancholy train, I asked myself, Who are to blame for all the crimes committed, and which have incarcerated so many human beings? I answered by referring to my own sad experience. By the carelessness of the parent or guardian, the bud is nipped before the blossom puts forth, and should it not scatter its leaves to the four winds, it cannot fail to produce evil fruit. With these sad feelings, I wended my way through the prison, which speaks well to the praise of the different agents placed there to conduct the working departments. On my return to the prison office, I was introduced to the chaplain, Rev. O.E. Morrill, which reverend gentleman informed me that a man by the name of Wyatt, then confined in one of the cells for the murder of Gordon, on the 16th of March, in the Auburn State Prison, had confessed to him that he had lived a gambler several years in the south and west, and he would like I should call upon him. I accompanied him to the cell of the murderer. The door was thrown open upon its grating hinges, when the reverend gentleman introduced me as an acquaintance of his who had travelled south several years, and thought that he (Wyatt) would be glad to converse with him. He said he was happy to see me, and asked me to be seated. After a short discourse, relative to the different classes of men then in confinement, I asked him what he followed in his travels through the south. He told me gambling. I asked him how long he had been engaged in that nefarious business. He said twelve or thirteen years. I asked him if he knew many gamblers? He said he did. I asked him if he ever knew one by the name of Green? He said he did. I asked his name? He answered, "John;" said he knew him in 1832, 1833, 1834, and 1835, and saw him in 1842 in St. Louis. I asked him if he was intimate with Green? He said he knew him as one gambler knew another. I asked if I favoured him? He said if I would stand in the light he would tell me. I did so. He said I looked like the man. I told him I was the man, but that I never knew him by the name of Wyatt. He said I did not; that Wyatt was not his real name. He then told me another, which was not his real name, and asked me if I did not hear of a man being murdered near St. Louis in the year 1841, and of two men being arrested, both tried and convicted, one having a new trial granted him, the other being hung. I told him that I thought I had. He said he was the man that had the new trial granted, and was acquitted; "and," said he, "they hung the wrong man; he was innocent; I am the guilty man; but they hung him and cleared me." "But," says I, "you were under a different name still, at that time." He said, "Yes, by none of those names do you know me, but my real name you are familiar with. Your name," said he, "I knew in the year 1832; the gamblers called you John, but Jonathan is your real name." My curiosity was highly excited at the strange management of the murderer. But you may imagine the increase of it when he told me his real name. I looked at the murderer, and could scarcely believe my own eyes; yet he stood before me a living marvel. I have pledged secresy as to his real name until after his execution. I interrogated him on his first steps in vice, and how he became so hardened. He told me to remember the treatment he had received from the Lynchers' lash at Vicksburg. I did, but my eyes could scarcely credit reality. I had known him in 1832, 1833, 1834, and in the early part of 1835, as a bar-keeper in Vicksburg. He was never a shrewd card-player, but at that time was considered an inoffensive youth. The coffee-house he kept was owned by North, who, with four others, were executed on the 5th of July, 1835, by Lynch law. Wyatt and three others were taken on the morning of the 7th, stripped, and one thousand lashes given to the four, tarred and feathered, and put into a canoe and set adrift on the Mississippi river. It makes my blood curdle and my flesh quiver to think of the suffering condition of these unfortunate men, set adrift on the morning of the 7th of July, with the broiling sun upon their mangled bodies. Two died in about two hours after they were set afloat. Wyatt and another remained with their hands and feet bound forty hours, suffering more than tongue can tell or pen describe, when they were picked up by some slave negroes, who started with the two survivors to their quarters. His companion died before they arrived. Wyatt survives to tell the horrors of the Lyncher's lash. He told me seven murders had been occasioned by their unmerciful treatment to him, and one innocent man hung. I know his statements to be true, for I had known him before 1835, and his truth in other particulars cannot be doubted. He murdered his seventh man, for which crime he will be executed. I have another communication for your paper concerning the murderer, and his prospects in the world to come. Yours, truly, J. H. GREEN. Auburn, April 10, 1845. No. 3. From the Christian Advocate and Journal. GREEN'S SECOND VISIT TO AUBURN STATE PRISON. Doctor Bond: _Dear Sir_,--I made my second visit to the prison on Sabbath morning, the 6th instant, accompanied by the Boston Quartet Club. As we were winding our way through the halls and passing the gloomy cells, I felt sad and melancholy upon reflecting on the purpose of so large a prison. Is it possible, thought I, that our heaven-favoured land of freedom requires institutions of so extensive a character as this to keep down the vices of a people who boast of their morality? Yet, horrible as it appeared to me, I thought, if many of the foreign travellers, who are ever ready to criticise and condemn our institutions, were conducted through the Auburn State Prison, without any intimation of its design, they would put it down in their journals of travel as an institution to diffuse literary science and useful knowledge; and from what we have learned of institutions of the latter kind, under monarchical governments, we have little hesitation in saying, that they would not compare well with this prison. Nor would they be willing that some of their plans for the diffusion of useful knowledge, in the way of charity, should be compared, in respect to health and religious principles, with this institution, intended only for the punishment and prevention of crime, and the reformation of criminals. And if it be the fact, that our state's prison is better calculated than some foreign institutions designed to educate the poor of the land for this same purpose, it certainly will stand good that our land of liberty is comparatively the land of morality. We entered the chapel, where were seated nearly eight hundred convicts, and something like one hundred citizens, who had been admitted for the purpose of hearing the sweet melody of the Boston Quartet Club, and to hear the reformed gambler speak upon a vice which had brought over one hundred within the gloomy walls of a state's prison. Service commenced with prayer by the chaplain, Rev. O.E. Morrill. The Boston Quartet Club then sung the beautiful sacred piece, "Hear my Prayer," during which breathless silence made manifest that the music was enjoyed. I was then introduced as the reformed gambler, Mr. J. H. Green. When I arose, there was profound silence throughout the chapel, to hear my sad experience. I felt perfectly incompetent to give satisfaction to an audience, partly composed of the most hardened wretches that infest our land--men who are steeped to the very lips in degradation, many of whom are men of talent, well-educated, and well acquainted with most of the leading topics of the day, knowing, too, as I did, that an error might be construed into an insult; and to such men an insult is unpardonable. I commenced by relating my sad experience, and in a few minutes there could scarcely be seen a dry cheek in that vast assembly of depraved men. My address being closed, the prisoners were marched in order to their dining-room. The chaplain and myself visited the cell of Wyatt, the murderer. We found him sitting upon the straw which covered the floor. He seemed to be somewhat indifferent when the chaplain first spoke to him, but upon his second speech, telling that Mr. Green had again called to see him, he sprung to his feet and shook hands with me--said he was glad I had called--that he had been fearful I had left the prison, after giving my address, without seeing him, and added, "Mr. Green, I would love to hear you give your experience." I told him of the attention the prisoners had given me, and the advice I had given them, about signing the anti-gambling pledge, so soon as they were released--to come out with their sad experience, and they would find the good and generous-hearted ever ready to receive them. He turned round to the chaplain and said, "How much good such a society as that would have done, had it been formed before I became a gambler!--How many men it would have saved from the dagger of the midnight murderer! But it is too late to save me." I changed the subject, by asking him about different gamblers of our country. We talked about many with whom we both had been intimate. Some, he tells me, now live in your empire city, and were leading men among the politicians in the last presidential contest. I knew them to be leading men. I knew them to be gamblers and swaggering bullies; and I knew them to be at one time connected with Wyatt, but did not know them to be murderers; yet they certainly are. Wyatt asked me if they permitted such men to vote? I told him they did. Said he, "A gambler should not be entitled to a vote, nor to his oath." He spoke correctly; and said he, "The day is not far distant when the man, who is known to the world as a gambler, will not be countenanced." Neither his vote nor his oath would be taken at the present day, if the citizens, who are the bone and sinew of the country, would take into consideration his real principles. He said, "No man who bets upon elections should be entitled to his vote, nor to his oath; for a man who can be excited to bet upon an election, can be excited when upon oath to stretch the blanket; or, in plainer language, to swear to a lie. Such I believe to be facts." "And lotteries are another species of villany," said he; "the money goes to the vendor, and makes his victim poor and dishonest. Such I know to be facts." Pleased to hear a man, situated as Wyatt, the murderer, is, reason so candidly, I changed the subject, in order to learn more about the murders he had committed. I knew that a man, in the year 1839, was missing from Natchez, by the name of Tucker, and by the run of Wyatt's discourse, I found he was in that part about the same time. I told Wyatt that a man by the name of Tucker was supposed to have been murdered about that date between Natchez and New Orleans. He laughed, and said he knew something about it. "Myself and three others," said he, "went to Natchez as produce speculators. Tucker owned a boat load of produce. We contracted for it, advanced him money sufficient to pay off his hands, telling him we had sufficient help; that he could go with us to New Orleans, and that on our arrival there, we would pay him the balance due. He did so. We paid him in a Mississippi bath. We murdered him, and then threw him overboard." I asked him if he ever was suspected. He said, not that he knew of. I asked him if he was not afraid, when he was committing such a murder, that the body might rise upon the water and be the means of their being suspected. "We cut their entrails out," said he, "then they never rise until resurrection-day." I felt heart-sick at his dreadful description of the murder of Tucker. I knew him. He was a good, honest man. I arose from my seat, took him by the hand, and bade him good day, promising him to call again. I will, in my next, inform you of the particulars of my third visit, which will lead you further into his dreadful history. I will in my next also speak of his views on the subject of religion. Yours, truly, J. H. GREEN. Auburn, April 17, 1845. No. 4. The following letter was written and published by the unanimous consent of every honest citizen of Cleveland, Ohio, of which place I can only speak in the language of commendation. It is one of the most virtuous cities in the state, according to its population; and from the interest two of the principal organs took in behalf of the anti-gambling cause, I am certain that no filthy sheet can ever pollute its moral principles. _To the Editor of the Cleveland Plaindealer:_ Mr. Gray, Sir--The Herald of last evening contained a letter over the signature of O.E. Morrill, dated July 25th, 1845, charging J. H. Green, "the Reformed Gambler," with misrepresenting the confessions made to him by "Wyatt, the murderer." The Anti-Gambling Society of this city have requested me, as its President, to publish the following letter, in justice to Mr. Green, and in answer to Mr. Morrill. It was written on the 12th of July last, in reply to Mr. Morrill's "private note," referred to in his letter published last evening. A true copy was made, and the original forwarded to Mr. O.E. Morrill on the day of its date, by Dr. Cowles, of this city. Deeming this letter a complete refutation of the charges against Mr. Green, the Society have taken the liberty, without his knowledge, of requesting you to place it before the public. Your obedient servant, John E. Cary. Cleveland, August 5, 1845. [This letter was written in reply to a letter addressed me by the Rev. O.E. Morrill, requesting my return to Auburn, fifteen days previous to his publishing my statements as false, and letter No. 7 will show in what manner I replied.] No. 5. Cleveland, July 12, 1845. _Mr. O.E. Morrill:_ Dear sir,--I have just received yours of the 10th. Speaking in regard to Wyatt's case, you state that you was very much surprised at my letters. Why did you not tell me so before they were published? You also heard both the first and second letter before I left your section. Why did you not object to them before? Again, you say, some parts are my own representations. This I deny. I will not say that I have given them verbatim, but this I do say, and will maintain, that I have not exaggerated in my statements. Yet I do not wish to injure that poor doomed man. God forbid. I do not think as you do about Wyatt. I know him better than you do, or can. I know that he has been the child of circumstances. I know that he is not a man who will strictly confine himself to the truth; and fear of death will make him do any thing that he is told to do. His denying what he told me, I care nothing for. In my statements, if they were not correct from him to me, I am not accountable; I believe them to be facts. Now for a few questions to brighten your memory. When we entered his cell for the first time, you introduced me as a man who had lived in the south. I interrogated him on his past life. Did I not commence at Huntsville, in the year 1832, and trace him to November, 1835, at the mouth of the Ohio, with the Texas troops? When he told me that he had known me up to that date, that he also saw me at St. Louis, do you not recollect his asking me if I had not heard of a man being murdered in, or near St. Louis, one man hung, and the other acquitted? And do you not recollect I told him I thought I did; also, that at the same time I was informed, that the people thought that the guilty man was cleared, and the innocent one hung. He laughed, and said he was the guilty one, or something amounting to the same? Do you recollect, in your own letter to the Tribune, you stated that over fifty gamblers were recognised, with whose doleful history we were both familiar? Also, do you not recollect his telling about their lynching him; about the cords cutting his arms? Do you not recollect when I talked about the Tucker, or flat-boat murder, he told how they cut out the entrails, to prevent the body from rising? Do you not recollect that you and myself talked the same over at your house? You certainly cannot forget. He told me so much, I can think of but little, which I thought most essential to remember. I am willing to say nothing more about his case, until his execution; if I am satisfied it will be beneficial to the community, as well as Wyatt. But to retract one syllable, I cannot, unless I find myself mistaken, in which case I will make any acknowledgment necessary. You ask, or say, that, if I come back, something may be done satisfactorily. I presume it can be done without my coming. You can write to me at this city; I shall remain here two weeks. I suppose the change of officers has made some in relation to the confession, of which I know nothing about, but there is no fabrication, as far as I am concerned, and the fact of a newspaper quarrel between you and I cannot fail to injure, or at least excite the people more against him. You say you will be forced into it. Do not be hasty. I do not fear any inconvenience from any act of mine, but, of course, if you contradict my statements, I have the same chance to support them; and, perhaps, there are some facts, which, when revealed, will make you better satisfied that the confession you have of Wyatt is not more than one-fourth true. His dates are almost every one incorrect. His crimes are enlarged in some places, diminished in others. You have the best right to his confessions, if he alters it, and you have the most truthful history. I told you when we parted, that I knew things relative to Wyatt, which he would never tell you, with which you should be benefited after the trial. They are in my possession, and I will not reveal them until he has been tried, unless it should be necessary to show the fact of his (Wyatt's) horrible character. What has been said by me, cannot so far injure Wyatt, unless it is perverted. But what I have said are facts, which I will not retract, and they are of that nature which need no retractation. My memory is as good as yours. I am striving to do right, the same as yourself, and will contend that you are as liable to be mistaken as I am, especially when I knew him in different circumstances. I blame you not for doing every thing that is right to make Wyatt as happy as he can be, under his present circumstances, but be careful that you are right. I leave this matter for your consideration, believing that you will do what is correct, so far as you are able. You can rest assured, that I will do any thing in my power to assist. You will find, however, that I am correct in my statements. Write me, and your letter shall have immediate attention. Yours, with respect, J. H. GREEN. No. 6. From the Auburn Journal, July 30th. State Prison, Auburn, N.Y., July 25, 1845. Mr. Oliphant:-- _Sir_,--In justice to an unfortunate prisoner, now in chains awaiting his trial at the next sitting of the court in this place, I feel in duty bound to say to the public, that whatever Wyatt's character or conduct may have been, or however many murders he may have committed, and may ultimately be revealed to the public through the proper channels--yet all Mr. Green has said about Wyatt's having confided to him, that he, with three others, were whipped a thousand lashes at Vicksburg, which had been the cause of seven murders, and that Gordon was the seventh man that he (Wyatt) had killed, and that he (Wyatt) positively killed the man at St. Louis, for which an innocent man was hung--and that he (Wyatt) said _he_ killed Tucker in 1839, between Natchez and New Orleans, is _untrue_ to my _certain_ knowledge. Mr. Green's visits were all made in my presence, while Wyatt was confined in his cell, a room some four by seven feet in size; hence, all that passed between them could be distinctly heard and known by all three of us. I have no disposition to injure Mr. Green, but I should do violence to every principle of justice and humanity, were I to remain silent, and see a fellow-being tried for his life in the midst of that prejudice which has already condemned the criminal to a thousand deaths, by Mr. Green's published declarations of Wyatt's own confessions of bloody deeds and horrid murders, when, in reality, the prisoner has made no such confessions to him, to my certain knowledge. To avoid this unpleasant task, I addressed a private note to Mr. Green, calling for a satisfactory explanation; but, in his reply, he utterly refuses a single retraction, and the only alternative left me is to let the prisoner suffer this great injustice, or disabuse the public mind from the wrong impressions made by fabrications of Mr. Green. I hope to be spared the disagreeable necessity of resorting to the newspapers of the day to correct any further improprieties of Mr. Green on this subject. If I am not, I will give a specific catalogue of them in my next. All editors of newspapers, whether political or religious, are requested to give the above an insertion in their columns, as an act of justice to an injured man, and very much oblige. Your obedient servant, O.E. MORRILL, _Chaplain._ No. 7. Toledo, August 5, 1845. _To the Editor of the New York Tribune:_ Dear sir,--I beg leave to introduce to your columns the following article, written for the purpose of satisfying the honest part of the community, that a letter written by the Rev. O.E. Morrill, on the 25th of July last, is an unprincipled misrepresentation of my purpose, in bringing to light the horrid deeds of murder committed by Wyatt, now in the Auburn State Prison. I visited Wyatt four times, in company with Mr. Morrill, Chaplain of the Prison. The time I spent with him in all these visits was about five hours, during which we conversed about his former course of life. It is impossible for me to state in one article all that he revealed to me, but what I do remember, I published in my letters, relative to my visits to the cell of Wyatt. The second of these letters was dated April 7th, and the first about the 1st of April. I read both these letters to the reverend gentleman; the first before it went to press, and the second as soon as published, we being at both times together, with some officers of the institution, in the State Prison office. I now call the attention of the reader to a letter, from the reverend gentleman, to the editor of the New York Tribune, of the date of April 7th, in which he speaks in the highest terms of my conduct. The reader will notice that this is after my first letter was published, and after he had heard them both read, and after he knew that I had given Wyatt's confessions, which he now, in his letter of July 25th, declares to be nothing more than "fabrications" of mine. If my statement of Wyatt's confession were known to Mr. Morrill to be false, why did he recommend me so highly in his letter of April 7th, and why has he not contradicted me before this? The reverend gentleman says, that he did not wish to injure me, and so addressed me a private note. If I could be so base as to put forth to the world such falsehoods as he accuses me of, in regard to a fellow-being, so soon to be launched into eternity, no fear of injury to me can excuse the gentleman for his not exposing me immediately to public scorn and detestation. When at Auburn, after my visits to the cell, I spoke several times, in the presence of Mr. Morrill, and other gentlemen, of Wyatt's confessions to me; and yet Mr. Morrill, though present, never disputed one relation. I also lectured some fifty times, within fifty miles of Auburn, and, in nearly all, gave the same statements which he now contradicts. Why has not Mr. Morrill published, together with his contradiction, my reply to his note of July 10th? If he had, the community would have seen my reasons for not retracting my former statements. I am truly sorry to have any difficulty with the reverend gentleman, on this subject or any other, but my duty in regard to this malicious slander, (the motives of which I am unable to fathom,) compels me to reply, and for no other purpose than to satisfy the community, that I could have no personal object in view, in casting a stigma upon the character of this unfortunate convict, by any statement he made to me, for I certainly could not be benefited in any manner by publishing falsehoods in relation to him. I repeat again to the world, and ever will, that the unfortunate Wyatt did to me confess all I stated he did, and much more, which it is impossible for me to remember. If he stated falsehoods to me, I am not responsible. He told me that he was one of _four_ that had received a thousand lashes at Vicksburg, in July, 1835; and I knew a young man, by the name of Henry North, to be about Vicksburg, and to be in the employment of North, the gambler, who was hung at Vicksburg, by the _lynchers_, in July, 1835. Henry, though of the same name, was not related to the other, as I understood. When I went to the south in the fall of 1835, I inquired about the gamblers of Vicksburg, and was told that Henry North, alias Wyatt, or Newell, was, with four others, whipped, tarred and feathered, hands bound, and set afloat, and the supposition was that he, and the others with him, existed no more. When Wyatt told me his real name, I was surprised at beholding him. He told me that he had set fire twice to Vicksburg, and once to Natchez, and that, during the conflagration, he murdered _three_ men. He told me he killed Tucker in 1839. I talked with Mr. Morrill before several officers of the prison, in regard to what Wyatt said about cutting the entrails out of Tucker, and the confession which Mr. Morrill now has from Wyatt will show the main circumstances of this murder, perhaps not giving Tucker's name, but he speaks about the flat-boat murder, between Natchez and New Orleans, and I claim it, in justice to me, that the reverend gentleman should produce the confession Wyatt made, when he speaks of "speculation on the Mississippi." I also call on Mr. Morrill, in justice to myself and the public, to answer the following questions. 1st. Did not Wyatt confess in his presence the murder of individuals besides Tucker, on the Mississippi? 2d. Did he not say he cut the entrails out to prevent their rising? 3d. Did he not say he was tried at St. Louis under another name, (I think it was North,) and did I not turn to Mr. Morrill, and say, I knew some men had been tried at St. Louis, but knew none of the parties; and did not Wyatt then say that he was tried for murder at St. Louis, that he was convicted on his first trial, but acquitted on a new trial, and that an innocent man was hung? 4th. Did I not tell Mr. Morrill, that Wyatt informed me that he had been a convict in the Ohio Penitentiary; and does not Mr. Morrill recollect that upon my third visit to Wyatt's cell, I said to Wyatt, that it was reported he had been in the Ohio Penitentiary, at which Wyatt frowned, and I changed the tenor of my question by stating, that Gordon said he (Wyatt) had been there, and that Wyatt laughed, and said it was such d----d lies which occasioned Gordon's death; and did not Mr. Morrill say to me, he knew many of Wyatt's _misfortunes_, which he kept secret from the agent of the prison; and will Mr. Merrill deny that when we went into the office, after my last visit, that the clerk again repeated that Wyatt had been in the Ohio Prison, and did not I then decide with the clerk, the probability of such being the fact, and did not Mr. Morrill still _insist_ that it was a false report? In conclusion I will say, that whatever may be the reverend gentleman's intentions towards me, and in his own behalf the motives for which I am not able to penetrate; yet, although he brands my statements as false, and although the cell was but four by seven feet in size, I leave it to the community to decide, whether two men, who can speak the "flash language," in which one word can convey sentences, may not hold a conversation not easily understood by a third person, ignorant of its meaning--and can Mr. Morrill assert what meaning was conveyed by such language between Wyatt and myself? if so, he is the first man I ever knew that could interpret a language or tongue he never studied. At least one-fourth of the conversation between Wyatt and myself before Mr. Morrill, was of this kind. I do not think Mr. Morrill understood all he heard, yet the greater part of what I published in my letters was spoken in plain English, and Mr. Morrill, at the time, gave vent to his feelings over the dreadful disclosures. I ask the papers of the day to publish this statement in justice to both parties, as well as the public at large. J. H. GREEN. No. 8. Correspondence of the New York Tribune. Perrysburgh, Ohio, August 16, 1845. _Mr. Greeley_,--I wish to introduce to the columns of your valuable paper the following. Though it may seem mysterious and out of date, it will be read with much interest by many, and may have a tendency to cast a light upon one of the most horrible murders ever committed in this or any other Christian land. There is not one shade of doubt remaining in my mind but that the murderers, as well as their victim or victims, long before the date of this article, might have been discovered, had there been sufficient effort made. True, efforts have at last been made, and the skeleton of one murdered victim found, and much search made for the other. The particulars which led to the but small effort which has already been made, are collected from circumstances as follows:--As near as we can learn, in September, 1844, a gentleman, by the name of Stephens, from the state of New York, made his appearance in Perrysburgh, remained in and near some days, left, sometime after returned. About the time of his departure from the second visit, he made known his business, that he had kept secret until the time near his departure. He then told that two men had been murdered, and their bodies concealed in the woods about one-half mile from the last turnpike gate, which is about four miles from Perrysburgh. His statements corroborating some previous signs of murder, induced the citizens to turn out and scout the swamp in search, knowing as they did that certain packages of clothes had been found in the Maumee river by a fisherman, on the 17th April, 1844. The clothes found were done up in parcels, coat, pantaloons, and vest, with a stone tied round each, with strips of handkerchiefs cut or torn for the purpose. Upon examination, the clothes were cut in a way to show they had been ripped off from the body. The pantaloon's legs cut open; the coat cut open from the back and sleeves; the vest also cut open from the back. The coat had many cuts in the left sleeve, also a hole about the lower button on the right side, which hole was in the pantaloons, cutting the lower suspender in two. The vest had several cuts in it, immediately back of the neck, through the collar, and two knife holes. The vest is a figured worsted piece of goods, of lilac colour, about half-worn. The coat is a black cloth frock, or surtout, but little worn, no velvet upon it, lined inside of the skirts with black silk or serge, the sleeve lining twilled linen. Inside of the left sleeve is a mark of the merchant, which is one cipher--nothing more. From the looks, I should have taken the coat to have cost twenty dollars. The pantaloons are rather of a blue colour, striped casinet, and have never been worn much. The suspender, which has been cut in two, is a common striped web. The two handkerchiefs are figured silk, half-worn. When they were found, it was evident they had not been long in the water. I have a piece of each garment, and persons who have missed any of their friends mysteriously perhaps might find, upon examination, that which would lead them to know their friend had suffered death from the hands of a murderer. A sample of each I will keep to exhibit through the country, hoping to solve the mystery. Now for the mysterious visits of Mr. Stephens. About his departure from the second visit, he disclosed certain things, which I will give according to my information. He said he had been informed by certain convicts, then in the New York State Prison at Auburn, that they had murdered two men in the said swamp, and had concealed their bodies. One they had stripped; the other, left his clothing upon him. They stated that the murdered men were travelling in a buggy, and that they (the murderers) stopped the buggy, presented their pistols, forced them into the woods, where they shot one, and stabbed and butchered the other. Not far from the same place, a hat was found with a bullet-hole in it, but no sign was left upon the body found which would indicate that he had been brought to his death by a ball, which also goes farther to prove the probability of the murder of two men. They buried them, as they state, about one-half mile apart, strip ping the clothes off from one, which they took along with them in the buggy, and made their way to the Maumee river. Not thinking it politic to cross at the toll-bridge, they went up to the ford, near Fort Meigs, and found the river not in a fording state. They tied stones to the clothes and threw them in the river, where they were afterward found, and crossed the bridge to the north side of the river, went below Toledo, took the buggy to pieces, sank it and the harness in the river, and took the horse out back of Manhattan and killed it. In the early part of the summer following two men were arrested near Geneseo, New York, for committing burglary. Apprehension of another attack almost forbids me giving their names, while duty doubly nerves me to speak and let the public know that _Wyatt_, alias Newell, or North, and Head, his accomplice in the burglary at Geneseo, are the two murderers who gave Mr. Stephens his information, and caused his visit to ascertain the truth of such horrid deeds. Other circumstances leave no doubt resting with the people of this part that the same two men, Wyatt and Head, murdered John Parish, of Hancock county, while attempting to arrest them for horse-stealing. A small explanation of this fact I will make. It will be remembered by many that Wyatt attempted to make his escape from the Auburn prison, and when Gordon, the man he afterward murdered, told the keepers, he was searched, and upon his person a letter was found, which letter contained no names of men or places, nor was it directed; but from the purport, it was evidently written for the purpose of sending to Ohio, for it stated that he dare not venture back, as the people would recognise him as the murderer of a certain officer who had made an attempt to arrest him. The reader will also recollect that Wyatt, under the name of Newell, resided in Toledo in the commencement of 1844 until April 1st, 1844, when he left Toledo, and was not heard of until Mr. Stephens' revelation. I would say, in conclusion, so far as this statement may have a tendency to excite the citizens to their duties, relative to those mysterious murders, that I hope those concerned in ferreting out the particulars hereafter will not have a malignant feeling for any stranger who may come among them to assist, not for honour or profit, as, undoubtedly, so far as this mysterious affair is concerned, some of the principal workers have made the two latter-mentioned their object. I believe this, so far, to be the most correct account of those mysterious murders, and if it is thought by any concerned that a more able report can be given, come out and do your duty. J. H. GREEN. This article is introduced for several purposes--all of which we consider of importance to substantiate the facts we have laid before them. Those murders, near Perrysburgh, were committed by Wyatt and Head, his colleague, who is now in the State Prison at Auburn, New York. After the controversy had taken place, I availed myself of the opportunity to search into facts concerning Wyatt, and found, in addition to those set forth in the preceding letter, the following:--Wyatt, alias Robert Henry North, was hired as a stage-driver near Chillicothe, Ohio, in the latter part of 1838, but decamped in a short time afterwards with a horse belonging to another man, and made his way to Portsmouth, Ohio; where he was taken and carried back to Chillicothe, tried, and convicted to serve three years in the Ohio Penitentiary. In 1841 he was released. He then left for Missouri, where he again got into difficulty, which detained him until 1843. He told me he was tried for his life in St. Louis, convicted, got a new trial, and was acquitted. If he was, it was under a different name from any above mentioned, and the murder he was tried for must have been Major Floyd. But I do not believe he was one of those tried, and acquitted, as he professed to be. He then made his way across the country to Louisville, Kentucky. From there to a town called Mount Gilead, in Ashland county, Ohio, where he went to work at the business of tailoring, a trade he had learned in the Ohio State Prison. In a short time after he arrived there, he married a very respectable lady, with whom, for the short period they lived together, he led a very disagreeable life. In the latter part of 1843, or the beginning of 1844, he left for Toledo, Ohio, where he hired out, and lived up to the time spoken of in the preceding letter, and where he committed the crimes referred to in the same. After which, he made his escape to the state of New York, in company with the notorious villain, Head, where they committed a burglary, and were sentenced to the Auburn State Prison from Geneseo. When Wyatt arrived at the penitentiary, he was recognised by an old companion who had served in the Ohio Penitentiary, by the name of Gordon. Gordon gave information to the keepers, of Wyatt's having served a time in the penitentiary in Ohio. Wyatt became enraged, and despairing of any chance of a pardon, being sentenced, I think, for fourteen years, he tried to effect his escape, but was detected and severely punished. He then swore vengeance against Gordon, whose time was nearly expired; and on Saturday, the 15th of March, 1845, he secreted about his person one-half of a pair of shears, given him to work with in the tailor's shop, which he reserved until the next day, (Sabbath, the 16th,) and as the prisoners were marching to their cells from their dinners, stabbed Gordon in the right side, immediately below the ribs. The instrument passed towards his spine, through one of the main arteries, killing him almost instantly, and for this last deed he was hanged. Finally, let me say to those who may be anxious to know more of the history of this unfortunate man, and of his crimes, that I have looked with great anxiety for the third letter, spoken of in my second to the Christian Advocate and Journal. That the mystery of their not appearing has been no fault of mine. I wrote four letters, and but two appeared. Whether they were detained by the false and garbled statements which have been set forth by the Rev. O.E. Morrill, or whether they have ever been received, I am unable to say. However, I have written twice to Dr. Bond, and, as yet, I have not been able to learn by what authority they have been detained. But should I have them returned, the public may be welcome to them for their worth. Since the execution, we learned from those present, that Wyatt was taken from his cell, faint from the loss of blood he had shed a few days before, in his attempt to commit suicide. When seated in his chair, under the gallows, he made remarks like the following: "I have lived like a man, I will die like a man. I am not afraid to die. I am about to enter eternity, and appear before my God. My conduct has been misrepresented--men have sworn falsely against me--I cannot and will not forgive them--I am not the man I have been represented to be--I did not commit the murder charged upon me in Ohio. I am thankful to the sheriff and his family for their kindness." He manifested no religious penitence to the last. He died an unbeliever. * * * * * In conclusion, I would say to those who have perused this work, so full of strange and startling incidents, let not their mysterious and dark character cause you to doubt of their truth. Recollect that there are strange events in the life of every man, many of which he cannot fathom; and were the whole circumstances of your own life disclosed, it is not impossible that many of them would exceed belief. Horrible as is the picture of depravity here exhibited, the half has not been told, nor would I reveal one iota more than I deemed necessary to awaken the public attention to a sense of their danger, and a corresponding sense of their duty. Reader, you may be standing upon the edge of a precipice, though you know it not. Fathers, your sons may frequent these haunts of vice, and be entangled in the snares of the destroyer. Wives, mothers, sisters, daughters, lend us your aid to save those you love from destruction. You need not be ignorant, that around you are hundreds of individuals who live in affluence upon the spoils of their industry. It is not gamblers that support gaming. If the merchant, and lawyer, and tradesman, and the man of fortune did not supply them with the material, their profession would die. In all my works I have shown how gambling lends to, and is connected with, all other crimes; and I beseech you, as you love your families, yourselves, and our common country, that you lend your aid and influence to abate this evil. This vast conspiracy against your lives and fortunes, which I have here developed, is no chimera. Its workings are everywhere felt, though the machinery is unseen. I have no object but your good in making this disclosure; and should it meet the eye, as I have no doubt it will, of some one not a stranger to its crimes, I beseech him to consider his ways. Why should he live a curse to the earth--a destroyer of his kind--a blot upon creation--a dishonour to his Maker? Heaven and earth are equally ready to receive the returning prodigal. The only danger--the only disgrace is to continue where you are. In behalf of our Maker, in behalf of humanity, in behalf of all that is noble and virtuous, I beseech you to TURN, _why will ye die_? DEBATE ON GAMBLING, BETWEEN MR. FREEMAN THE AVOWED GAMBLER, AND MR. GREEN, THE REFORMED GAMBLER; BEFORE THE CITIZENS OF PHILADELPHIA, IN THE LECTURE-ROOM OF THE CHINESE MUSEUM, ON THE EVENINGS OF THE 10TH, 13TH, AND 15TH OF MAY, 1847. _Mr. Freeman's challenge, and Mr. Green's acceptance, as published in the papers of the city of Philadelphia._ From the Inquirer. It is well known that Mr. Green, the Reformed Gambler, gave a Lecture at the Museum on Monday night last, in which he exposed the arts and devices of the Gambling Fraternity of the Union. His audience was quite large, and his illustrations were listened to with no little interest. It seems from the following article, which we copy from the Sun of yesterday, that a professional Gambler was present. His Card or Challenge is quite a curiosity: Mr. Editor:--Having attended the Lecture of J. H. Green, last evening, at the Chinese Museum, on the popular vice of Gambling, and differing from him in each and in every view which he took, and which he is in the habit of taking upon that subject, I beg leave respectfully to say to him through the medium of your columns, that I have made up my mind to confront him in debate, in regard to the right and wrong of the subject in question. I say, I am willing so to do, provided it meets his views, and those of the community. If he, and those who admire his theory, are the friends of truth, surely they will not shrink from investigation?--and if I cannot sustain myself in debate, why, his triumph will add strength to his cause. With regard to _who_ I am, I will say in a single word that I am a professional Gambler. I shall set out, if we meet, to prove to the audience, among other things, that in his illustrations of the cheatery which he says the gambler practices upon his victim, he is actually at that very moment practising a palpable cheat upon the very audience which he is proposing to enlighten. As regards any profits that may arise from such a meeting, I want none, although perhaps as needy as Mr. Green. As regards experience in debate, Mr. G. has decidedly the advantage of me in that respect. I have had the honour of addressing public audiences four times in my whole life, and but four--two of these were in favour of Old Tip, in 1840, and the other two upon the subject of temperance. I am well aware that there are many persons who would look upon it as a sort of inconsistency that a man, occupying my position, should be the honest advocate of temperance--but they so reason because they are uninformed in regard to the higher order of gambling! Should Mr. Green accede to my proposition, he only has to name his time and place--or if he prefers to have a personal interview, he can do so. I am willing to wait on him at his boarding-house, but would like to have at least one respectable person present to hear all that passes between us. J.G. FREEMAN. N.B.--I am a native of South Carolina; I am known from Virginia to Orleans. Mr. Green I have seen in that city, and he no doubt recollects me, though I never had any intimacy with him. We publish below another communication from Mr. Freeman, in which he announces that Mr. Green has accepted his challenge to debate, and lays down his points for argument. We are glad of this, and have no doubt the public will share in our curiosity to know what kind of a defence can be made by a gambler, even so _polished_ as Mr. Freeman, for a vice fitly characterized by Mr. Green as "fifty per cent. worse than stealing." Expectation is on tiptoe. Communicated for the Sun. Mr. Editor--I return to you my sincere thanks for having kindly published my letter to Mr. J. H. Green, the reformed gambler; and beg leave now to state to you, that I have had an interview with him, and that he fully consents to go into the debate. It now devolves upon me, since I have assumed the character of _plaintiff_ in the action, to define minutely the exact points to be discussed. The first position, then, that I shall assume, is that all those states in this Union that have enacted very severe laws against gambling, such as making it a penitentiary offence, &c., have acted both tyrannically and unwisely--_tyrannically_, because they are an infringement upon those sacred reserved rights that never were yielded in what law commentators call the "social compact"--and _unwise_, because their tendency is to generate immorality rather than stop it. The second ground that I shall take, is that the character of that class of beings called "gamblers" is less understood by the community at large, and especially by that portion of it that have had no intercourse with them, than any class of men in the world. That it has ever been the misfortune of the gambler to be misrepresented, not only of late by Mr. Green, but generally by those that have attempted to portray his character in the prints. I shall undertake to show him up in his true character, making it neither better nor worse than it really is--"_Let justice be done if the heavens fall._" In the third place, I shall propose to prove beyond question, that cheating at cards is decidedly the most unfortunate thing for the cause of gambling and gamblers, that possibly could exist. And on the other hand, that it is the very saviour of that portion of mankind who have a sneaking fondness for play. In the fourth place, I will attempt to prove that those tricks that Mr. Green is in the habit of illustrating with cards, are entirely worthless; that they can _not_ be reduced to practice; that if they can, it must be on persons wholly destitute of common sense; that an opinion that he can tell any cards by the back, is entirely untrue; that neither he nor any other man can do any such thing, unless the cards have been marked either by himself or some other person. In the course of those proceedings, I shall take upon myself, for the benefit of the young and inexperienced who may be present, to make such developments as will be of lasting importance to them in their sojourn through this mazy world; for, as Mr. Calhoun once said of the Constitution of the United States, if there be any one man that loves innocent youth better than all others, I claim to be that man. To seduce one into _any_ vicious habit when uncontaminated, is a thing I would _scorn_ to do. And the pleasure which I feel, when I reflect upon it, of having actually saved some half dozen from ruin, is to me unspeakable. But for this I know I am never to be credited; for Mr. Green has informed us that the gambler is _hardened_, for he never goes to church, and if you reach him at all it must be with a penitentiary act. But, pardon me, Messrs. Editors, this is not the time nor the place for the argument. Yours, respectfully, J.G. FREEMAN. Mr. Green says he will inform me on to-morrow when it will suit to have the meeting. Mr. Green, it will be seen by the following letter, has consented to meet his challenger in debate on the subject of gambling. We are glad of this, inasmuch as Mr. Freeman is said to be quite an intelligent gentleman, and stands at the head of his _profession_. The discussion, if conducted in a proper spirit, will be attended by good results.--ED. For the Daily Sun. Philadelphia, April 29, 1847. _Messrs. Barrett & Jones_:--In the "Sun" of the 28th and 29th inst. are two communications, over the signature of J.G. Freeman, proposing to controvert my positions relative to the gamblers, and challenging me to a public discussion. This individual called upon me after the publication of his first letter, and seemed to be honest in his intentions to defend his system of untold enormities. If the public, therefore, can be benefited, and my reformatory purpose in this particular promoted, as I suspect it will, I would rather court than avoid such an interview. I have long wished for, but certainly never expected such a discussion. I see the shoe begins to pinch. I am glad to perceive that those for whom it was made are beginning to feel and cry aloud. Just as I anticipated, the _law_ seems to be the part which binds most. Men who are most without conscience are generally most restive in view of a threatening penitentiary. I will accept the challenge to meet him on the several points proposed in his communications. Indeed I am happy that he has chosen his own grounds; for the best which such opposition could select is likely in all conscience to be bad enough. Suffer me therefore to say to your correspondent that I intend lecturing on the evenings of the 10th, 13th, and 15th of the coming month, (May,) at the Lecture-room of the Chinese Museum, on George street; at which times I will be very happy if he will attend and defend such positions as are assumed in the two communications alluded to. I shall require, however, that a committee of gentlemen be chosen to control the discussion. J. H. GREEN. The Lecture-room of the Museum will, we think, be found much too small to accommodate the audience, who desire to be present on these interesting occasions. Would it not be better to take the upper part of the Museum building? It would certainly be filled.--ED. Messrs. Editors:--There is a feature in Mr. Green's acceptance to my challenge to meet him in debate upon the subject of gambling, with which I frankly confess I am not at all pleased. Upon looking over it, you will discover that he uses the following language: "Suffer me, therefore, to say to your correspondent, that I intend lecturing on the evenings of the 10th, 13th, and 15th of the coming month, (May,) at the lecture-room of the Chinese Museum, on George street; at which time I will be very happy if he will attend and defend such positions as are assumed in the two communications alluded to." Now, I should like to know Mr. Green's motive for calling a _debate_ a _lecture_? Why not call things by their right names? You will, therefore, Messrs. Editors, be pleased to inform your correspondent, Mr. Green, that I cordially consent to meet him at the time and place designated by him, for the purpose of _debating_ the gambling question; and the cash which may be taken at the door to be divided between us, if any, after all the expenses are paid, or to be disposed of in such a manner as the committee may deem just and proper. 'Tis true, I did say in my first communication that I did not care to have any of the money, and I so felt and so thought at that time; but since, I have employed some reflection upon the subject, and, like some of our modern politicians, I have _changed_. 'Tis true that money is no part of the motive, but then, as Mr. Polk once expressed himself in regard to the tariff and protection, I am willing that it should come in _incidentally_. Now, it falls to my lot to know much more of the history of Mr. Green than any of those who know it only from his own statements and publications. About four or five years ago, in the city of New York, I became acquainted with a gentleman by the name of Ball, a dealer in ivory; this Mr. B. exhibited a large quantity of Mr. Green's cheating cards, and said that Mr. Green was largely in his debt, and that his only way to make the debt was to sell those cards, and asked me to buy. He then took me into another room and exhibited to me some very costly machinery, and certainly the strangest I had ever seen;--it had been invented by Mr. Green to put a sign on white-back cards, so as to know them by the backs. He also showed me other stamps invented by Mr. Green. Now the consummation of this work had cost Mr. Green not only much valuable time, but all the money he could possibly borrow; but, after all, the thing ends in disaster--the cards don't sell. Desperation seizes upon him. Like Arnold, he now throws his eye over to the other camp, and thinks what might be done in the way of a reward. He consoles himself with the reflection that he will, at least, be upon the side of virtue: "I will tell the public that my only motive is to benefit the rising generation, (a profitable thought with Mr. Green, 'the rising generation'); but in order to begin right, I will publish to the world a full history of my life, in which it will devolve upon me to make a confession of my sins. All, I will disclose to the world; but as to that ponderous machinery at Mr. Ball's in New York--I rather think I will skip that." Now when poverty pinched the prodigal son, as it did Mr. Green in New York, what was the language of that truly penitent. Alluding to his old father, he says: "I will go and tell _all_ I ever done, &c." But when Mr. Green resolves to put on a mask of penitence, what is his course? I will go and tell those good ministers of the gospel, and others, _half_ I ever done, &c., and then take good care to run my hand as deep into their purses as possible. Now in Mr. Green's crusade against gambling and gamblers, if he had shown signs of purity of motive, and had not wantonly and knowingly misrepresented the men, and disguised the facts in regard to the profession, I would be the last man living to impugn him. But the motive, I consider, was _corrupt_--'twas spoils;--and in the mode of attack, the established principle in morals has _not_ been regarded, which is, that the means in the accomplishment of any public good must always be as honest as the ends; and for these reasons I do feel sanguine in the belief, when the trial comes off at the Chinese Museum next week, that if I do not get the verdict, I shall do more--I shall deserve it. Yours, &c. J.G. FREEMAN. N.B.--If the gentlemen, editors generally, of this city, will give the above communication a place in their columns, with such comments as they may think fit to make, they will confer a favour upon one of the proscribed, but one who suffers no man to stand in front of him as a lover of truth. J.G.F. Communicated for the Sun. _Messrs. Barrett & Jones_:--I had supposed that my consent to Mr. Freeman's request to be heard in defence of his fraternity, had fixed that issue. I did not intend by the announcement of my lecturing on the evenings alluded to by Mr. F., that they were to be any thing more than a fair discussion of the character and tendencies of gambling, if Mr. F. should think proper to participate. I wish it now to be so understood. I want a committee of gentlemen to arrange this matter. But why Mr. F. should suppose that he should have half the proceeds of the meeting, I am unable to conjecture. He seeks an opportunity to defend his business against attacks which it seems has excited no small share of alarm on his part, or those whom he represents, and yet he demands remuneration! The fraternity must be in a rather forlorn condition at present, if they are unable to pay their attorney, in so philanthropic a cause. When we consider the source, this demand sits with ill grace upon such a champion. I have laboured now for four years, having commenced my reform without a dollar, to expose this damnable vice. If I am not supported by the public which my labours are designed to benefit, those labours must necessarily cease. Were Mr. F. similarly engaged, I would share with him not only the profits of my meetings, but my heart's best feelings also. I shall be very happy if I am met, as I was led to believe, am no speaker, but somewhat skilful with cards, _and their_ use by me before an intelligent audience is my argument; I want no better for my purpose. J. H. GREEN. Messrs. Editors:--It appears from Mr. Green's last communication that he and I are at issue in regard to the preliminary arrangements of the debate that is to come off next week, upon the gambling question. He thinks that he ought to have all the proceeds of the meeting; and I think it should be equally divided, or else given to some charitable institution, or else have it free. Mr. Green's argument for supposing that he should have _all_, is, that because he has been labouring four years, he ought to be rewarded: and in rather a threatening tone gives the public to understand that if they do not reward him he will quit. "If I am not," he says, "supported by the public, which my labours are designed to benefit, those labours must necessarily cease." Now, _my_ argument for supposing that the proceeds should be equally divided is, that I claim to be the _real_ reformer; that it will be seen by those who may attend the discussion, that it is _I_ that am the true moralist--I shall go with the New Testament in one hand, and Dr. Paley's Moral Philosophy in the other, and upon that battery, and no other, will I plant my artillery. He that is _green_ enough to suppose that I am green-_horn_ enough to get up before a large audience, in the enlightened city of Philadelphia, to defend an absurdity, must be verdant indeed I go not to defend gamblers, but to defend truth, and to show that Mr. Green, like a corrupt witness, in his eagerness to procure a verdict for his party, goes beyond the facts; and that too when there is no necessity for it, for the gambler has real sins enough without heaping others upon him which he never committed. Now then, to end all this difficulty at a blow, I make to Mr. Green the proposition--That the honourable Mayor of the city, if he will do it, be the person to appoint the committee that is to conduct the debate, and to the decision of the committee, as to the funds, will I cordially submit, but not to Mr. _Green's ipse dixit_. And here I will further suggest, that the committee be composed wholly of lawyers. This will be proper, because it is a question of law that is to be discussed; and further, it is presumed that they understand better than any other class of men what is called parliamentary usage. Should this proposition not be acceded to, which I _know_ is fair, my course will be to debate the question on "my own hook," and in that case take all the money and give Mr. Green not a dollar of it, but invite him to come to _my_ quarters, and defend himself, for I shall certainly be down upon him--and so let him go to his house the next night and take what may be offered at his door, and allow me to answer him in what he may have to say. When Mr. Green, in his acceptance of my challenge, _would_ call the debate a _lecture_, I saw that old habits, that of cheating, had not yet left him. Why it looks as though he has the unblushing impudence to attempt to turn a Jack from the bottom, upon me, in the very blaze of day, the very first deal; but the gentleman ought to know that he is now in contact with one who knows how little things are done. Yes, he would have it that the _debate_ was a lecture, and _Mr. Green's_ lecture, not mine, and why? Why because if it be his lecture, all the cash would, as a matter of course, be his. Also, is this not, I ask, the trick of a perfect black-leg? J.G. FREEMAN. First Night, from the Times. On Monday evening, at the Lecture-room of the Chinese Museum, the debate between Mr. Green, the Reformed gambler, and Mr. J.G. Freeman of the opposite side took place, in the presence of a very large and highly respectable audience, partly composed of ladies. Dr. Elder, at the appointed time, announced that the disputants were upon the ground, and prepared to enter into the discussion of the subject of gambling. He then introduced Mr. Freeman to the meeting. Mr. F. said his antagonist and himself had settled the preliminaries, and in regard to the proceeds of the debates, it had been agreed that Mr. Green should receive those of the two first meetings, and that Mr. Freeman should receive the returns of the third meeting, provided, on motion, a large majority of those present were in favour of it. He would not attempt to disguise his real feelings from his hearers, and the gratification he experienced in having the opportunity of speaking, for once in his life, to an audience composed of men of intelligence and integrity. He well knew the difficulties under which he laboured, being unused to speaking in public, and surrounded as he was in the community by the reverend gentlemen and the press, who were avowedly opposed to him, and who had thrown their bomb-shells and Congreve rockets liberally at the gambling fraternity, without mercy, but he regarded these weapons as harmless, for they had fallen at his feet without inflicting a single wound. Mr. F. then turned to the consideration of the laws making gambling a penal offence, and particularly referred to the act of Assembly passed by the last legislature, which he denounced as unjust and impolitic. He did not appear for the purpose of defending gambling, but to speak a word in favour of those who had been represented to be the worst members of society, and against whom the voice of proscription had been raised. He contended that a man had a constitutional right to do what he pleased with that which was legally his own property, and all laws passed to abridge that right ought to receive public reprehension. He was at a loss to understand why Mr. Green should have taken so active a part in the passage of the law at Harrisburg. It had been said that gambling must be checked, and in order to put it down, you must make it a penitentiary offence. He regarded this as an egregious error. Gambling, he was convinced, ought to be treated in the same manner as Intemperance--by moral suasion--and not by passing a law that puts a man in the penitentiary for exercising a legal right. But there were fewer gamblers than drunkards, and the former had no influence at the ballot-box. He denied the statements of Mr. Green, that young men had been enticed to gambling-houses. They invariably went there of their own accord, and he related instances in which the relatives and friends of young men were called upon by gamblers, to exercise proper authority in restraining them from visiting such places. He alluded to the excessive penalty attached to the law, and argued that it would never be enforced, there being no inducement for the police to detect the offenders; and that from the face of the law is shown, that it was not made for the punishment of wealthy gamblers, but the poor itinerant wretches who had no local habitation. These being birds of passage, he questioned whether they would remain long enough in one place to be caught, while the rich operator and speculator would be permitted to go on unmolested, in his gilded career of depredations upon his fellow man. Mr. Green then arose and expressed his surprise that any individual could have the effrontery to stand up before an intelligent body of citizens, a part of that constituency, from whom the legislature of the state had derived its authority, and denounce a law which had not only been passed with entire unanimity of the members of that body, but which had met with general favour from the people. He then referred to the act of Assembly, and made some explanatory remarks upon it. He ably defended the law from the remarks of his opponent, in regard to its vagueness and insufficiency. On the whole, he regarded it as a good one. It could be effectively put in force, and was calculated to crush the evil of gambling. He said he had no wish to conceal from the people his former habits and mode of getting a livelihood, but on the contrary, had repeatedly, in public, represented himself as being a wary gambler, and acknowledged that he had done, perhaps, as much with cards in a professional way as any man claiming the same amount of information in regard to them. He then passed to a review of the terrible consequences of gambling, and showed that those who became addicted to it, acquired a passion for play, that predominated over every other feeling, and closed up the springs of affection and sympathy in the human heart. These facts he forcibly and eloquently illustrated by relating some painful occurrence, which came under his observation. On one occasion he was playing with a party, one of whom was losing his money very rapidly. In the height of a game, his family physician entered the room, and saying that it was with much difficulty that he found his whereabouts, informed him that his daughter had been seized with extreme illness. The gambler replied, that he would return to his home very soon. The doctor left, but not long after returned with the gambler's wife, who implored him to come home, as the girl was dying. He desired the doctor to lead his wife from the room, with the solemn promise to follow them; which promise he seemed to have forgotten the next instant, so deeply was he interested in the play, and he remained at the gaming-table. In a little while after, the doctor returned and told him his daughter was dead. For the moment, he appeared to be greatly affected, but he still sat at the faro table of that h----l, and when he arose from it he was a ruined man. The man has since reformed, and Mr. Green said that when he last saw him, in Baltimore, he attempted to describe the feelings which rent his breast, after he had realized the sad events of that night. His first desire was to commit suicide, but the hand of Providence stayed his arm, and by His interposition he was enabled to turn from the vice, and shun the society of those who practise it. Mr. Green re-asserted that all he had stated about plans being laid to catch the unwary, by gamblers, was strictly true. He had been cognisant of plottings of the fraternity, and in speaking of some individual who was about to be plucked, the common expression among them was, "that he was not ripe yet." The remarks of Mr Green were listened to with great attention by the audience. Mr. Freeman followed, and after briefly replying to the points of the previous speaker, said that it was his intention, at the next meeting, to prove that all species of speculation is, properly speaking, gambling. The Rev. John Chambers concluded. He confessed his disappointment. He expected to find a man here who would attempt to defend gambling, but he congratulated the audience that no such thing had been attempted, Mr. Freeman having acknowledged gambling to be an evil. The Reverend gentleman's remarks were of a general character, and in the course of their delivery he upheld the law of the state, and unsparingly denounced those for whose detection and punishment it was passed. First Night, from the Saturday Evening Post. The discussion on gambling, between Mr. Green the Reformed gambler, and Mr. Freeman, of the "Profession," which has been looked forward to with so much interest, opened upon Monday evening. The audience generally, however, were rather disappointed, inasmuch as Mr. Freeman stated that he did not come there to defend gambling, but only to prove the folly and injustice of attempting to put it down by making its practice, _by professional gamblers_, an offence punishable by imprisonment in the penitentiary. But although Mr. Freeman made this avowal, he evidently did attempt in various parts of the discussion to defend gambling--not, however, as a thing good in itself, but as being no worse than many other practices which society tolerates, and which no man loses his reputation, or is in danger of imprisonment, for engaging in. We have no scruple in confessing, that we were much interested in Mr. Freeman. He appears to be one of a singular class of men, some one of whom may be found in nearly every pursuit, however dishonourable--men of keen and subtle minds, and of as much goodness and honesty of purpose as is possible in the life which they have chosen, or into which perhaps they have been in a degree forced. In the course of his remarks, he made one allusion to his own history, which while it told as much as any thing that was said in the course of the debate against gambling, opened unto us, in a degree, the secret of his present position. He said that when he was a young man, he had lost his all at the gaming table, and that from that blow he had never recovered--"_it had broken his heart_." And yet, strange anomaly, he now not only makes his living by gambling, but stands up before the world as its defender. But let us look a little further into Mr. Freeman's arguments. He did not state them very plainly, being evidently unaccustomed to public speaking, and, as the English say, to "thinking on his legs," but if we are not mistaken, he reasons to his own heart as follows. Gambling in cards is not right _abstractly_, but it is the same in principle as gambling in stocks, in breadstuffs, in merchandise, in land, or in any thing else. None of these are right, but they are necessary fruits of the folly and wickedness of men, and inevitable in the present condition of society. "I make my living, I know," he probably says, "from the weakness and wickedness of my fellow men; but so do the physician, the judge, the lawyer, the jailer, and the hangman." If we are not mistaken, in this way does Mr. Freeman make out a clear case to his own conscience; and to some small extent he is right in what he asserts. To gamble with cards is the same principle as to gamble with stocks, or any thing else--the difference is only one of degree; but although the gambler and the judge both live, in a certain sense, off of the vices of their fellow men, the difference is very evident between him whose business conduces to increase those vices, and his whose noble office it is to lessen them. But Mr. Freeman complains that, while the gambler with cards is proscribed by society, and branded with all marks of shame, and laws passed to imprison him if found practising his art, the gambler in stocks is neither reviled nor imprisoned. At the rank injustice, as he, in our opinion, honestly believes it, of this course on the part of society, he can hardly contain his indignation. Those "uncouth gestures," as one of our contemporaries designates them, were not in our opinion intended for effect, but were the natural language of uncontrollable indignation at what he believes to be the rank in justice of society, which he could not adequately express in words. The audience laughed, but the speaker was far from laughing--a perfect tempest of conflicting emotions, it seemed to us, was agitating his bosom. Strange as it may sound to our readers, he evidently thought that his cause was just, and wanted to make it appear so, not to the gamblers and their friends, hundreds of whom were present, and ready at any moment with their applause, but to the crowd of intelligent, virtuous men and women, in whose audience he stood. We saw the breaking out of this feeling in the half-contemptuous manner in which he alluded to the tastes of gamblers in general, as contrasted with his own--"he did not keep the company of gamblers; he had nothing to say against them, but his tastes were different." But is it unjust to punish the gambler with cards by imprisonment and public proscription, while the gambler in stocks, &c., whose crime is the same in principle, though not in degree, goes unwhipt of justice? Undoubtedly it is, for it is no reason that one vice should go unpunished, because another is able to escape for the present. Mr. Freeman's argument is very good, so far as it applies to inflicting upon the gambler in stocks the same penalty as on himself; but the law of Progress, and the best interests of society, demand that these things should never be allowed to work backwards. For the way society advances, is simply this--the worst manifestations of vice are first proscribed, and then their proscription is made a stepping-stone to demolish others. For instance--we attack gambling with cards, the worst manifestation of the gambling principle; we make it abhorrent to the moral sense of the world; we so confound it, and justly too, with robbery, that future generations shall grow up in that faith, and all the efforts of interested sophistry never be able henceforward to separate them to the popular apprehension. Having done this, in the course of some fifty or one hundred years, certain dealings in stocks, for instance, are called in question. If they can be proved to be rightly described by the phrase "GAMBLING in Stocks," the battle is half-won. For the proscription of the worst kind of gambling has given a vantage ground from which to attack the principle of gambling wherever found. And this, we say, is the only law of progress. Another ground taken by Mr. Freeman was, that "a man has a right to do what he chooses with his own, if in so doing he does not injure anybody else." In a limited sense, this is true, doubtless--but he does injure somebody else if he fails to perform his duties to his family or to his country. For instance, he has no right to commit suicide. But gambling cannot be done without injuring somebody else, as it takes two to play at it--leaving out of view the injury done to society at large, as Mr. Green has shown in his various works on the subject. But there is no necessity in dwelling upon this point--it cannot be defended for a moment. As to Mr. Green's part in the discussion, it is not necessary to say much. He has our confidence and sympathy. We consider his present course a most noble one, and wish him all success in his efforts to overthrow the abominable vice from whose clutches he has come forth a reformed man. We have taken up considerable room with this subject, because we feel great interest in both parties engaged in the discussion. Did Mr. Freeman appear to be only a bold, bad man, we should hardly have wasted a single paragraph upon him or his arguments. But he is evidently a man of considerable information and talent, and to all appearance, strange as it may sound, of much sincerity and cross-grained honesty. That he may be led to forsake his present pursuits, before his gray hairs shall have gone down to a dishonoured grave, is our fervent wish and prayer. From Scott's Weekly. The interesting question between Mr. J. H. Green, the Reformed Gambler, and Mr. J.G. Freeman, as to the rights of gambling, was discussed in the Lecture-room of the Museum Building, on Monday evening last. A large audience attended, and notwithstanding the zeal of Mr. Freeman more than once carried him a little beyond the limits of propriety, the whole passed off pleasantly. The announcement in the papers was not adhered to, which created some dissatisfaction; but then the speeches of Mr. Freeman were of themselves well worth the price of admission. He did not defend gambling--he could not, he said, pretend to defend it--he only meant to deny the sweeping aspersions of its foes. He spoke at great length, and sometimes his logic was quite ingenious. Mr. Green confined himself to a few facts, leaving the more minute part of the discussion for a subsequent evening. The Rev. John Chambers closed the proceedings by a few timely remarks, in which he reviewed what he considered lawful and unlawful pursuits--among these latter, he hoped to see the time that every vender of intoxicating liquors would be placed in the same catalogue that gamblers are by the recent law--imprisonment. He then referred to the decorum of the audience, and expressed a hope that all the future discussions would be listened to in the same spirit--that all the truth possible may be elicited in reference to that terrible vice--gambling. From the Inquirer. The long-talked-of debate upon gambling and its tendencies, was commenced last evening in the Lecture-room of the Chinese Museum. The audience was large, and deep interest was manifested in the discussion. Aboard of highly respectable gentlemen presided as Moderators, and Dr. Elder officiated as chairman. Mr. Freeman, the challenger, opened the debate, and proposed that the question be met in a categorical form, thus:--Were the laws of the different states which make gambling a Penitentiary offence unjust and impolitic? Were they formed in good policy or not? Mr. Freeman considered himself as honoured in being permitted to speak before the meeting on the question. Fearful odds were against him; all the ranks of battle were on the other side. The clergy, who were accustomed to public speaking, were against him--as well as the editors and the press. In the war now raging, the climate--the sickly climate, was more dangerous than the shells and shot of the enemy--and in this case, the sickly climate was the prejudice, the prejudice of opinion, which was against the cause he espoused, or rather defended. Mr. F. also referred to other influences against him. Mr. F. contended that even, if the states in which such laws were passed, disliked the vice of gambling--it was no reason why they should pass laws that were unjust and impolitic. Mr. F. contended, in opposition to such laws, that a man had a perfect right to do what he pleased with his own things. Any legislation to the contrary was tyranny. More mischief and immorality would result from such laws than from the vice itself--for it was a violation of one of the rights of man on the mere score of expediency. He contended, therefore, that men had a perfect right to do what they pleased with their own things, so long as they did not interfere with the rights of others. A drunkard could not drink without disturbing other people--why not make his a Penitentiary offence? Yet a gambler was considered a Penitentiary offender, though he did not interfere with the rights of others. What were speculators in railroads, &c. &c.?--Why many of them gamblers on the largest scale! In noticing the temptations of gambling, Mr. F. said that he and other gamblers had often warned youths against entering upon that dangerous course, and had thus saved them from ruin. Mr. F. argued against the law recently enacted at Harrisburg against gambling, on the ground that it was partial and unjust. One of the strangest things was, that a man who had been imprisoned, had been an outcast himself, should be the first to betray, and to place others in the same situation, and send them to the Penitentiary. Yet such was the case with the gentleman who had come from Ohio to Harrisburg to assist in obtaining the passage of the law against gambling. Mr. Green replied, and defended the law in question, as it was passed in Pennsylvania; and read a section, in which gamblers, without a fixed residence, were, upon conviction, to be imprisoned, &c.; and Mr. G. said that although no games were mentioned, yet all gambling games were included. Mr. G. admitted that he had been a gambler for many years, and had done much evil to the community--as much as most evil men--but he was now, he hoped, reformed. Mr. G. then contended that several gambling-houses and tables had been closed under this law--and surely this was a great advantage to the public--surely such closing of gaming-houses had saved many persons from ruin. Mr. Green gave much experience of his gambling life, and contended that principles of honour were not common among gamblers. Gambling was a principle of robbery--of robbery from beginning to end. If gambling was right--why, Mr. Green would ask--did the former speaker persuade young men not to come into gambling-houses? Mr. Green described a splendid gambling-house in Calvert street, Baltimore, and the snares of robbery laid for the unwary--and the method adopted to entrap a rich and unwary citizen. The revelations were truly startling, and displayed a painful instance of the _"facilis descensus averni"_--a father whose feelings were blunted, and hardly to be re-awakened even by the death of a beloved daughter. And this was but one instance out of thousands, in which the sum of $1200, $1500, and $2000 had been lost at various times, and a fatal, fascinating infatuation contracted. Mr. Freeman resumed, and again contended for the right of any man to gamble--that he had a right to do what he would with his own--and that a law was unfair which punished this one vice, and let other and greater vices alone. It was cowardly legislation. A gambler was said to have no home, and would not be missed, if he were sent to prison; but send a man of property, of standing to prison for some one of _his_ vices, and there would soon be a fuss in the wigwam. Mr. F. was very severe upon the great body of editors, for following servilely public opinion, without courage or independence to express a manly opinion of their own. Mr. F. said that all ministers were not good men--there were a few exceptions--neither should all gamblers, in fairness, be considered as scoundrels. He, Mr. F. as a gambler, never would admit his inferiority to those individuals who, without labour, gained money and circumvented others by extensive and fraudulent schemes of speculation. The Rev. John Chambers summed up with great eloquence and ability, and said that he was disappointed--he had expected a defence and vindication of gambling as an _honourable_ profession--but he was glad to find that the gentleman who had spoken, Mr. Freeman, had not even attempted to advocate gambling as truthful or honest. Mr. Chambers considered all dealing fair, in which a man received a _quid pro quo_--but whether a man cheat at cards or in the sale of a bale of dry goods, he was equally a scoundrel. If Mr. Freeman would make it appear that gambling was a fair business, he (Mr. C.) would not wish it to be a Penitentiary offence; but if gambling was, as Mr. Green had shown, a system of robbery--why then, it ought to be a Penitentiary offence. Mr. C. said that Mr. Freeman had behaved honourably--for he had said to young men--"Do not come into this place!" And why? Because it was the road to ruin. Mr. C. regretted that Mr. Freeman should have made several scriptural allusions. No virtuous man would ever support gambling--for it gave no equivalent either in money or reputation for the losses sustained. As such was the case, gambling should be a Penitentiary offence--but if Mr. Freeman could prove that it was an upright and honourable calling, why then, perhaps, he might induce us to apprentice our children to it. After Mr. Green had spoken for a few minutes, the debate was adjourned to Thursday evening next. From the Evening Bulletin. The great discussion on the subject of gambling came off last night at the Chinese Museum, between Mr. Green, the celebrated Reformed Gambler, and Mr. Freeman, the individual who acknowledges himself one of the "sporting" band. The audience was very large and respectable. A board of worthy gentlemen were appointed a governing committee, of which Dr. Elder acted as chairman. The whole proceedings were marked with the greatest decorum. Mr. Freeman spoke first. He is a man somewhat advanced in years, and possesses abilities, which we could wish were better applied than in the defence, or even palliation, of such a corrupting habit as gambling. He directed his batteries mainly against the late gambling laws in this state. He did not like the application to professional and not private gambling. He denounced editors and ministers by wholesale; in regard to the former, declaring that there was only one in the country who was really independent, and that one, Bennett of the New York Herald! He quoted Scripture, but that is not surprising, for we are told by the poet, "the devil may cite Scripture." His manner was violent, and his allusions to his opponent, Mr. Green, the very essence of bitterness. He tried to slide his repugnance to that gentleman into the small corner of contempt; but the whole audience could see that he, in reality, entertained no such trifling feelings towards his opponent. Mr. Green spoke in reply to Freeman, not only like a gentleman, but like a Christian. He treated the sneers of his opponent with kindness, seeming to be sorry, if one might judge from his manner, that he should have boldly placed himself in the point which he occupies before the community. There was a plain, straightforward honesty, as well as a gentleness in the tone and manner of Green, which, though he did not indulge in such a flow of language as his opponent, spoke volumes in favour of his sincerity, and won for him new friends and admirers. His opponent had intimated both by word and act, that he was not to be trusted; he did not seem to feel it necessary to go into a defence of his motives in reply, but appeared to say, "Here I am,--I come to denounce a habit of pestiferous corrupting influence, of which I have practical knowledge; I will stand or fall by the position which I have taken,--leaving the future to show the world whether or not I am honest." Freeman spoke again after Green concluded, and very much in the same style as in the early part of the evening. After he had concluded, the Rev. John Chambers made an address, which was marked with strong argument and a fine Christian-like tone. Mr. Green then said a few words, and the meeting adjourned to Thursday evening, at the same place, when the discussion is to be resumed. There doubtless will be a large attendance. No subject could be more interesting to the public, and the agitation of none can exercise a better moral influence. From the North American. A good-humoured illustration of the right of every one to say what he pleases, took place at the Lecture-room of the Museum last evening. Mr. Freeman, an uncouth man, who gesticulates as if he was mending shoes, but who has naturally no inconsiderable endowment of brain and nerve, delivered himself of a tirade against everybody in general, and against the press and clergy in particular. He complained that everybody was against him--compared the clergy to Gen. Scott and his regulars; the editors to bomb-shells and Congreve rockets, and what else we know not; himself individually to Gen. Taylor, and the race of the poor persecuted gamblers to our Saviour--who, he said, like them, had not where to lay his head! The impious jumble of fustian and blasphemy was accompanied in the delivery by every species of grimace and buffoonery, and a fierceness of dramatic action and posture far more ludicrously affecting than the classic attitudes of Gen. Tom Thumb, who was defying the lightning, as Ajax, dying like the Gladiator, and taking snuff like Napoleon, in the room overhead. At the bottom of all this ridiculous exhibition, which drew repeated shouts of laughter from the very large and respectable audience, lay two principles upon which Mr. Freeman might have erected an imposing argumentative structure. These were, that every man has a right to do what he pleases with his own, so that he does not disturb others; and that laws punishing professional gamblers and letting citizens go free, are unjust. Mr. Green, without going into the metaphysics of the question, showed by some very plain and straightforward remarks the fraud and villany of professional gambling, and proved that it was throughout a _system_ of deliberate robbery. This being the case, it follows, of course, that the general good of the community, which has ever been acknowledged paramount, requires it to be put down. Thus satisfactorily stood the question when we left, and we do not see how it can fairly be removed from this broad ground. It is evident that Mr. Green is a sincere man, and we firmly believe that he is engaged in a good work. SECOND NIGHT. From the Inquirer. The discussion between Mr. Green, the Reformed gambler, and Mr. Freeman in opposition, was continued yesterday evening, in the Lecture-room of the Chinese Museum, Leonard Jewell, Esq. in the chair. Mr. Freeman contended that not one of his arguments, on the previous evening, had been answered by Mr. Green, but anecdotes and doleful stories had been told instead. Mr. F. defended his allusions from Scripture, and said that they had been misconstrued; that he only meant to say that the Saviour of mankind had recommended us to do good, and to return good for evil; but some of the clergy had not followed the golden rule in this matter, for punishment and the Penitentiary had been recommended by them as a cure for gambling. As it was known that he (the speaker) played, he came only to defend gambling as far as truth went, but no farther--there he would stop. Mr. Freeman complained that Mr. Green had classed _all_ gamblers as men of the worst character--as if they were thieves or counterfeiters, whereas Mr. G. knew that he could mention many who were incapable of doing any thing mean--men who would denounce a counterfeiter as soon as any one in that room. Mr. Freeman related a story of a fraudulent trick, by which a large sum of money had been fraudulently obtained, and its recovery prevented by force--one individual, who was named, menacing with a bowie-knife; and Mr. F. said of the getter-up of the plan--pointing to Mr. Green--"as Nathan said unto David, there sits the man!" Mr. Green admitted that it might be so--that it was so. Mr. Freeman said that he knew Mr. Green's friends had a reply to cover all such things--because he was a reformed man--Mr. F. hoped it was so, but he really had some little doubt. Mr. F. distinguished between deep play, which he likened to the _strategie_ of generals in the field, the one to mislead the other, and open, undisguised cheating, which he denounced. Mr. F. referred to several distinguished men who gambled--and to several well-known gamblers--and he defied Mr. Green to say that any one he had named would or could be guilty of a mean action. There was in the world a certain amount of wealth--the many of mankind were (the industrious) producers--but he held that all men, speculators, who circumvented others by their wits, living without work, were in point of fact--_gamblers_. If a man were to go into the street and gain $3000 in a morning by a stock or other speculation--why, as surely as we lived, somebody lost that money--aye, and by gambling on the largest scale. Men who lost their money at a gaming-table went there to win money of the gamblers--but generally lost their own. Their object was to put the gambler's money in their own pockets; and when they were disappointed, they exclaimed against gamblers. Gamblers lived on the depravity of men; if men were not depraved, gamblers would have no chance; but they were encouraged by the depravity of others. Mr. F. condemned and would punish cheating, whether by gamblers or other speculators. Mr. Green did not wish to say any thing personally against any of the men or gamblers who had been named by Mr. F. Some were benevolent men--but one or two he had named were men without heart. He (Mr. G.) knew several gamblers, amateurs and professional men, who were straightforward in their gambling transactions. He did not desire to hurt the feelings of any of these individuals--he attacked not men but vice--and he contended that gambling was a system of robbery, from beginning to end. That it was that he contended for--and that, he hoped, he had already shown. Mr. Green admitted that Mr. Freeman's story of the scheme gotten up, bowie-knife, &c., was in the main correct. If meeting contracts was honest--why then, many gamblers might be called honest. He did not mean to say that such HONEST gamblers would put their hands in a man's pocket and steal money--no--they would not do that. But he would say what they would do;--they would sit up all night, have suppers, wine and spirits set out to tempt men, and they would play with any that came; and though some such customers were known or suspected to have obtained the money they played with by robbery, yet he never knew that the gamblers had ever refused to allow such men to play, so long as they had money. Mr. Green described several snares that were practised by gamblers, particularly one at New Orleans, called the "broker." He hoped some of the gamblers of this city would reform as soon as the new law went into effect. He had already heard of some having turned collectors, policemen, &c.--but he doubted their reform if they were turned over to the police--for though there were some very good policemen in this city, he could confidently say also there were some spotted ones. Mr. Green considered the bowling-alleys and billiard rooms as the very bane of the city--leading men on step by step to the vices of gambling and drunkenness. Mr. Green stated that he had never met with a gambler in his life, who played honestly, and got his living by playing cards honestly--for all he had ever known would take advantage, sometimes--which perhaps the world might call cheating. Mr. Green practically illustrated with a pack of cards the modes of taking advantage, (cheating in plain English,) that were truly surprising. Mr. G. said that such things were done by gamblers, called _honourable_, and if any one had charged such men with dishonesty, why a duel, or worse, might have been the consequence. On one occasion, he (Mr. Green) had been cheated out of several hundred dollars by a brother gambler. He knew it, but lost his money and said nothing--at length, he found out the method of cheating--and went home and set up all night by way of studying a cheat that would recover his money and more. He succeeded at last, and went and won all the money of his antagonist and party--in fact, he won enough to break the whole party. Mr. Green then showed by cards how he had been engaged in winning (by tricks) money from a planter in Louisiana. Mr. Freeman replied, and contended that Mr. Green had referred to only a few mean gamblers--and by his inference charged their practices upon the whole body. But our limited space warns us to be brief. Mr. Freeman only contended that a gambler was honest in a relative point of view--as honest as other men who in trade or otherwise, or in speculation, did things as bad or worse than gamblers. Mr. F. related anecdotes to show that persons charged with faults and crimes were almost always condemned by public opinion, and their faults and crimes exaggerated. Mr. F. stated that in former times, the keepers of gaming-houses in New Orleans paid heavy licenses, and were subject to ruinous fines if they cheated in the smallest degree. Mr. F. contended that cheating at cards was decidedly a disadvantage to the gambler--because, if he lost his character as a fair man, people would not play with him, and so cheating was to him a loss: on the principle of a man in England, who said he would give a hundred thousand dollars for a character. "Why?" asked his friends. "Because," replied the first, "because I could gain two hundred thousand dollars by it!" Mr. F. introduced several anecdotes. Mr. F. had heard several sensible men in New Orleans say, that if gaming-houses there were licensed, there would be little or no cheating, because those houses would be under the police, and people could not then do as they now do in holes and corners. On the principle of "Vice is a creature of such hateful mien," &c. &c., Mr. F. thought that Mr. Green, by showing and explaining some of his tricks, would be likely to tempt some persons to practise such tricks, if they wanted a little money; and on this point he would quote Scripture, and say--"Lead us not into temptation!" Mr. Freeman exhibited a capital trick on the cards, quite equal to some of Mr. Green's. But, said Mr. F., all such things were nothing--for, in gambling, playing on the square with fairness is the best policy. [Mr. Green admitted Mr. Freeman's trick to be very superior--and it was at length understood that at the next meeting (on Saturday night) several of these mysteries would be shown on both sides.] Mr. Green declared that he could show the principle of gambling to be a hundred per cent. worse than stealing. The debate was listened to with much interest, and we learn that it will be closed to-morrow (Saturday) evening. From the Evening Bulletin. Messrs. Green and Freeman renewed their discussion last night, at the Chinese Museum, in the presence of a crowded audience, Leonard Jewell, Esq. in the chair. Mr. Freeman spoke first, and very _modestly_ contended that none of his arguments of the previous evening had been answered by his opponent, but that, instead of this, painful anecdotes and stories had been told. He had quoted Scripture only to show that making stringent laws to punish gambling was contrary to the spirit of our Saviour's teaching, viz. to return good for evil. This argument, will, of course, apply to all laws for the punishment of crime. Freeman went on to except to Green's wholesale denunciations of all gamblers; it was well known that some were _honourable_ men. There were a few bad ones, his opponent knew, and one, in particular, who on a certain occasion drew a bowie-knife to prevent a sum of money, fraudulently obtained, being returned to its proper owner. Green acknowledged that he was the man to whom Freeman alluded. He would not deny that he had been as guilty as the guiltiest. Freeman continued by saying that he supposed his opponent would get over this by saying he had reformed. Green looked assent. Freeman justified gambling by business operations, which were the result of chance, such as stock-jobbing; but we confess we cannot see where the parallel begins, the one being a clear matter of chance on both sides, the other, if Green's stories be true, which we firmly believe, all on the side of the gambler, who cheats from the beginning to the ending of his playing, what with tricks of the trade, marked cards, &c. Freeman took the ground that gamblers were honest, and thus made out a better case than the facts will sustain. Mr. Green's reply was quiet and unaffected. He knew some gamblers who were straightforward and honourable in their playing. But the majority of the profession were dishonest, and the community was demoralized and impoverished by them. He admitted the story about the bowie-knife. He had never been disposed to conceal any of his wicked acts while one of the _profession_. There was one point on which all gamblers were unprincipled; they would play and win money of men they knew were totally ignorant of the arts of card-playing. This was a fraud--it was dishonest; a strong argument against the whole band, good or bad. Mr. Green denounced bowling-alleys and billiard saloons. He then exposed the tricks by which gamblers cheated, and in doing so interested the audience very much. Freeman's rejoinder was still to the end that some gamblers were honest and honourable. He knew that there were rogues among gamblers, who practised tricks, and he gave an excellent specimen of their adroitness, in a trick which Mr. Green acknowledged was a capital one. The debate was listened to throughout with great attention. It will be resumed on Saturday evening. THIRD NIGHT From the Daily Sun. On Saturday evening, the debate between Messrs. Green and Freeman, on the subject of gambling, was resumed, in the Lecture-room of the Museum building. There was a full audience in attendance, and towards the close of the debate, the proceedings became intensely interesting. At the appointed hour, Dr. Elder, the moderator, made a few remarks, by way of opening the meeting, and introduced Mr. Freeman, who, upon advancing to the table, said that he regarded it as complimentary indeed, that he was permitted to proceed with the discussion. Under all the circumstances, he considered it a great compliment, that a highly intelligent audience should listen to one of the proscribed fraternity. But friends, (said the speaker,) if the scene of the discussion lay farther South, in the region of the spot where he was born, he would not consider it so much of a compliment--he would not make such a concession, even from the great Harry of the West down to my fallen foe. In looking round the staging he observed new faces, and missed those who had previously occupied their places--he had heard those men had consulted their dignity, and any man (in the opinion of the speaker) who thinks more of his dignity than his duty is not fit to occupy the sacred desk. The arguments which he had brought forward on the previous occasions have not been answered. Mr. Green has not even attempted to do so, but he (the speaker) had found that a worthy gentleman had entered the field, though not verbally, and endeavoured to supply the place of his opponent. He would take the liberty to compliment him--the distinguished editor of the Post--though he did not know him, nor that such a paper as the Post was printed. That editor, like many others whose prejudices overbalance their reason, had misunderstood him. The speaker then indulged in a _critique_ on the editorial, principally upon the ground which he had taken--that a man has a right to do with his own things what he pleases, provided, in so doing, he does not infringe upon the rights of others. On this point, it appeared that the editor thought and argued differently, and Mr. Freeman said, that in taking the above ground, he did not claim originality, for it is a principle of law, as laid down in Blackstone, Paley, and others--it is the language of great commentators, and upon it he would stand or fall, and leave the distinguished editor to battle with those men. Some things, continued the speaker, may seem inconsistent at first, which, upon examination, are not inconsistent. A thing may be legally right and morally wrong, and whilst he could defend it legally, he could not morally. For instance, suppose a rich man had two sons, both of whom acted as sons should act, and the father in making out his will should devise his whole estate to one son, and cut the other off, as they say in England, with a shilling. Now, who would deny his right to do so if it pleased him; who would say that it is not legally right?--no one. But would it be morally right?--certainly not. What is morality?--love your God, your neighbour, and yourself. And though he could defend the will as legal, yet in a moral point of view he could condemn it as unnatural. The editor of the Post (said the speaker) confounds gambling with robbery, and what for?--that future generations may grow up in faith. It is, said he, a settled principle of morality never to hoist false colours, but to raise the standard of truth and defend it to the last. (Applause.) He remembered an anecdote: a physician was sent to attend a poor sick boy, and when he arrived at the couch of pain and distress, he found it necessary to administer a pill--a very nauseous dose. Said the mother--"Doctor, it would be better to put a little sugar on it, and then he can take it, and not know it's a pill." "No, madam," replied the doctor, "it won't do to deceive him. Here, my son," said the practitioner, "take this medicine and it will cure you," and the little fellow swallowed it like a man. Thus it is with Mr. Green and the green editor; they associate the gambler, without distinction, with assassins and robbers. In doing so they are wrong; they do not speak the truth. The speaker then proceeded to show how a young man may often be lured into temptation--by representing gamblers as assassins, who, upon acquaintance, he finds are apparently gentlemen, and he is induced to think that he has been hitherto misled and deceived in regard to such men. He then cultivates their acquaintance, and finally, through his own depravity, he becomes worse and worse, until he is at last swallowed up in the vortex of degradation. This is the result of employing dishonourable measures to prevent him from visiting such places, or to carry out honourable ends. A man has a right to commit suicide, so far as propriety is concerned. If he does not owe any thing, and feels it in his conscience that he would like to die, he has a right to do so--but if that man owes five dollars, he would certainly violate a moral principle by killing himself, because he ought to live as long as he can to pay his debt. The speaker once knew a man, in good circumstances, who was weary of existence, and feeling disposed to take a journey to "that bourne whence no traveller returns," committed suicide. There may be many who would call it murder--but the community are murderers--they sometimes murder in cold blood. But lately a man was taken to the gallows, and they hung a young man because he had killed somebody else, and yet there are many persons who believe this is right, and that suicide, such as the speaker had selected, is wrong. The speaker now proceeded to criticize the law relative to gambling, passed at the recent legislature, in which he said that if a man has a fixed place of residence and carries on a dry goods business, he might gamble as much as should please him and the law would not take hold of him. He would ask anybody to read the law understandingly and then deny this round assertion. This act, said he, is bugbear--it is a disgrace as it now stands, for it smacks of cowardice. The legislators, he presumed, had a little sense, and they knew that some kind of a law must be passed, and they were ingenious enough to know how to frame it to sound well, and yet be comparatively powerless. They knew by such a statute that _nolle prosequis_ could be entered--and solicitors make more money--they well knew that there were many religious people among their constituents, and it would not do for them to act singular, or else they would find so short an account at the next ballot-box that they would not be sent back. He would spurn such legislators and keep them for ever in private life. (Applause.) In conclusion, he said that he was decidedly an anti-gambler, and he did not defend the subject morally. In order that he might enlighten the people on the subject of gambling, he would give one lecture, in which he would relate his experience, and promised that it should be the richest and most interesting thing that could be listened to. He did not want money. He would only ask enough to pay expenses of the room--the ladies and the reverend clergy may come in gratis--all he wished was that the truth should be told about gambling. Mr. Green now took the stand, and said that it appeared to him that there was something in the law which seemed to stick to his opponent, Mr. Freeman. He complains that the Jaw is dull--that it is trash--a bugbear, and heaps other similar epithets upon it, and yet he appears to make considerable noise about it, and why should he attempt to ridicule me, in connection with the law. Every man in this state knows that Mr. Green himself could not pass the law without the aid of the legislature. He (Mr. Freeman) goes on to take many other positions which he (the speaker) could not understand, and therefore would not further allude to them. He thought that if the young men were warned properly to keep aloof from the gambling shops, and they should heed the warning, they would escape a life of infamy. 'Tis true, a young man may go from the parlour to a gambling-place. He will first find the gamblers fascinating--rooms handsomely furnished--fine suppers given, and in fact, every temptation may be set out to catch the unwary novice. The gambler will tell him this reform is all priestcraft--you can see for yourself that we (gamblers) are not the assassins which we are represented to be--these reformers don't speak the truth. The young man is blinded--he thinks he knows by this time all about the gamblers--but in fact he knows nothing. He goes on by degrees, until becoming more hardened, he does not fear to do that which would have made him recoil with horror, in the outset. He may go to another city--carry letters of introduction to prominent gamblers--forty other letters may get there before him, putting the robbers on the look out, getting them to set their stool-pigeons. The young man is trapped--he is enticed into a gambling hell--don't call them sporting saloons or gambling-rooms, (said the speaker,) but call them what they are, _hells_--he loses all his money--his character is gone--he is ruined, and who then cares for him--does the gambler? Let me relate an instance which came under my immediate notice:--A young man in Baltimore, sometime after he had been ruined at a gambling hell, went there, but having no money, was not cared for by the gambler. He laid down on the floor in a corner of the room, night after night. One day, in particular, it was asked who he was. "Only a loafer," replied the gambler. The young man was aroused from his stupor by the one with whom he had gambled and lost, and was told to go about his business. The young man replied, "Sir, you should be the last man to treat me so; it was with you I first played cards, it was under your roof where I tasted the first glass of wine;" and whilst thus expostulating, the gambler pushed him out, he reeled down the stairs, fractured his skull on the curb-stone and fell into the gutter. Mr. Green was present and saw this base transaction. He raised the young man from the gutter, gave him a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his forehead. The next day that young man was found dead under one of the wharves. Now he, Mr. Green, could not say that the gambler murdered him, but he was dead and held the handkerchief in his clenched fist. That young man had swallowed the wrong pill; why did not the gamblers tell him they were robbers and assassins, why did they not stick to the truth. They dare not do it, and he (Mr. Green) thought it his duty as a reformed man to speak truly and act honestly. The present law which so much troubles Mr. Freeman was passed with due deliberation unanimously, and when it goes into effect on the first of July he would not wonder if there should be a very great amount of trouble among more gamblers than Mr. Freeman. (Applause.) _Mr. Freeman._ The gentleman wants to know, why this law grieves me so--why! because it is trash. He (the speaker) did not expect to live in Pennsylvania but a few days longer, as he intended going South, and if he should chance to come back again, and choose to play a game of cards, he did not wish to be placed on a par with incendiaries, robbers and murderers. All of you, no doubt, have heard of steamboat racing, boilers blowing up, &c.--everybody is up in arms about it, and cry aloud for a law to stop this abominable racing. Now he (the speaker) could make the round statement that there never has been one explosion of a boiler during the time of a steamboat racing. The reason is plain. When the race is going on, everybody is wide awake, the water is kept high, and the boilers prevented from being overheated, and in such a case no explosion can possibly take place. A law, therefore, passed to stop steamboats racing in order to prevent boilers from bursting, would be equivalent to the law passed relative to gambling. In conclusion, he would say that he knew of but one gambler who had been in prison, and not one south of Mason and Dixon's line, which was more than could be said of any other profession. (Great applause.) _Mr. Green_ (quickly.) Why is it so?--because the gamblers are eelish, and not because they don't deserve the penitentiary; Mr. Freeman knows that. (Roars of laughter and continued applause.) _Mr. Elder._ Ladies and gentlemen, it is now proposed that a vote be taken on the distribution of the proceeds of this evening. Mr. Green has had the receipts of the two previous evenings, and at the first meeting it was agreed to let the audience decide as to the third meeting. _Voice._ Were not the lectures given by Mr. Green? _Many Voices._ Question, question, question. _Voice._ I demand an answer to my question, for I wish to vote understandingly. _Voices._ Calling question from all parts of the room. _Another Voice._ Mr. Speaker, I wish to know one thing. Mr. Green says, since his reformation, he has given back over twenty thousand dollars of property which he won when he was a gambler. Now I wish to know if he will give the proceeds of the night to the gamblers, if the question is decided in his favour. _Voices._ Question, take the question; loud talking and grumbling. _First Voice._ Suppose it is decided in favour of Mr. Freeman, I wish to know if the debate can be continued or not. The question was now taken by rising, and silence being restored, the Moderator said--"It is the decision of the chair, that the proceeds belong to Mr. Freeman, by a very large majority." _Voice._ Sir, there is a mistake. _Moderator._ Are there any gentlemen here who are dissatisfied with the decision? _Voice._ I am. Hon. Charles Gibbons, speaker of the Senate, proposed to take the question by voice. This was agreed upon. _Mr. Elder._ All in favour of the proceeds being given to Mr. Freeman, say I. Here there was a tremendous response. The contrary opinion was then taken, and the chair decided that the I's were in a large majority. (Great applause.) _Voice._ Mr. President, I demand back my quarter dollar--I can't pay money to go into the pockets of a gambler. (Hisses.) _Mr. Freeman._ The gentleman can have his quarter back with pleasure. (Applause.) The rest of the evening was consumed in the explanation of tricks of gamblers by Mr. Green, which was intensely interesting, and he was greeted with rounds of applause, as he successfully performed them. From the City Bulletin. A large audience assembled on Saturday night to listen to the last debate on gambling. Mr. Freeman opened the ball with a great deal of self-possession, and talked away in defence of a palpable wrong, with as much coolness and composure as if he was discussing the last news by the steamer. But his sophistry, as well as all the sneers and jeers of his brethren in the audience, which betrayed themselves when Green began to speak, could not keep the truth under. Before the evening closed, he had every thing his own way, and was complete master of the field. Freeman battled against the late law passed in this State--and contended that it was of no avail in crushing the evil of gambling. He added that if it was effective, it was effective against the wrong persons. He then slurred over his opponent's position, charged him with insincerity, and denounced all his tales of horror. He incidentally, however, took occasion to say, that he could a tale unfold which would harrow up the soul, a tale of his own personal adventure, as a gambler, and he invited the audience to its recital to-morrow evening. Mr. Green rose with the same pleasant smile which he always has worn during his debate with Freeman, and met his opponent's positions, not with smooth, oily, plausible words, but in a plain spoken, substantial, truth-telling language. He reiterated all that he had charged against gambling at former meetings. He said gamblers were no better than thieves, that they cheated always when they could, and that they had every advantage over those who fell into their clutches. The audience were now called upon to vote as to the disposal of the receipts at the door--Mr. Green having agreed that his opponent should have them, if it was so decided. The vote was taken, and by a large majority the receipts were awarded to Freeman. The tricks now came on, Freeman having taken the ground that they could not be done without detection with any cards. He accordingly placed upon the table a pack of cards which he said he had purchased that evening. Mr. Green in taking the cards asked that a committee should be appointed to witness his tricks, and report to the assembly, but Freeman and his friends put in a decided objection to this. Green at once told the audience he would gratify them and perform the tricks openly. Here came his triumph, which was complete. He took the very cards which his opponent had bought, and with them showed conclusively, that all he had charged in relation to the expertness and skill of gamblers, and of course, their immense advantages over their opponents, was true. Thus has ended a debate which, we do think, has been productive of good to the community, while it has vindicated most fully the position which Green takes in his work of reform. We have no sympathy for Freeman, while he maintains his present stand, though we freely confess he is a gentleman of ability, and that we should be most happy to see him a co-labourer with Green, in crushing the vice of gambling. He says he is broken down in health and spirits. We know of nothing which can restore the last, and make him bear the first with greater resignation, than retire to the path of virtue. From the North American. The gambling discussion between Messrs. Green and Freeman was closed on Saturday evening, before a very large and interested audience. After some speaking on either side, which was listened to with becoming patience and attention, the tricks--which were evidently the great point of interest--were in order, and Mr. Green proceeded to fulfil his promises to the letter. Mr. Freeman had brought a pack of cards of his own selection and preparation, and Mr. Green objected that this could hardly be considered fair, and said that he should prefer the appointment of a committee to provide cards, and superintend the experiments. Upon this Mr. Freeman commenced declaiming in a triumphant tone against his antagonist; but Mr. Green cut him short by stating that he was willing to proceed with the cards that Mr. Freeman had brought. Mr. Gibbons then took the pack and marked it with a pencil, so that he might be sure of recognising it. Mr. Green then took them from him, shuffled them a moment with his hands under the table, and showed them to Mr. Gibbons, who pronounced them the same he had marked. Mr. Green then dealt them in separate heaps, and Mr. Gibbons turned up the faces, and showed the audience that each of the thirteen heaps contained the four aces, four kings, four queens, and so on down to the four deuces. The cards were then shuffled, and Mr. Green ran them off, the backs being upward, so rapidly that the eye could scarcely follow the motion of his fingers--naming each card as he threw it off, and making but _one_ mistake in the whole fifty-two cards. This extraordinary feat was received by the audience with acclamations, as being most convincing proof of the power of gamblers to perform the swindling deceptions with the cards, that Mr. Green has charged upon the nimble-fingered fraternity. The audience then good-naturedly voted Mr. Freeman the pecuniary proceeds of the evening, as a remuneration for the zeal he had displayed in a bad cause. The question was then put to the audience whether Mr. Green had satisfactorily performed all he had undertaken, and loudly answered in the affirmative. From the United States Gazette. The discussion on this important subject was continued and concluded, on Saturday evening, by Messrs. Green and Freeman. A man who can for a few minutes interest an audience so much in favour of the vice of gambling, as to make them shut out its horrible deformity, must possess more than ordinary powers, and we question much whether, of the whole fraternity of gamblers, one could be found better adapted for the Herculean task which Mr. Freeman set himself. That which the mind is accustomed steadily to dwell upon, and upon which action is had repeatedly, will scarcely want for self-justification--and while the error of proceeding is reluctantly admitted, whatever may tend to justify, however slightly, is eagerly seized upon and proclaimed. There is scarcely an evil practice for which the doer may not raise up or create reasons in justification, and plausible arguments may be made to gloss over the most detestable and indefensible crimes. A kind of Letheon is administered to the judgment by continual progression in some improper path, till that which is to all others palpably and painfully degrading becomes pleasant and eminently proper in him who labours under the mental oblivion. Such a course Mr. Freeman has trod, for while he admits that gambling is pernicious, he clamours for the natural right which all men possess, to do it so long as they do not meddle with others, and insists that it in no way gives occasion for the exercise of legal power by the fact that he has played at cards, and lost or won money. If it could be confined to individuals--if the penalty of the crime was visited only upon the doer--- if the moral and pecuniary destruction which gambling visits upon all who offer tribute at its altar, went no farther than him who made the offering, then Mr. Freeman would have a proper privilege, and would be right in saying that a man violated no law by the practice of the nefarious profession. But there are few, very few, we suppose, who are not connected by the ties of blood, the bonds of matrimony, or the relation of father to child, who are all affected by such degradation as the gambler visits upon himself, and who feel the bitter poignancy of the stroke with greater force than he whose heart has been gradually but surely abased. While a man has a single relation or friend, he should not gamble; and if he stood alone in the world, with no friend, the fear of the eternal judgment should deter him from the commission of the sin. Mr. Freeman is a plausible man; he talks earnestly and fluently, and his argument is clear and comprehensive, so far as it goes. He thinks readily and speaks aptly. As a debater, he far excels his opponent Mr. Green, and with a good cause would be an opponent difficult to conquer. But few, we think, expected so much of the metaphysics of gambling as he gave, but after he had constructed his argument, and presented the justification of the fraternity, it was marvellous how quickly the one crumbled and the other was turned to condemnation, by the application of the tests of reason and truth which Mr. Green applied. Facts stood stubbornly before Mr. Freeman's theories, and bore them down, and the experiments with the cards which closed the lecture, demonstrated, beyond a doubt, how far an unscrupulous gambler could carry his villany against an unsuspecting victim. With a rapidity that defied observation and detection, Mr. Green performed several tricks, by which he produced any card or series of cards at will, and even read eighteen cards in succession by the backs. In his argument, Mr. Freeman invariably rose in the estimation of the audience, but he rose only to fall again. There may have been respect for his abilities, but there was greater sorrow that so unprofitable and degrading a direction had been given to them. Every argument that he used became, upon reflection, an argument against gambling, and the only thing he really effected, was the proof that the law recently passed against gamblers by the legislature of this State is not stringent enough. Mr. Freeman announced that on Wednesday next, he would deliver a lecture, in which he would review his course of life, and offer arguments against gambling--which he freely confessed to be a vice, even while he proclaimed his right to practise it. Such an exposition cannot fail to be of deep interest. From the Inquirer. This controversy was continued on Saturday evening, Dr. Elder in the chair. The Lecture-room at the Chinese Museum was crowded on the occasion. Mr. Freeman commented on the notice taken by the press of the controversy--in general it was manly and dignified; Mr. Freeman read from the Post, in which gambling was severely opposed. The ground on which Mr. Freeman had canvassed this matter was, he contended, in accordance with Blackstone, Paley, and other great men, who thought--namely, that a man had a right to do what he liked with his own things. Mr. Freeman held that a thing might be legally right and morally wrong. A man had a legal right (he contended) to gamble--but in a moral light he would not defend it. Suppose a man had two sons, and, from some trivial cause, he resolved to cut off one of them with a shilling. He had a legal right so to do--but perhaps he was morally wrong. Mr. Freeman answered an article that had appeared in the Post. Mr. Freeman contended that young men who engaged in gambling, did so generally from a bad system of education. The Post had contended, in opposition to Mr. Freeman's maxim that a man had a right to do what he pleased with his own things, so long as he did not interfere with others, that gambling did interfere with the rights of others; for example, it might prevent men from paying their debts, or it might prompt them to commit suicide, either of which was a wrong to society. Mr. Freeman contended, nevertheless, that a man had such a right--certainly he had, if he were not in debt--but if he were, it was then his duty to live as long as he could, to endeavour to pay his debts. Mr. Freeman illustrated his points by allusions to Gen. Taylor and Gen. Jackson--adding, "let the truth be told if the heavens fall." Mr. Freeman again opposed the new law passed against gambling--for, he said, it was so shaped, that if a man of property gambled, he could not be troubled, but a poor, itinerant gambler could be punished. Mr. Freeman read the law in proof--wherein a difference certainly appeared to be made between those who had something to live upon, and a merely itinerant gambler--the latter liable to imprisonment if he kept a gaming house, of from one to five years. Indeed, "being without a fixed residence" is one of the features of the law. Such a law appeared to Mr. Freeman as if, for example, a man of standing were to go into a store and steal, he would be let off--- whereas, if an itinerant man were to steal, he must be punished with years of imprisonment. The cases were parallel, and yet, it seemed to him that a man of good standing ought to be punished more severely than the other, because his temptations were not so great. Such a law, so partial, was a disgrace to the statute-book. From what he knew of legislators, he thought they had made such a law, knowing that gambling was a bad vice, as a bugbear, to deter people from engaging in it--and, in some cases, because they were afraid of public opinion, and servilely followed the crowd, lest at some future time they might lose their election. Mr. Freeman said that he considered himself as an anti-gambler--but injustice had been done to gamblers, and he had defended them as far as he consistently could--and if an audience would meet him on Tuesday night, he would give them an anti-gambling lecture. He differed with Mr. Green. Mr. Green wished to know why Mr. Freeman should dislike the law so much, if he considered gambling a bad vice--he (Mr. Green) really did not understand such a position. Such was the effect of gambling upon the mind, that he was sure that when Mr. Freeman first lost his money, (three thousand dollars,) and first became a gambler, he would not have spoken as he had that night. A young man, in gambling, was driven on by degrees, by the excitement of cards, of fine wines, society, &c. Gamblers ridiculed all ideas of reform, and said to the young man, you know all about us--we are called gamblers--and the young man thinks he knows all about them, as he finds them fascinating--but he knows nothing about them. When the young man is ruined, what do the gamblers do for him? Nothing. Such a young man in Baltimore was thus ruined, and became a sot--and at length had no place to sleep, unless the gamblers allowed him. One night, he was awakened by the gambler shaking him, and calling him a loafer. The poor man said, "I do not deserve this at your hands. This was the first house I gambled in." The gambler threw him down stairs, and his head struck the curb-stone, and Mr. Green lent him his handkerchief to bind up the wound, and prevented further mischief being done to him. The next day he was found under one of the wharves--_dead!_ And such was the treatment inflicted on him by the gamblers. Mr. Green then defended the new law. Mr. Freeman said that he opposed the law because he thought it discreditable to Pennsylvania--that there should be a law to the effect that, "If I play cards, a man may say to me--there, you have done an act that, if legally visited, would send you to the Penitentiary." Mr. Freeman illustrated his views by a reference to the explosion of steamboats. Mr. Freeman said that there was never but one gambler put into prison south of Mason & Dixon's line. Mr. Freeman hinted that Mr. Green at Harrisburg had shown gambling tricks upon cards, with packs that were known to him--prepared cards, in fact. He thus astonished the natives. And this was one influence brought in aid of a passage of the law. A vote was then taken on the question--"Shall the proceeds of this night be given to Mr. Freeman?" It was decided in the affirmative by a large majority. Mr. Freeman did not deny that cheating was practised by the gamblers. But Mr. Freeman contended that Mr. Green could not perform the tricks, could not cheat with cards that he was not familiar with. Mr. Freeman produced a pack which he had just bought, and were otherwise untouched--and he said that Mr. Green could not operate with that pack. He defied him. Mr. Green said that this was no argument. But if Mr. Freeman would agree, and the meeting would appoint a committee of twelve citizens, he would before that committee meet Mr. Freeman, and with those cards exhibit tricks of gamblers. Some discussion ensued, and it was agreed that a committee should be appointed. Subsequently Mr. Green said he would exhibit before the audience; but that if Mr. Freeman shuffled the pack, he might of course disarrange his (Mr. Green's) play. But Mr. Green had contended that any gambler _in his own play_ could cheat. And Mr. Green displayed several extraordinary tricks, in which he was remarkably successful, particularly in illustrating the facility with which two partners in gambling could win from their opponents with certainty. At the conclusion of the meeting, upon Mr. Freeman submitting to the audience the question--"Have I sustained my position?"--it was decided in the negative. The question however, was not put until the audience had risen to depart--but the response was general. From the Daily Sun. We have been no inattentive observers of the debate on gambling, between Mr. Green, and his able and plausible antagonist, Mr. Freeman--who brought to the defence of a bad cause, an energy, an earnestness, and a power of illustration, which, on any other subject, must have crowned him with the laurels of a brilliant victory. But what power of logic--what force of elocution--- what stretch, of fancy, _can_ defend gambling?--which, even if right _in itself_, is yet attended by such baneful consequences--such appalling effects--as to strike terror into the hearts of the most reckless, and seal the lips of eloquence by the blood of the unfortunate? This was illustrated in a most striking manner in the recent debate--where a long tissue of false logic, on the part of Mr. Freeman, was blown to the winds by the simple recital of a _fact_, by Mr. Green detailing the death of a ruined gambler by the hands of a prosperous one! _Blood_ dispelled all the illusions of logic. Argument evaporated before the _corpse_ of the victim. Applause for ingenious argument was hushed in a moment, when the dead body of the gambler appeared in view! What a tribute to the power of _truth_--what a tremendous triumph of nature, and her sacred laws, over the flimsy artifices of passion, fiction, and a diseased imagination, fevered by habitual vice. Dr. Johnson says that the gambler is no better than a robber, because he acquires property without an equivalent. The whole gist of the argument lies here. You strip a man of fortune, or tear from his hands the earnings of a long life, and give him in return--_nothing!_ Mr. Freeman says, in answer to this--yes, you give him the chance of robbing you! And he goes so far in his sophistry, as to contend that if a man attempts to rob you on the highway, you have a right to rob him! Such is the language of the gambler, on the rule of right, who wanting a principle of virtue, resorts to every extravagant theory, to justify his violations of the first law of nature. Justice is the foundation of all human institutions: and this ordains, that no man shall take from another, what is his own, without paying him an equivalent. The gambler pays no equivalent--and hence, he stands on the same platform with the robber. The strong point in the logic of Mr. Freeman was, that _other professions_ also acquire property without paying an equivalent, and therefore gamblers were not criminal! We marvelled that a man of his sagacity should venture on so gross a sophism. He alluded to speculators and stock-jobbers, who gained their thousands without an exchange of values, and exulted that the gambler was no worse. But could this make the gambler an honest man, because other men were rogues? How desperate the cause that could clutch at so frail a straw for support! Yet Mr. Freeman appeared perfectly unconscious of the imbecility of his reasoning. More perfect hallucination we never beheld! Every man _feels_, when he gains property without an equivalent, that he has done a wrong. Every dollar so acquired plants a fang in his heart. Conscience goads him. He is miserable, restless, tortured, and for temporary relief flies to the transient oblivion of the bowl. When he wins, he drinks--and when he loses, he drinks to desperation. He feels that when he wins, he is a rogue--and that when he loses, he is a victim--no matter whether gambler, speculator or stock-jobber--he has violated the _rule of right_, by acquiring property without an equivalent; and he feels the degradation of the robber, who cries "stand!" to the passenger on the highway, and extorts his purse, with the pistol at his breast. Of the fascinating charms of gambling, history has left us too many records to make us insensible of the importance of the safe-guards which society ought to erect, to defend itself from the poison of so infectious a contamination. Who would believe, that the great _Wilberforce_ was once a gambler! That even _Pitt_ once stood on the brink of a gambler's hell. But Wilberforce was cured by _winning_ £2000 at _Holland-house_--and such was the pain he felt for those who had lost their money, that it prevented all "his future triumphs in the infernal regions." But in those regions, flourished the greatest statesmen and wits of the age--who fell victims to the prevailing fascination of the gaming-table. What destroyed _Charles James Fox_, as a statesman? _Gambling!_ What brought the brilliant _Sheridan_ to the grave? Intoxication, brought on by the ill-starred luck of the ruined gamester? "_Holland-house!_" immortalized as the resort of genius, as well as for its orgies of dissipation, is not less renowned to infamy, as having been the "hell" of respectable gamesters. There is a kind of democracy of crime, contended for by Mr. Freeman, that has its charms to the ears of the groundlings. He is opposed to a law that punishes _one_ class of gamblers only, instead of bringing _all_, within the focus of its penalties! There is much truth in this. Laws ought to be equal in their operation--but if they cannot be equal, this is no reason why there ought to be no laws at all. This conclusion is not warranted by any rule in logic or in government. No man has a right to dispose of his property to the corruption of the public morals. Mr. Freeman adduced the instance of a father having a right to disinherit one son and prefer the other. This is not a parallel case. The parallel would be a rich man leaving his fortune to found an Institution of demoralizing tendency--say to teach you the art of cheating! The laws would annul such a bequest. Society has an original, inherent right to defend itself from all evil--and that gaming is an evil, whether played with cards, lotteries, dice, stocks, or betting, not even Mr. Freeman could seriously deny. In the late debate between these celebrated speculators,--one reformed, the other confirmed in his vicious career--it was observed, what a tower of strength _truth_ gives to the man who espouses the _just_ cause. Mr. Green stood self-vindicated by his very position--while the labour of _Sisiphus_ devolved on Mr. Freeman. But the stone would not stay rolled up hill. It was no sooner at midway from the summit, but back it rolled upon its unfortunate and panting labourer. The fostering power which _intemperance_ derives from the excitements of the gaming-table, would itself prove an effectual argument against this monstrous infatuation, if no other existed. But when we find intoxication, only one of a legion of vices that attend on it--and that fraud, cheating, forgery, swindling, robbery, murder, and suicide, are its unfailing companions--we may well marvel that it should find any man so reckless of public opinion, as to venture its championship. Mr. Freeman went so far in this mad advocacy of his darling pursuit, as to justify _suicide_! In this, however, he was perfectly consistent--for if gaming of any kind is right, so is murder, robbery, and suicide. In this, Mr. Freeman over-reached himself--and by attempting too much, exposed the futility and weakness of his case. One fact, of a highly useful import, was established by this debate--and having received the concurrent attestation of Mr. Freeman, must now be considered as no longer open to doubt--that _cheating_ is a necessary part of gaming, from which even _honourable_ gamblers--(what a revolting solecism!)--do not shrink! But this is not the worst of the admissions made, in the course of this debate--which we here enumerate: 1. The winner is always in danger of murder--and runs for his life. 2. The loser becomes a cheat, a murderer, a suicide, or a drunkard. 3. The tortures of the damned are common to all gamblers, winners and losers. 4. Deception and lying are their common attributes. 5. Outlawed by public opinion--they wage implacable war against the morals, peace, and happiness of society. * * * * * So many allusions have been made to the Laws of Ohio and Pennsylvania against gambling, that it is thought necessary to append them here, that the reader may judge for himself how far the charges of impolicy, partiality, and non-efficiency are justified by these instruments. [_Law of Pennsylvania for the Suppression of Gambling, drafted by_ J. H. GREEN.] SECTION 1. _Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, in General Assembly met, and it is hereby enacted by the authority of the same_, That if any person shall keep a room, building, arbour, booth, shed, or tenement, to be used or occupied for gambling, or shall, knowingly, permit the same to be used or occupied for gambling; or if any person, being the owner of any room, building, arbour, booth, shed, or tenement, shall rent the same to be used or occupied for gambling, the persons so offending shall, on conviction thereof, be fined in any sum not less than fifty nor more than five hundred dollars; and if the owner of any room, building, arbour, booth, shed, or tenement, shall know that any gaming-tables, apparatus, or establishment is kept or used in such room, building, arbour, booth, shed, or tenement, for gambling, and winning, betting, or gaining money, or other property, and shall not forthwith cause complaint to be made against the person so keeping or using such room, building, arbour, booth, shed, or tenement, he shall be taken, held, and considered to have knowingly permitted the same to be used and occupied for gambling. SECT. 2. If any person shall keep or exhibit any gaming-table, establishment, device, or apparatus to win or gain money, or other property of value, or to aid, assist, or permit others to do the same; or if any person shall engage in gambling for a livelihood, or shall be without any fixed residence, and in the habit or practice of gambling, he shall be deemed and taken to be a common gambler, and upon conviction thereof, shall be imprisoned and kept at hard labour in the penitentiary not less than one, nor more than five years, and be fined five hundred dollars, to be paid into the treasury of the county where such conviction shall take place, for the use of common schools therein, to be divided among the accepting school districts in such county, in proportion to the number of taxable inhabitants in each district. SECT. 3. If an affidavit shall be filed with the magistrate before whom complaint shall be made of an offence against any provision of this act, stating that the affiant has reason to believe, and does believe, that the person charged in such complaint has upon his person, or at any other place named in such affidavit, any specified articles of personal property, or any gaming-table, device, or apparatus, the discovery of which might lead to establish the truth of such charge, the said magistrate shall, by his warrant, command the officer, who is authorized to arrest the person so charged, to make diligent search for such property and table, device, or apparatus; and if found, to bring the same before such magistrate, and the officer so seizing shall deliver the same to the magistrate before whom he takes the same, who shall retain possession, and be responsible therefor until the discharge, or commitment, or letting to bail of the person charged; and in case of such commitment, or letting to bail of the person so charged, such officer shall retain such property, subject to the order of the court before which such offender may be required to appear, until his discharge or conviction. And in case of the conviction of such person, the gaming-table, device, or apparatus shall be destroyed, and the property shall be liable to pay any judgment which may be rendered against such person; and after the payment of such judgment and costs, the surplus, if any, shall be paid to the use of the common schools aforesaid, and in case of the discharge of such person by the magistrate, or court, the officer having such property in his custody shall, on demand, deliver it to such person. SECT. 4. If any person called to testify on behalf of the state before any justice of the peace, grand-jury, or court, upon any complaint, information, or indictment, for any offence made punishable by this act, shall disclose any fact tending to criminate himself in any manner made punishable by this act, he shall thereafter be discharged of and from all liability to prosecution or punishment for such matter or offence. SECT. 5. It shall be lawful for any justice of the peace, chief magistrate of any municipal incorporation, or judge of any court of Common Pleas, upon complaint upon an oath, that any gaming-table, establishment, apparatus, or device is kept by any person for the purpose of being used to win or gain money or other property, by the owner thereof, or any other person, to issue his warrant, commanding any sheriff, or constable, to whom the same shall be directed, within the proper jurisdiction, after demanding entrance to break open and enter any house or other place wherein such gaming establishment, apparatus, or device shall be kept, and to seize and safely keep the same, to be dealt with as hereinafter provided. SECT. 6. Upon return of said warrant executed, the authority issuing the same shall proceed to examine and inquire touching the said complaint, and if satisfied that the same is true, he shall order the officer so seizing such gaming establishment, apparatus, or device, forthwith to destroy the same; which order the said officer shall proceed to execute in the presence of said authority, unless the person charged as keeper of said gaming establishment, apparatus, or device, shall, without delay, enter into a recognisance in the sum of six hundred dollars, with sufficient sureties, to be approved by said authority, for the appeal of said complaint to the Court of Common Pleas, next to be held in the proper county, conditioned that the defendant will appear at the next term of the court to which he appeals, and abide the order of said court, and for the payment of the full amount of the fine and all costs, in case he shall be found guilty of the offence charged, and judgment be rendered against him in said court. SECT. 7. The officer taking such recognisance shall return the same to the clerk of the court to which said appeal is taken forthwith, and such clerk shall file the same in his office, and the complaint shall be prosecuted in such court, by indictment, as in other criminal cases; and upon conviction thereof, the appellant shall be fined not more than fifty dollars, and shall pay the costs of prosecution; and such gaming establishment, apparatus, or device shall be destroyed. SECT. 8. If any person or persons shall, through invitation or device, persuade or prevail on any person or persons to visit any room, building, arbour, booth, shed, or tenement, kept for the use of gambling, he or they shall, upon conviction thereof, be held responsible for the money or properties lost by such invitation or device, and fined in a sum not less than fifty, and not more than five hundred dollars. SECT. 9. It shall be the duty of all sheriffs, constables, and all prosecuting attorneys to inform and prosecute all offenders against this act, and upon refusal thereof, they shall pay a fine of not less than fifty, nor more than five hundred dollars. SECT. 10. This act shall be given in charge to the Grand Jury, by the President Judge of the Court of Quarter Sessions in the respective counties. SECT. 11. This act shall take effect on the first day of July next. [_Law of Ohio for the suppression of Gambling, drafted by_ J. H. GREEN.] SECTION 1. _Be it enacted by the General Assembly of the State of Ohio_, That if any person shall keep a room, building, or arbour, booth, shed, or tenement, to be used or occupied for gambling, or shall, knowingly, permit the same to be used or occupied for gambling; or if any person, being the owner of such room, building, arbour, booth, shed, or tenement, shall rent the same to be used or occupied for gambling, the persons so offending shall, on conviction thereof, be fined in any sum not less than fifty dollars, nor more than five hundred dollars; and if any owner of any room, building, arbour, booth, shed, or tenement, shall know that any gambling-tables, apparatus, or establishment, is kept or used in such room, building, arbour, booth, shed, or tenement, for gambling, and winning, betting, or gaining money, or other property, and shall not forthwith cause complaint to be made against the person so keeping or using the room, building, arbour, booth, shed, or tenement, he shall be taken, held, and considered to have knowingly permitted the same to be used and occupied for gambling. SECT. 2. If any person shall keep or exhibit any gaming-table, establishment, device, or apparatus to win or gain money, or other property of value, or to aid or assist, or permit others to do the same; or if any person shall engage in gambling for a livelihood, or shall be without any fixed residence, and in the habit or practice of gambling, he shall be deemed and taken to be a common gambler, and upon conviction thereof, shall be imprisoned and kept at hard labour in the penitentiary not less than one, nor more than five years, and be fined five hundred dollars, to be paid into the treasury of the county where such conviction shall take place, for the use of common schools therein. SECT. 3. If an affidavit shall be filed with the magistrate before whom complaint shall be made of an offence against any provisions of this act, stating that the affiant has reason to believe, and does believe, that the person charged in such complaint has upon his person, or at any other place named in such affidavit, any money, or any specified articles of personal property, or any gaming-table, device, apparatus, the discovery of which might tend to establish the truth of such charge, the said magistrate shall, by his warrant, command the officer, who is authorized to arrest the person so charged, to make diligent search for such money or property, and table, device, or apparatus; and if found, to bring the same before such magistrate--and the officer seizing the same, shall retain possession thereof, subject to the order of the magistrate before whom he takes the same, until the discharge, or commitment, or letting to bail of the person charged; and in case of such commitment, or letting to bail of the person so charged, such officer shall retain such property, subject to the order of the court before which such offender may be required to appear, until his discharge or conviction. And in case of the conviction of such person, the gaming-table, device, or apparatus shall be destroyed, and the money and other property shall be liable to pay any judgment which may be rendered against such person; and in case of the discharge of such person by the magistrate, or court, the officer having such property in his custody, shall, on demand, deliver it to such person. SECT. 4. If any person called to testify on behalf of the state before any justice of the peace, grand-jury, or court, upon any complaint, information, or indictment, for any offence made punishable by this act, shall disclose any fact tending to criminate himself in any matter made punishable by this act, he shall thereafter be discharged of and from all liability to prosecution or punishment for such matter of offence. SECT. 5. It shall be lawful for any justice of the peace, chief magistrate of the municipal incorporation, or judge of any court of common pleas, upon complaint on oath, that any gaming-table, establishment, apparatus, or device is kept for the purpose of being used to win or gain money or other property, by the owner thereof, or any other person, to issue his warrant, commanding any sheriff, constable, or marshal of any municipal corporation to whom the same may be directed, within the proper jurisdiction, after demanding entrance, to break open and enter any house or other place where such gaming establishment, apparatus, or device shall be kept, and to seize and safely keep the same, to be dealt with as hereafter provided. SECT. 6. Upon the return of said warrant executed, the authority issuing the same shall proceed to examine and inquire touching the said complaint, and if satisfied the same is true, he shall order the officer so seizing such gaming establishment, apparatus, or device, forthwith to destroy the same; which order the said officer shall proceed to execute in the presence of said authority, unless the person charged as keeper of said gaming establishment, apparatus, or device, shall, without delay, enter into a recognisance in the sum of two hundred dollars, with sufficient sureties, to be approved by said authority, for the appeal of said complaint to the Court of Common Pleas, next to be held in the proper county, conditioned that the defendant will appear at the next term of the court to which he appeals, and abide the order of such court, and for the payment of the full amount of the fine and all costs, in case he shall be found guilty of the offences charged, and judgment be rendered against him in said court. SECT. 7. The officer taking such recognisance shall return the same to the clerk of the court to which said appeal is taken forthwith, and such clerk shall file the same in his office, and complaint shall be prosecuted in such court, by indictment, as in other criminal cases; and upon conviction, the appellant shall be fined not more than fifty dollars, and shall pay the costs of prosecution; and such gaming establishment, apparatus, or device shall be destroyed. SECT. 8. It shall be the duty of all sheriffs, constables, marshals of incorporated cities, towns, and boroughs, and of all prosecuting attorneys, to inform and prosecute all offences against this act. SECT. 9. This act shall be given in charge to the Grand Jury, by the President Judge of the Court of Common Pleas in the respective counties. SECT. 10. This act shall take effect on the first day of March next. ELIAS F. DRAKE, _Speaker of the House of Representatives._ SEABURY FORD, _Speaker of the Senate._ Jan 17, 1846. During the three evenings of the debate the Lecture-room of the Museum was crowded with a most respectable audience; and thousands must have read the reports given by the different Newspapers on the following mornings. Throughout the community there was considerable excitement, and we have no doubt that good has already resulted. The evils of gambling are now familiar to many who never previously thought upon the subject; and the excuses and defences urged for participating in the vice have been stripped of their fallacious guises. For this work we owe many thanks to the conductors of the public press who have come forth ably and willingly to our assistance. But we trust that the immediate advantages from the discussion are not the only ones. It will be perceived from the reports given, that we met with no common opponent. Mr. Freeman is perhaps not excelled, if he has an equal, among gamblers, for talent, learning, and, what is more rare, candour and honesty of character. From a lecture which he has since delivered, we learn that he was on a professional visit to Philadelphia, where he had bought some implements for gambling and was about to return to the South, when his attention was arrested by a notice in a paper that Mr. Green was to give a lecture in the Museum on the following evening. For some years he had formed a resolution that if ever he had an opportunity of hearing him, he would embrace it, and he now concluded that he would stay another day for that purpose. He did so, attended his lecture, and from antipathy to himself and the course he was pursuing, was induced to send the challenge to the Sun newspaper which led to the debate in the preceding pages. It is not improbable that while thinking on the points he proposed to defend, his naturally acute mind perceived their fallacy, as there was a gradual shifting of his position from the subject of the original challenge, till on the last evening of the debate he ended with the astonishing announcement that on the Tuesday following he would deliver a lecture _against gambling_ in the same place. Since then, he has delivered several lectures on the same subject, has taken the temperance pledge, been admitted into one of the divisions of the Sons of Temperance, and promises fair to be an efficient labourer in the cause of truth and virtue. Like Paul, he seems to have been arrested midway in his career, and by the power of conscience compelled to build up what he once exerted himself to destroy. May God prosper him in his labours, and give him grace to continue unto the end. [_Recommendation._] Cincinnati, _July_, 1843. We, the undersigned, believing that Mr. J. H. Green's proposed publication ["The ARTS AND MISERIES OF GAMBLING"] will be eminently useful in counteracting one of the most pernicious and demoralizing vices of the age, take great pleasure in recommending it to the patronage of the public. Rev. CHARLES ELLIOTT, _Editor of the Western Christian Advocate_. Rev. L.L. HAMLINE, _Bishop of the Methodist Episcopal Church_. D.K. ESTE, _Judge of the Superior Court, Cin. Ham. Co_. Rev. JAMES P. KILBRETH. SAMUEL WILLIAMS. JOHN McLEAN, _Judge of the United States Court._ Rev. W.H. RAPER. THOMAS J. BIGGS, _President of the Cincinnati College._ SAMUEL W. LYND, D.D. _Pastor of the Ninth Street Baptist Church._ Hon. JACOB BURNET. Rev. JOHN F. WRIGHT. H.E. SPENCER, _Mayor of Cincinnati._ LOTTERIES. This is as deceptive, and as base a business, as was ever introduced into any country. The apparent respectability of it, and of the men who carry it on, is calculated to remove the scruples many might otherwise have to patronizing it. The facility with which it can be patronized, without the liability of exposure, and the promises of sudden gain so artfully held out, are inducements not easily resisted by a money-loving people, totally ignorant of the odds against them in the game they play. All other games generally require the personal attention of the players who patronize them; but this is a game at which any one can play, and need never be seen, even by those against whom he may be playing. Thousands of persons, who stand high in the estimation of their neighbors for good conduct; men who would not, on any account, be found at a gambling-table, will patronize lotteries. The ease with which it can be done, without exposure, enables them to gratify, to the full extent of their means, their passion for this base species of swindling. In many of our large cities, numerous well-dressed young men are constantly engaged in vending tickets through the streets, or from house to house, and they can be bought as privately as the buyer may wish, or he may send his servant for them. Thus it is that a man may gamble as extensively as he pleases in lotteries, without his proceedings being at all likely to become public. In my description of lotteries, I shall confine myself to the lottery scheme before us; because it will serve as an example of all others, and because the reader will be better able to comprehend explanations of this system than if I were to write of some scheme not here inserted. By a reference to the tables of tickets, it will be seen that there are fifteen packages of whole tickets, as many of halves, and thirty packages of quarter tickets. Each package contains all the numbers, from one up to seventy-eight, without a repetition of any one of them. The tickets found in these tables are all that are intended for any one drawing; and every successive drawing is but another edition of the same tickets, all arranged in the same order, and with the same combination numbers; but they have a different class number on them. The proprietors of a lottery furnish the printer with a copy of these tables, arranged in a blank book, and this book is called the _scheme-book_, from which as many as may be ordered from time to time are printed. The arranging of the class numbers is a matter of fancy, as to what they shall be; their only use being to determine to what particular drawing any particular ticket belongs, in order that a ticket which proves to be a blank may not, at some future drawing, be handed in for a premium, on account of containing some of the numbers then drawn. [Illustration: _Drawing of Lottery Tickets._] THE DRAWING. There are several methods of conducting the drawing; but that which is most commonly used is as follows:-- There is a hollow wheel, as represented in the plate; then there are seventy-eight small tin tubes, scarcely half an inch in diameter, and about three inches in length; these are for holding the numbers, from one to seventy-eight; each number is on a separate piece of paper, which is rolled up and put into a tube; these tubes, when the numbers have been placed in them, are all put into the wheel, and a person is selected to draw out one at a time from the wheel, which is opened, and cried aloud, for the information of those present who may be interested. The number is registered, for the future guidance of the lottery-dealer, in determining what he shall pay those who may hold one or more of the numbers so drawn. After this, the wheel is again turned, so as to mix well the numbers contained in it, and a second is drawn; and the same proceedings are gone over with, until twelve numbers are drawn, and registered in the order in which they are drawn. Sometimes thirteen will be drawn, it being customary, on many occasions, to draw one number for every six contained in the wheel; but I cannot give this as a universal rule, because I have often found it deviated from. Sometimes little boys are selected to draw the numbers from the wheel--to give the impression that every possible step has been taken to render the management as fair as possible; but in this there is also much deception. Swarms of domestic servants, day labourers, and the most poor and needy persons daily visit these worse than gambling shops, where they risk their little all, and get nothing in return but the delightful anticipation of being rich when the "drawing" takes place. True it has been the case that prizes have been drawn, and trumpeted forth to the world, as inducements for others to buy. Having known how some of these prizes have sometimes been obtained, will it be too much to suppose that others are obtained in like manner? that is by the proprietors of lotteries being swindled through the unfaithfulness of their agents. A case came to my knowledge of a man who drew a capital prize; and the mode of operation, by which it was effected, was as follows: An agent, who was stationed in a town some distance from the principal establishment, made two confidants, who, doubtless, readily acted with him from hope of gain. One of these was the post-master of the town, and the other an acquaintance, a patron of the lottery. The duty of the agent was to transmit to the principal office all unsold tickets, by the first mail that left after the known hour of drawing. This mail also conveyed the lists of the drawing; but, in a regular manner of proceeding, they would not have been accessible to the agent before the departure of the stage with his unsold tickets. By making a confidant of the post-master, however, he received the lists as quick as possible after the mail arrived, and before it had been assorted. He then examined his unsold tickets, and if any considerable prize remained, he would take it from among the unsold tickets, and despatch the remainder to the principal office, and give the prize to his other confidant; each one giving out that the ticket had been sold to him; and accordingly the prize would be claimed and paid, although fraudulently obtained. In this particular case, the capital prize was drawn, and it appeared that the ticket-holder appropriated all the money to his own use, as he was known to buy much property shortly afterwards. It is believed also, by those who were acquainted with the incident, that he never divided with the rascally agent; and thus was the cheater cheated, who, in his wrath, let out some of the secrets of the manner in which the prize was obtained. This same man has since met with reverses of fortune, and would now, I believe, find it difficult to raise money sufficient to purchase a ticket even of a low price. Among the many cases of lottery swindling, every body has heard of the great Louisiana real estate lottery, in which the prizes were to have been the St. Charles Hotel, the Verandah, the St. Charles Theatre, the Bank, the Arcade, and other magnificent buildings in New Orleans. It is quite needless to say any thing of this, as the public has been pretty well enlightened in regard to it, through the public journals of the day. The following is a copy of a handbill issued by the proprietors of the lottery immediately after a drawing, for the information of ticket-holders, and all others interested:-- DRAWING OF THE LOTTERY. The following are the numbers which were this day drawn from the seventy-eight placed in the wheel, viz.:-- 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 ------------------------------------ 20 51 61 24 74 77 46 36 69 29 26 3 and that the said tickets were drawn in the order in which they stand: that is to say, No. 20 was the first that was drawn; No. 51 was the 2d; No. 61 was the 3d; No. 24 was the 4th; No. 74 was the 5th; No. 77 was the 6th; No. 46 was the 7th; No. 36 was the 8th; No. 69 was the 9th; No. 29 was the 10th; No. 26 was the 11th; No. 3 was the 12th, and last. Those tickets entitled to the 110 highest prizes were drawn in the following order:-- 1 2 3 $30,000 | 7 8 9 $5,000 4 5 6 10,000 | 10 11 12 2,367 20 Those 6 tickets having on them the 2 3 4 | 3 4 5 | 5 6 7 | 6 7 8 | 8 9 10 | 9 10 11 > each 1,500 Those 100 tickets having on them the 1 2 4 | 1 4 7 | 1 7 9 | 2 3 11 | 2 6 10 \ 1 2 5 | 1 4 8 | 1 7 10 | 2 3 12 | 2 6 11 | 1 2 6 | 1 4 9 | 1 7 11 | 2 4 5 | 2 6 12 | 1 2 7 | 1 4 10 | 1 7 12 | 2 4 6 | 2 7 8 | 1 2 8 | 1 4 11 | 1 8 9 | 2 4 7 | 2 7 9 | 1 2 9 | 1 4 12 | 1 8 10 | 2 4 8 | 2 7 10 | 1 2 10 | 1 5 6 | 1 8 11 | 2 4 9 | 2 7 11 | 1 2 11 | 1 5 7 | 1 8 12 | 2 4 10 | 2 7 12 | 1 2 12 | 1 5 8 | 1 9 10 | 2 4 11 | 2 8 9 | 1 3 4 | 1 5 9 | 1 9 11 | 2 4 12 | 2 8 10 | 1 3 5 | 1 5 10 | 1 9 12 | 2 5 6 | 2 8 11 > each 1,000 1 3 6 | 1 5 11 | 1 10 11 | 2 5 7 | 2 8 12 | 1 3 7 | 1 5 12 | 1 10 12 | 2 5 8 | 2 9 10 | 1 3 8 | 1 6 7 | 1 11 12 | 2 5 9 | 2 9 11 | 1 3 9 | 1 6 8 | 2 3 5 | 2 5 10 | 2 9 12 | 1 3 10 | 1 6 9 | 2 3 6 | 2 5 11 | 2 10 11 | 1 3 11 | 1 6 10 | 2 3 7 | 2 5 12 | 2 10 12 | 1 3 12 | 1 6 11 | 2 3 8 | 2 6 7 | 2 11 12 | 1 4 5 | 1 6 12 | 2 3 9 | 2 6 8 | 3 4 6 | 1 4 6 | 1 7 8 | 2 3 10 | 2 6 9 | 3 4 7 / All others with three of the drawn numbers on, (being 110) each 300 Those 66 tickets having on them the 1st and 2d drawn numbers, each 100 Those 66 tickets having on them the 2d and 3d, each 80 Those 66 tickets having on them the 3d and 4th, each 50 Those 66 tickets having on them the 4th and 5th, each 40 Those 132 tickets having on them the 5th and 6th, or 6th and 7th, each 30 All others with two of the drawn numbers on, (being 3960,) each 20 And all tickets having one, only, of the drawn numbers on, each, (being 25,740,) 10 Now, let us spend a few moments in examining this bill, and we shall see how much truth there is in it. It says, that the ticket having on it the three first drawn numbers will be entitled to the capital prize of $30,000. Now, in the whole scheme before us, there is no such ticket. The combination, 20, 51, 61, is not to be found in this arrangement. Consequently, there was no ticket whose numbers entitled it to this prize. Next, the bill says, the ticket having the fourth, fifth, and sixth drawn numbers, which would have been 24, 74, 77, would be entitled to a prize of $10,000. There is no such ticket in the combination. Consequently this also is false. Now, it is evident that the dealers, in publishing this bill, mean to impress the public with the idea, that tickets, containing the necessary numbers to draw these prizes, are in the lottery, and that somebody must, of course, draw them; but it is all false, and a very little investigation will convince any one, that a greater system of deception can hardly exist. Bear in mind, that the bill says these prizes were drawn. The third prize was $5,000, and the ticket which contained the seventh, eighth, and ninth numbers was to draw this prize. These numbers are 36, 46, 69. There is no such combination in the scheme-book--no such ticket was printed or sold. Consequently, here is another falsehood. The same can be said of the fourth prize--the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth numbers--being 3, 26, 29. There is no such combination in the book, and no such prize could be drawn. Of the next six prizes, of $1,500 each, said to have been drawn, there was not a single ticket in the whole scheme which contained the necessary numbers to draw any one of these six prizes! It is next asserted, that there were in the lottery one hundred tickets, having three drawn numbers, and entitled each to a prize of $1,000. This I have examined, and I find that, instead of being one hundred, there are but two--the first in magnitude being one from package number six, of half tickets, bearing the numbers 20, 36, 51,--these being the first, second, and eighth of the drawn numbers, and would entitle the holder to one half of the $1,000, subject to a deduction of fifteen per cent. The other is a quarter ticket, bearing the numbers 46, 51, 74--from the twenty-seventh package, of quarters--being the second, fifth, and seventh of the drawn numbers, and would entitle the holder of it to one quarter of the $1,000, after deducting the fifteen per cent. But it is well known that, frequently, scarce one half of the tickets of any one class, intended for a particular drawing, are ever disposed of, and are consequently returned to the manager's office, to be destroyed. Then, what guaranty have we that the numbers entitled to the above pitiful prizes were sold? They are as likely to be among the tickets returned unsold, as among those sold. Next, the bill states that there were one hundred and ten others, each having three drawn numbers, and were entitled to a prize of $300 each. By a close investigation, I find but one single ticket of this kind in the whole scheme. This is the ticket in the twelfth package of quarters, bearing the numbers 61, 69, 77; and if it had been sold, it would have entitled the holder to one fourth of the $300, deducting 15 per cent. Next, the bill says, those sixty-six tickets having the first and second drawn numbers, will each be entitled to a prize of $100. In searching for these in the scheme-book, I find but one that bears the first and second numbers; that is, in package fourteen. The ticket having the numbers 20, 51, 66, is the only one having the two first numbers; and if sold, the holder was entitled to one half of the $100, it being a half ticket. Now, the reader may perceive that I have examined and laid open, so that he too may examine, this masterpiece of villany. I find that of the two hundred and eighty-six highest prizes, which, their own handbill states, existed in their lottery, and which, by their own figures, amounted to the enormous sum of $195,967, and, in order to be drawn, only required that the tickets should be bought,--I find, allowing every ticket to have been sold, and afterwards every holder presented his ticket for the sum to which it might be entitled, that of the two hundred and eighty-six said to be in the scheme, there are but five, and these very inconsiderable; and that the greatest amount of these five prizes, without deducting the fifteen per cent, is only $875, instead of the enormous sum of $195,967. Can it be possible that any person will be found to patronize lotteries, after considering these facts? I pass over those small prizes named after the first sixty-six having the first and second drawn numbers on them, and will prove the balance to be falsehoods, as the greater portion of the first part of the bill is. In the first place, let us see how many prizes are represented to exist, not to say any thing of the blanks. In counting up the prizes named on this bill, we find them to be 30,316; and I do not think they would pretend to say that more than one half of their tickets were prizes. Then we will say that they had an equal number of blanks. This would carry their scheme up to over sixty thousand tickets; and even if they were all prizes, and no blanks, (which they do not pretend,) who cannot see the extreme improbability of their disposing of 30,316 tickets in one week? for it must be remembered that these were all of one class, and for one particular week's drawing. But the last witness, whose overwhelming testimony will settle the question, is their own scheme-book, of which an accurate copy is here given, and which shows the number of tickets, for any one drawing, to be but 1,560, the half of which, by great exertion, they might succeed in selling; each successive drawing being another edition of these same combinations, with a different class number on them. Now, let me ask, where are their 30,316 prizes to come from? What a scheme of deception do we here behold! and one, too, that has been so long submitted to and patronized by the public of this and other countries. Another method of still further swindling the buyers of tickets, is much practised in some parts of the country. The agents who sell the tickets are authorized to insure them. When a man buys one, the price, perhaps, might be ten dollars. The seller, if he has been authorized, will say, "Now, sir, for ten dollars, I will insure your ticket to draw a prize." This is enough for the buyer to have his ticket insured to draw a prize, and possibly the capital prize: he pays an additional fee, and the agent forwards the numbers of all the tickets, so insured, to the office where the drawing is to be held; and there they manage to have these tickets contain one (seldom more) of the drawn numbers. This entitles the buyer to receive back the price of his ticket, after taking out 15 per cent.; and as it was not a total blank, the insurer is safe, and retains the sum paid for insurance. The buyer remains swindled out of the insurance, and 15 per cent, of the cost. These swindling shops are numerous, and are sometimes called _policy offices_. We sincerely hope that our readers will examine with some attention the developments we have made in relation to the deceptive schemes of the lottery managers; for we feel that they cannot fail to convince every man of common sense, who has a particle of moral principle and moral honesty left, that he who encourages this basest of all swindling, by purchasing tickets, is not alone an enemy to himself and family, but he countenances a species of gambling that is extensively mischievous and ruinous, and has for its victims many of our best citizens, young and old; while, at the same time, he unintentionally throws a veil over the villanous deeds of the lottery gambler and his unprincipled, as well as his inexperienced supporters. We once more invite our readers to examine our statements with attention. The following tables represent, completely, the entire contents of a lottery dealer's scheme-book, made for the guidance of the printer, in printing tickets. At the close of the tables is represented a ticket, with its class and combination numbers. +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | #1# | #2# | #3# | #4# | #5# | #6# | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 1 27 53| 1 28 55 | 1 29 54| 1 30 56| 1 31 57| 1 32 58| | 2 28 54| 2 29 56 | 2 30 55| 2 31 57| 2 32 58| 2 33 59| | 3 29 55| 3 30 57 | 3 31 56| 3 32 58| 3 33 59| 3 34 60| | 4 30 56| 4 31 58 | 4 32 57| 4 33 59| 4 34 60| 4 35 78| | 5 31 57| 5 32 59 | 5 33 58| 5 34 60| 5 35 61| 5 36 77| | 6 32 58| 6 33 60 | 6 34 59| 6 35 61| 6 36 62| 6 42 71| | 7 33 59| 7 34 61 | 7 35 60| 7 36 62| 7 37 63| 7 43 70| | 8 34 60| 8 35 62 | 8 36 61| 8 37 63| 8 38 64| 8 44 69| | 9 35 61| 9 36 63 | 9 37 62| 9 38 64| 9 39 65| 9 45 68| |10 36 62| 10 37 64 | 10 38 63| 10 39 65| 10 40 66| 10 46 67| |11 37 63| 11 38 65 | 11 39 64| 11 40 66| 11 41 67| 11 37 76| |12 38 64| 12 39 66 | 12 40 65| 12 41 67| 12 42 68| 12 38 75| |13 39 65| 13 40 67 | 13 41 66| 13 42 68| 13 43 69| 13 39 74| |14 40 66| 14 41 68 | 14 42 67| 14 43 69| 14 44 70| 14 40 73| |15 41 67| 15 42 69 | 15 43 68| 15 44 70| 15 45 71| 15 41 72| |16 42 68| 16 43 70 | 16 44 69| 16 45 71| 16 46 72| 16 27 57| |17 43 69| 17 44 71 | 17 45 70| 17 46 72| 17 47 73| 17 28 56| |18 44 70| 18 45 72 | 18 46 71| 18 47 73| 18 48 74| 18 29 55| |19 45 71| 19 46 73 | 19 47 72| 19 48 74| 19 49 75| 19 30 54| |20 46 72| 20 47 74 | 20 48 73| 20 49 75| 20 50 76| 20 31 53| |21 47 73| 21 48 75 | 21 49 74| 21 50 76| 21 51 77| 21 47 65| |22 48 74| 22 49 76 | 22 50 75| 22 51 77| 22 52 78| 22 48 66| |23 49 75| 23 50 77 | 23 51 76| 23 52 78| 23 30 53| 23 49 64| |24 50 76| 24 51 78 | 24 52 77| 24 27 53| 24 29 54| 24 50 63| |25 51 77| 25 52 53 | 25 27 78| 25 28 54| 25 28 55| 25 51 62| |26 52 78| 26 27 54 | 26 28 53| 26 29 55| 26 27 56| 26 52 61| +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ The above lottery schemes were accurately copied from the scheme-book of a lottery dealer in Vicksburg, Mississippi, and may be considered a fair specimen of lottery combinations generally. The tables are for a 78 numbered lottery, every three perpendicular lines of figures containing a package, and each package all the numbers, from 1 to 78, inclusive; and there are also 26 tickets in each package. +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | #7# | #8# | #9# | #10# | #96# | #97# | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 1 34 59| 1 60 78| 1 61 64| 1 35 36| 1 38 39 | 1 41 43| | 2 36 60| 2 61 77| 2 62 65| 2 37 38| 2 40 49 | 2 42 45| | 3 35 61| 3 62 76| 3 63 66| 3 39 40| 3 41 50 | 3 44 47| | 4 37 62| 4 63 75| 4 29 78| 4 41 42| 4 42 51 | 4 46 49| | 5 38 63| 5 64 74| 5 28 77| 5 43 44| 5 43 52 | 5 48 51| | 6 49 74| 6 65 73| 6 27 76| 6 45 46| 6 44 53 | 6 50 53| | 7 50 75| 7 66 72| 7 30 50| 7 47 48| 7 45 54 | 7 52 55| | 8 51 76| 8 67 71| 8 31 51| 8 49 50| 8 46 55 | 8 54 57| | 9 52 77| 9 68 70| 9 32 52| 9 51 52| 9 47 56 | 9 56 59| |10 27 78| 10 53 69| 10 33 53| 10 53 54| 10 48 57 | 10 58 61| |11 28 53| 11 27 52| 11 34 54| 11 55 56| 11 58 67 | 11 60 63| |12 29 54| 12 28 51| 12 35 55| 12 57 58| 12 59 68 | 12 62 65| |13 30 55| 13 29 50| 13 36 56| 13 59 60| 13 60 69 | 13 64 67| |14 31 56| 14 30 49| 14 37 57| 14 61 62| 14 61 70 | 14 66 69| |15 32 57| 15 31 48| 15 38 58| 15 63 64| 15 62 71 | 15 68 71| |16 33 58| 16 32 47| 16 39 59| 16 65 66| 16 63 72 | 16 70 73| |17 48 73| 17 33 46| 17 40 60| 17 67 68| 17 64 73 | 17 72 75| |18 47 72| 18 34 45| 18 41 67| 18 69 70| 18 65 74 | 18 74 77| |19 46 71| 19 35 44| 19 42 68| 19 71 72| 19 66 75 | 19 76 78| |20 45 70| 20 36 43| 20 43 69| 20 73 74| 20 27 76 | 20 35 40| |21 44 69| 21 37 59| 21 44 70| 21 75 76| 21 28 77 | 21 34 39| |22 43 68| 22 38 58| 22 45 71| 22 77 78| 22 29 78 | 22 33 38| |23 42 67| 23 39 57| 23 46 72| 23 27 28| 23 30 34 | 23 32 37| |24 41 66| 24 40 56| 24 47 73| 24 29 30| 24 31 35 | 24 31 36| |25 40 65| 25 41 55| 25 48 74| 25 31 32| 25 32 36 | 25 27 29| |26 39 64| 26 42 54| 26 49 75| 26 33 34| 26 33 37 | 26 28 30| +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ At the beginning of the first package you will see the numbers 1, 27, 53; they are placed on one ticket; and so with each succeeding three numbers through the whole scheme. +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | #98# | #99# | #100# | | #101# | #101# | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 13 | 14 | 15 | 00 | 1 | 1 | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 1 45 44| 1 62 70| 1 27 78| | 1 2 53 | 1 2 60| | 2 46 47| 2 63 71| 2 28 77| | 3 4 54 | 3 6 61| | 3 48 49| 3 64 72| 3 29 76| | 5 29 55 | 4 7 62| | 4 50 51| 4 65 73| 4 30 75| | 6 30 56 | 5 52 63| | 5 52 53| 5 66 74| 5 31 74| | 7 31 57 | 8 51 64| | 6 54 55| 6 52 75| 6 32 73| | 8 32 58 | 9 50 65| | 7 56 57| 7 53 76| 7 33 72| | 9 33 59 | 10 49 66| | 8 58 59| 8 54 77| 8 34 71| | 10 34 60 | 11 48 67| | 9 60 61| 9 55 78| 9 35 70| | 11 35 61 | 12 47 68| |10 62 63| 10 56 67| 10 36 69|Here ends| 12 36 62 | 13 46 69| |11 64 65| 11 57 68| 11 37 68| Fifteen | 13 37 63 | 14 45 70| |12 66 67| 12 58 69| 12 38 67|Packages | 14 38 64 | 15 44 71| |13 68 69| 13 59 61| 13 39 66|of Whole | 15 39 65 | 16 43 72| |14 70 71| 14 51 60| 14 40 65| Tickets | 16 40 66 | 17 42 73| |15 72 73| 15 27 39| 15 41 64| | 17 41 67 | 18 41 74| |16 74 75| 16 28 40| 16 42 63| | 18 42 68 | 19 40 75| |17 76 77| 17 29 41| 17 43 62| | 19 43 69 | 20 39 76| |18 43 78| 18 30 42| 18 44 61| | 20 44 70 | 21 38 77| |19 27 42| 19 31 43| 19 45 60| | 21 45 71 | 22 37 78| |20 28 41| 20 32 44| 20 46 59| | 22 46 72 | 23 36 53| |21 29 40| 21 33 45| 21 47 58| | 23 47 73 | 24 35 54| |22 30 39| 22 34 46| 22 48 57| | 24 48 74 | 25 34 55| |23 31 38| 23 35 47| 23 49 56| | 25 49 75 | 26 33 56| |24 32 37| 24 36 48| 24 50 55| | 26 50 76 | 27 32 57| |25 33 36| 25 37 49| 25 51 54| | 27 51 77 | 28 31 58| |26 34 35| 26 38 50| 26 52 53| | 28 52 78 | 29 30 59| +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ There are, in these schemes, 15 packages of whole tickets, each containing 26, which make an aggregate of 390, and the same number of halves, which, if added to the former, will make 780; also, 30 packages of quarters, making, in all, 1560. These comprise the whole of the combinations here given, and are intended for one particular drawing, constituting one class. For each successive drawing, another edition of the same combinations are offered for sale, only with different class numbers. +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | #103# | #104# | #105# | #106# | #107# | #108# | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 1 3 61| 1 3 65| 1 4 66| 1 4 67| 1 5 68| 1 5 69| | 2 4 62| 2 41 66| 2 42 67| 2 5 68| 2 6 69| 2 6 70| | 5 6 63| 4 42 67| 3 43 68| 3 45 69| 3 7 70| 3 7 71| | 7 8 64| 5 43 68| 5 44 69| 6 46 70| 4 45 71| 4 8 72| | 9 31 65| 6 44 69| 6 45 70| 7 47 71| 8 46 72| 9 48 75| |10 32 66| 7 45 70| 7 46 71| 8 48 72| 9 47 73| 10 49 76| |11 33 67| 8 40 71| 8 47 72| 9 49 73| 10 48 74| 11 50 73| |12 34 68| 9 39 72| 9 48 73| 10 50 74| 11 49 75| 12 51 74| |13 35 69| 10 38 73| 10 49 74| 11 51 75| 12 50 76| 13 52 78| |14 36 71| 11 37 74| 11 50 75| 12 52 76| 13 51 77| 14 31 77| |15 37 70| 12 36 75| 12 51 76| 13 29 77| 14 52 78| 15 32 68| |16 38 72| 13 35 76| 13 52 77| 14 30 78| 15 30 67| 16 33 67| |17 39 73| 14 34 77| 14 41 78| 15 31 66| 16 31 66| 17 34 66| |18 40 74| 15 33 78| 15 40 65| 16 32 65| 17 32 65| 18 35 65| |19 41 75| 16 32 53| 16 28 64| 17 33 64| 18 33 64| 19 36 64| |20 42 76| 17 31 54| 17 29 63| 18 34 63| 19 34 63| 20 37 63| |21 43 77| 18 30 55| 18 30 62| 19 35 62| 20 35 62| 21 38 62| |22 44 78| 19 29 56| 19 31 61| 20 36 61| 21 36 61| 22 39 61| |23 45 53| 20 28 57| 20 32 60| 21 37 60| 22 37 60| 23 40 60| |24 46 54| 21 52 58| 21 33 59| 22 38 59| 23 38 59| 24 41 59| |25 47 55| 22 51 59| 22 34 58| 23 39 58| 24 39 58| 25 42 58| |26 48 56| 23 50 60| 23 35 57| 24 40 57| 25 40 57| 26 43 57| |27 49 57| 24 49 61| 24 36 56| 25 41 56| 26 41 56| 27 44 56| |28 50 58| 25 48 62| 25 37 55| 26 42 55| 27 42 55| 28 45 55| |29 51 59| 26 47 63| 26 38 54| 27 43 54| 28 43 54| 29 46 54| |30 52 60| 27 46 64| 27 39 53| 28 44 53| 29 44 53| 30 47 53| +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ The venders of lottery tickets possess an immense advantage over the buyer, which is mostly in the extreme improbability of a prize of any considerable amount being drawn. The numbers 1 to 78 are capable of making 76076 combinations on what I may term the increasing ratio--that is, the second larger than the first, and the third larger than the second, in arithmetical progression; as, 5, 10, 15, &c. +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | #109# | #110# | #196# | #197# | #198# | #199# | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 1 6 70| 1 6 71| 1 7 72| 1 7 73| 1 8 74 | 1 8 75| | 2 7 71| 2 7 72| 2 8 73| 2 8 74| 2 9 75 | 2 9 76| | 3 8 72| 3 8 73| 3 9 74| 3 9 75| 3 10 76 | 3 10 77| | 4 9 73| 4 9 74| 4 10 75| 4 10 76| 4 11 77 | 4 11 78| | 5 10 74| 5 10 75| 5 11 76| 5 11 77| 5 12 78 | 5 12 74| |11 32 75| 11 33 76| 6 12 77| 6 12 78| 6 13 73 | 6 13 72| |12 33 76| 12 34 77| 13 33 78| 13 52 72| 7 14 72 | 7 14 73| |13 34 77| 13 35 78| 14 34 53| 14 51 71| 15 45 70 | 15 46 71| |14 35 78| 14 36 70| 15 35 54| 15 50 70| 16 46 71 | 16 47 70| |15 36 69| 15 37 69| 16 36 55| 16 49 69| 17 47 69 | 17 48 69| |16 37 68| 16 38 68| 17 37 56| 17 48 68| 18 48 68 | 18 49 68| |17 38 67| 17 39 67| 18 38 57| 18 47 67| 19 49 67 | 19 50 67| |18 39 66| 18 40 66| 19 39 58| 19 46 66| 20 50 66 | 20 51 66| |19 40 65| 19 41 65| 20 40 59| 20 45 65| 21 51 65 | 21 52 65| |20 41 64| 20 42 64| 21 41 60| 21 44 64| 22 52 64 | 22 45 64| |21 42 62| 21 43 63| 22 42 61| 22 43 61| 23 44 63 | 23 44 61| |22 43 63| 22 44 62| 23 43 62| 23 42 62| 24 43 62 | 24 43 60| |23 44 60| 23 45 61| 24 44 63| 24 41 63| 25 42 61 | 25 42 63| |24 45 61| 24 46 60| 25 45 64| 25 40 60| 26 41 60 | 26 41 62| |25 46 59| 25 47 59| 26 46 65| 26 39 59| 27 40 59 | 27 40 58| |26 47 58| 26 48 58| 27 47 66| 27 38 58| 28 39 58 | 28 39 59| |27 48 57| 27 49 56| 28 48 67| 28 37 57| 29 38 57 | 29 38 56| |28 49 56| 28 50 57| 29 49 68| 29 36 56| 30 37 56 | 30 37 57| |29 50 55| 29 51 55| 30 50 69| 30 35 55| 31 36 55 | 31 36 54| |30 51 54| 30 52 54| 31 51 70| 31 34 54| 32 35 53 | 32 35 55| |31 52 53| 31 32 53| 32 52 71| 32 33 53| 33 34 54 | 33 34 53| +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ In the following combinations there are but 1560, where there might be 76076; and if this latter number were printed and sold, some one must hold the three first drawn numbers, every ticket-holder having one chance out of 76076 of drawing the capital prize. But, in this combination, if a man were to purchase the whole of the tickets, being 1560, there would still be 49 chances against his holding the three first numbers, to one for it. As there are no two tickets holding the same three numbers, of course but one can hold the three first, which is the prize. +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | #200# | #206# | #201# | #202# | #203# | #204# | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 15 | 00 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 1 9 76| | 1 9 77 | 1 10 77| 1 10 78 | 1 11 21| | 2 10 77| | 2 10 78 | 2 11 78| 2 11 77 | 2 12 22| | 3 11 78| | 3 11 76 | 3 12 53| 3 12 76 | 3 13 23| | 4 12 75| | 4 12 74 | 4 13 54| 4 13 75 | 4 14 24| | 5 13 74| | 5 13 75 | 5 14 55| 5 14 74 | 5 15 25| | 6 14 73|Here ends | 6 14 72 | 6 15 56| 6 15 72 | 6 16 26| | 7 15 72| Fifteen | 7 15 73 | 7 16 57| 7 16 71 | 7 17 27| | 8 16 71| Packages | 8 16 70 | 8 17 58| 8 17 70 | 8 18 28| |17 52 70| of Half | 17 51 71 | 9 18 59| 9 18 69 | 9 19 29| |18 51 69| Tickets. | 18 50 69 | 19 52 60| 19 36 68 | 10 20 30| |19 50 68| The | 19 49 68 | 20 40 72| 20 37 67 | 31 41 51| |20 49 67|following | 20 48 67 | 21 50 62| 21 38 66 | 32 42 52| |21 48 66| Packages | 21 47 66 | 22 49 63| 22 39 65 | 33 43 53| |22 47 65| are | 22 46 65 | 23 48 64| 23 40 64 | 34 44 54| |23 46 64|Quarters. | 23 45 64 | 24 47 65| 24 41 62 | 35 45 55| |24 45 63| | 24 44 61 | 25 46 66| 25 45 63 | 36 46 56| |25 44 62| | 25 43 62 | 26 45 67| 26 43 60 | 37 47 57| |26 43 61| | 26 42 63 | 27 44 68| 27 44 61 | 38 48 58| |27 42 60| | 27 41 60 | 28 43 69| 28 42 59 | 39 49 59| |28 41 59| | 28 40 59 | 29 42 70| 29 46 58 | 40 50 60| |29 40 58| | 29 39 58 | 30 41 71| 30 47 57 | 61 67 73| |30 39 57| | 30 38 57 | 31 51 61| 31 48 56 | 62 68 74| |31 38 56| | 31 37 56 | 32 39 73| 32 49 55 | 63 69 75| |32 37 55| | 32 36 55 | 33 38 74| 33 50 54 | 64 70 76| |33 36 54| | 33 35 53 | 34 37 75| 34 51 53 | 65 71 77| |34 35 53| | 34 52 54 | 35 36 76| 35 52 73 | 66 72 78| +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ By a little investigation, any one may discover that his chance for drawing a prize, even of a trifling amount, is extremely small. By the following method any one may ascertain the number of combinations which any given number will produce, as in the present case, 78 � 77 � 76 = 456456 ÷ 6 = 76076, the number of combinations of three numbers each; the 78 multiplied by 77, and the product by 76, and that product divided by 6 gives the number of combinations of three numbers each, which the numbers from 1 to 78 will produce, no two combinations containing the same three numbers. +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | #205# | #206# | #207# | #208# | #209# | #210# | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 1 12 23| 1 13 25 | 1 14 27 | 1 15 29| 1 16 31 | 1 17 33| | 2 13 24| 2 14 26 | 2 15 28 | 2 16 39| 2 17 32 | 2 18 34| | 3 14 25| 3 15 27 | 3 16 29 | 3 17 31| 3 18 33 | 3 19 35| | 4 15 26| 4 16 28 | 4 17 30 | 4 18 32| 4 19 34 | 4 20 36| | 5 16 27| 5 17 29 | 5 18 31 | 5 19 33| 5 20 35 | 5 21 37| | 6 17 28| 6 18 30 | 6 19 32 | 6 20 34| 6 21 36 | 6 22 38| | 7 18 29| 7 19 31 | 7 20 34 | 7 21 35| 7 22 37 | 7 23 39| | 8 19 30| 8 20 32 | 8 21 33 | 8 22 36| 8 23 38 | 8 24 40| | 9 20 31| 9 21 33 | 9 22 35 | 9 23 37| 9 24 39 | 9 25 41| |10 21 32| 10 22 34 | 10 23 36 | 10 24 38| 10 25 40 | 10 26 42| |11 22 33| 11 23 35 | 11 24 37 | 11 25 39| 11 26 41 | 11 27 43| |34 45 56| 12 24 36 | 12 25 38 | 12 26 40| 12 27 42 | 12 28 44| |35 46 57| 37 49 61 | 13 26 39 | 13 27 41| 13 28 43 | 13 29 45| |36 47 58| 38 50 62 | 40 53 66 | 14 28 42| 14 29 44 | 14 30 46| |37 48 59| 39 51 63 | 41 54 67 | 43 55 67| 15 30 45 | 15 31 47| |38 49 60| 40 52 64 | 42 55 68 | 44 56 68| 46 57 68 | 16 32 48| |39 50 61| 41 53 65 | 43 56 69 | 45 57 69| 47 58 69 | 49 59 69| |40 51 62| 42 54 66 | 44 57 70 | 46 58 70| 48 59 70 | 50 60 70| |41 52 63| 43 55 67 | 45 58 71 | 47 59 71| 49 60 71 | 51 61 71| |42 53 64| 44 56 68 | 46 59 72 | 48 60 72| 50 61 72 | 52 62 72| |43 54 65| 44 55 66 | 45 47 73 | 49 61 73| 51 62 73 | 53 63 73| |44 55 66| 46 58 70 | 48 61 74 | 50 62 74| 52 63 74 | 54 64 74| |67 71 76| 47 59 72 | 49 62 75 | 51 63 75| 53 64 75 | 55 65 75| |68 72 75| 48 60 71 | 50 63 76 | 52 64 76| 54 65 76 | 56 66 76| |69 73 78| 73 75 77 | 51 64 77 | 53 65 77| 55 66 77 | 57 67 77| |70 74 77| 74 76 78 | 52 65 78 | 54 66 78| 66 67 78 | 58 68 78| +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | #296# | #297# | #298# | #299# | #300# | #301# | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 22 | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 1 18 35| 1 19 37| 1 20 39| 1 21 41| 1 22 43| 1 23 45| | 2 19 36| 2 20 38| 2 21 40| 2 22 42| 2 23 44| 2 24 46| | 3 20 37| 3 21 39| 3 22 41| 3 23 43| 3 24 45| 3 25 47| | 4 21 38| 4 22 40| 4 23 42| 4 24 44| 4 25 46| 4 26 48| | 5 22 39| 5 23 41| 5 24 43| 5 25 45| 5 26 47| 5 27 49| | 6 23 40| 6 24 42| 6 25 44| 6 26 46| 6 27 48| 6 28 50| | 7 24 41| 7 25 43| 7 26 45| 7 27 47| 7 28 49| 7 29 51| | 8 25 42| 8 26 44| 8 27 46| 8 28 48| 8 29 50| 8 30 52| | 9 26 43| 9 27 45| 9 28 47| 9 29 49| 9 30 51| 9 31 53| |10 27 44| 10 28 46| 10 29 48| 10 30 50| 10 31 52| 10 32 54| |11 28 45| 11 29 47| 11 30 49| 11 31 51| 11 32 53| 11 33 55| |12 29 46| 12 30 48| 12 31 50| 12 32 52| 12 33 54| 12 34 56| |13 30 47| 13 31 49| 13 32 51| 13 33 53| 13 34 55| 13 35 57| |14 31 48| 14 32 50| 14 33 52| 14 34 54| 14 35 56| 14 36 58| |15 32 49| 15 33 51| 15 34 53| 15 35 55| 15 36 57| 15 37 59| |16 33 50| 16 34 52| 16 35 54| 16 36 56| 16 37 58| 16 38 60| |17 34 51| 17 35 53| 17 36 55| 17 37 57| 17 38 59| 17 39 61| |52 61 70| 18 36 54| 18 37 56| 18 38 58| 18 39 60| 18 40 62| |53 62 71| 55 63 71| 19 38 57| 19 39 59| 19 40 61| 19 41 63| |54 63 72| 56 64 72| 58 65 72| 20 40 60| 20 41 62| 20 42 64| |55 64 73| 57 65 73| 59 66 73| 61 67 74| 21 42 63| 21 43 66| |56 65 74| 58 66 74| 60 67 74| 62 68 73| 64 69 74| 22 44 65| |57 66 75| 59 67 75| 61 68 75| 63 69 76| 65 70 75| 67 71 75| |58 67 76| 60 68 76| 62 69 76| 64 70 75| 66 71 76| 68 72 76| |59 68 77| 61 69 77| 63 70 77| 65 71 78| 67 72 77| 69 73 77| |60 69 78| 62 70 78| 64 71 78| 66 72 77| 68 73 78| 70 74 78| +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ Lottery-dealers are aware of the great odds against the buyers, and are very cautious in keeping all the secrets of a fraud to themselves, by which they are robbing the public continually. But it shall not be the fault of the writer of these pages if their swindling machinations are longer concealed from the community. Thousands upon thousands of dollars are expended annually in lottery tickets in this country; and how very seldom is it that you hear of a capital prize having been drawn! If there should chance to be a prize of any magnitude awarded to a ticket-holder, it is trumpeted from one end of the Union to the other, by those most interested in lottery speculations, stimulating others to try their luck, and by that means making their very losses minister to their gain; for, in all likelihood, months and years may elapse before another large prize will be drawn from the same lottery. +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | #302# | #303# | #304# | #305# | #306# | #307# | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 1 24 47| 1 25 49 | 1 26 51 | 1 12 24| 1 13 27 | 1 14 39| | 2 25 48| 2 26 50 | 2 27 52 | 2 13 25| 2 14 28 | 2 15 38| | 3 26 49| 3 27 51 | 3 28 53 | 3 14 26| 3 15 29 | 3 16 37| | 4 27 50| 4 28 52 | 4 29 54 | 4 15 27| 4 16 30 | 4 17 36| | 5 28 51| 5 29 53 | 5 30 55 | 5 16 28| 5 17 31 | 5 18 35| | 6 29 52| 6 30 54 | 6 31 56 | 6 17 29| 6 18 32 | 6 19 34| | 7 30 53| 7 31 55 | 7 32 57 | 7 18 30| 7 19 33 | 7 20 33| | 8 31 54| 8 32 56 | 8 33 58 | 8 19 31| 8 20 34 | 8 21 32| | 9 32 55| 9 33 57 | 9 34 59 | 9 20 32| 9 21 35 | 9 22 31| |10 33 56| 10 34 58 | 10 35 60 | 10 21 33| 10 22 36 | 10 23 30| |11 34 57| 11 35 59 | 11 36 61 | 11 22 34| 11 23 26 | 11 24 29| |12 35 58| 12 36 60 | 12 37 62 | 23 49 66| 12 24 25 | 12 25 28| |13 36 59| 13 37 61 | 13 38 63 | 35 50 65| 37 51 65 | 13 26 27| |14 37 60| 14 38 62 | 14 39 64 | 36 51 64| 38 52 66 | 40 53 78| |15 38 61| 15 39 63 | 15 40 66 | 37 52 67| 39 53 67 | 41 54 77| |16 39 62| 16 40 64 | 16 41 65 | 38 53 69| 40 54 68 | 42 55 76| |17 40 63| 17 41 65 | 17 42 67 | 39 54 68| 41 55 69 | 43 56 75| |18 41 64| 18 42 66 | 18 43 68 | 40 55 70| 42 56 70 | 44 57 74| |19 42 65| 19 43 67 | 19 44 69 | 41 56 71| 43 57 71 | 45 58 73| |20 43 66| 20 44 68 | 20 45 71 | 42 57 72| 44 58 72 | 46 59 71| |21 44 67| 21 45 69 | 21 46 70 | 43 58 73| 45 59 73 | 47 60 72| |22 45 68| 22 46 70 | 22 47 72 | 44 59 74| 46 60 74 | 48 61 70| |23 46 69| 23 47 71 | 23 48 73 | 45 60 75| 47 61 75 | 49 62 69| |70 73 76| 24 48 72 | 24 49 74 | 46 61 76| 48 62 76 | 50 63 68| |71 74 77| 73 76 77 | 25 50 75 | 47 62 77| 49 63 77 | 51 64 67| |72 75 78| 74 75 78 | 76 77 78 | 48 63 78| 50 64 78 | 52 65 66| +--------+----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ It will be seen by the lottery combinations we present, how infinitely disproportionate are the chances in this species of gambling--how vastly the odds bear against the purchaser of tickets, and what mischievous results must of necessity spring from a vile system of frauds, perpetrated, as it is, by the sanction of law, and the tolerance of custom. +--------+-----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | #308# | #309# | #310# | #396# | #397# | #398# | +--------+-----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | +--------+-----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ | 1 18 53| 1 19 53 | 1 20 53 | 1 21 53| 1 22 45 | 1 23 46| | 2 19 54| 2 20 54 | 2 21 54 | 2 22 54| 2 23 43 | 2 24 45| | 3 20 55| 3 21 55 | 3 22 55 | 3 23 55| 3 24 44 | 3 25 55| | 4 21 56| 4 22 56 | 4 23 56 | 4 24 56| 4 25 56 | 4 26 56| | 5 22 57| 5 23 57 | 5 24 57 | 5 25 57| 5 26 57 | 5 27 57| | 6 23 58| 6 24 58 | 6 25 58 | 6 26 58| 6 27 58 | 6 28 58| | 7 24 59| 7 25 59 | 7 26 59 | 7 27 59| 7 28 59 | 7 29 59| | 8 25 60| 8 26 60 | 8 27 60 | 8 28 60| 8 29 60 | 8 30 78| | 9 26 61| 9 27 61 | 9 28 61 | 9 29 61| 9 30 61 | 9 31 77| |10 27 62| 10 28 62 | 10 29 62 | 10 30 62| 10 31 62 | 10 32 76| |11 28 63| 11 29 63 | 11 30 63 | 11 31 63| 11 32 63 | 11 33 75| |12 29 64| 12 30 64 | 12 31 64 | 12 32 64| 12 33 64 | 12 34 74| |13 30 65| 13 31 65 | 13 32 65 | 13 33 65| 13 34 65 | 13 35 73| |14 31 66| 14 32 66 | 14 33 66 | 14 34 66| 14 35 66 | 14 36 72| |15 32 67| 15 33 67 | 15 34 67 | 15 35 67| 15 36 67 | 15 37 71| |16 33 68| 16 34 68 | 16 35 68 | 16 36 68| 16 38 71 | 16 38 70| |17 34 69| 17 35 69 | 17 36 69 | 17 37 69| 17 37 70 | 17 39 69| |35 44 70| 18 36 70 | 18 37 70 | 18 38 70| 18 39 69 | 18 40 68| |36 45 71| 37 45 71 | 19 38 71 | 19 39 71| 19 40 68 | 19 41 67| |37 46 72| 38 46 72 | 39 46 72 | 20 40 72| 20 41 72 | 20 42 66| |38 47 73| 39 47 73 | 40 47 73 | 41 47 73| 21 42 73 | 21 43 65| |39 48 74| 40 48 74 | 41 48 74 | 42 48 74| 46 51 74 | 22 44 64| |40 49 75| 41 49 75 | 42 49 75 | 43 49 75| 47 52 75 | 47 51 63| |41 50 76| 42 50 76 | 43 50 76 | 44 50 76| 48 53 76 | 48 52 62| |42 51 77| 43 51 77 | 44 51 77 | 45 51 77| 49 54 77 | 49 53 61| |43 52 78| 44 52 78 | 45 52 78 | 46 52 78| 50 55 78 | 50 54 60| +--------+-----------+----------+---------+-----------+---------+ All the combinations used in this lottery have been given, as also the number that might be made; and, of course, the less the dealer in lotteries makes, the greater the chance in his favor, and the less in favor of the buyer. The figures heading the classes of combinations, on each page, are class-numbers, and those below the first figures, and immediately above the columns, are placed there to indicate the number of packages. +---------+--------+ | #399# | #400# | +---------+--------+ | 29 | 30 | +---------+--------+ | 1 24 53 | 1 25 53| | 2 25 54 | 2 26 54| | 3 26 55 | 3 27 55| | 4 27 56 | 4 28 56| | 5 28 57 | 5 29 57| | 6 29 58 | 6 30 58|Here ends | 7 30 59 | 7 31 59|the Thirty | 8 31 60 | 8 32 60|Packages | 9 32 61 | 9 33 61|of Quarters. |10 33 62 |10 34 62| |11 34 63 |11 35 63| |12 35 64 |12 36 64| |13 36 65 |13 37 65| |14 37 66 |14 38 66| |15 38 67 |15 39 67| |16 39 68 |16 40 68| |17 40 69 |17 41 69| |18 41 70 |18 42 70| |19 42 71 |19 43 71| |20 43 72 |20 44 72| |21 44 73 |21 45 73| |22 45 74 |22 46 74| |23 46 75 |23 47 75| |47 50 76 |24 48 76| |48 51 77 |49 51 77| |49 52 78 |50 52 78| +---------+--------+ [Illustration: MARKED CARDS. See Green on Gambling.] The above are specimens of patterns of playing cards, that the reader may rely upon the gambler's knowing by their back as well as the generality of amusement players know by their face. The same may be said of all the patterns spoken of and presented to the view of the reader on another page of this work. [Illustration: Literature Lottery BY AUTHORITY OF THE STATE OF KENTUCKY Class No. 205 Com Nos 10 48 75 This Ticket will entitle the holder to one QUARTER of such Prize as may be drawn to its Numbers, if demanded within twelve months after the Drawing. Subject to a deduction of Fifteen per cent: Payable forty days after the Drawing. For A. BASSFORD & CO., Managers. #Covington, 1841. QUARTER.# [This plate represents a lottery ticket with the numbers placed upon it. The numbers seen upon its face are of the same order as those found upon every ticket when sold, and are used to designate one ticket from another, and by comparing them with the numbers at the head of any of those packages of combinations, on another page, you will see the manner in which they are arranged, and the great advantage in favor of the managers.]] FALLACY OF LOTTERIES AS A MEANS OF REVENUE. We are indebted for the following exposition to our moral friend, Capt. John Maginn, of New York city. "Although they may produce, by the various deceptive allurements which they hold forth, a temporary influx into the treasury of the state, yet the prostration of industry, the formation of idle habits, intemperance and various other vices, have invariably been the consequences wherever they have been introduced. No farther evidence of this position is requisite than the fact that in England, where many of the common necessaries of life are heavily taxed, it has been satisfactorily ascertained from observation, that for several days preceding the drawing of a lottery, the consumption of such articles was very materially diminished. It is moreover equally true, that a very small proportion of the tax actually paid, through the purchase of lottery tickets, is available to the state: by far the greater part being absorbed in the expenses, profits, &c., of managers and venders." INSURING NUMBERS, OR POLICY DEALING. As the system of insuring numbers is at present practised to a fearful extent in this city, and as its votaries are mostly the ignorant and unthinking portion of the community, we proceed to give a plain matter-of-fact investigation of the chances. There being on the day of drawing a certain number of tickets in the wheel, out of which a particular number of them are to be drawn, it follows that there are so many chances to one against a given number being drawn as the number which are to be drawn are contained in the entire number of tickets in the wheel. To illustrate this practically, suppose you would insure the payment of $100 upon the event of a certain number being drawn from the lottery wheel to-day; suppose it is a 78 number lottery, and that 12 ballots are to be drawn; the chance then is evidently 78/12, or 6.5 to 1 that you lose: accordingly, in order to make the chances equal, you must pay 100/6.5, or $15.38, for insurance: if therefore the insurer should ask $32, there would be about $16 fraud: in other words, you would have to contend against about 100 per cent. The only inducement for the insurer to pursue this vile practice, in defiance of constitutions and laws, is a liberal per centage. This varies from 30 to 70, and even 125 per cent. Under circumstances like these, when the chances of gain are obviously so remote, it would seem incredible that any one endowed with even ordinary sagacity could be so deluded--so desperate--as to adventure; though, sad to relate, hundreds and hundreds in this city daily spend their little all in effecting insurance on numbers, and that, too, at the sacrifice of the common necessaries of life. Another system of insurance, which we will proceed to analyze, is effected by what is termed a station number. The adventurer selects a number, and declares that it will come out the first or second drawn, or in some other place, for which he pays six cents, and if the number is drawn in the order indicated, he is to receive $2.50. To illustrate this, suppose you select a certain number, which you declare will be the third drawn; suppose also that it is a 78 number lottery, and that there are 12 drawn ballots. In this case there are evidently 78/12 = 6.5 chances to 1 against the selected number being drawn. It is also plain that should it be a drawn number, there are 12 chances to 1 against it being drawn in any particular order; wherefore it follows, that there are 6.5x12 = 78 chances to 1 against the selected number being the third or any other particular drawn number. Accordingly, to equalize the chances, in case of winning you should receive 78x6 = $4.68; hence, under these circumstances the insurer gains $2.18, which is nearly 100 per cent. Again, suppose it is a 98 number lottery, and that you pay 25 cents: here we have 98x25 = $24.50, the sum you ought to receive in case of winning, instead of which you only receive 25/6x2.5 = $10.626; hence the insurer gains $13.975, or more than 125 per cent. PROF. GODDARD ON LOTTERIES. We give below a very able memorial, from the pen of Prof. Goddard, of Brown University, to the Legislature of Rhode Island. The undersigned, citizens of Rhode Island, have long regarded the lottery system with unqualified reprobation. They believe it to be a multiform social evil, which is obnoxious to the severest reprehension of the moralist, and which it is the duty of the legislator, in all cases, to visit with the most effective prohibitory sanctions. Entertaining these convictions, the undersigned memorialists cannot withhold them from the Hon. General Assembly of Rhode Island. They invoke the General Assembly to exercise their constitutional powers, promptly and decisively, for the correction of a long-continued, and wide-spread, and pestilent social evil. They ask them, most respectfully and earnestly, to withdraw, as soon as may be, all legislative sanction of the lottery system, and to save Rhode Island from the enduring reproach of being among the last States to abandon that system. The memorialists beg leave to disclaim, in this matter, all personal or political considerations. They are seeking neither to help nor to hurt any political party. They contemplate no aggression upon the rights or the character of individuals. They are engaged in no impracticable scheme of moral reform. They have no fondness for popular agitation. They are what they profess to be, citizens of Rhode Island, and it is only in the quality of citizens of Rhode Island, that they now ask the General Assembly to resort to the most operative penal enactments, for the entire suppression of a system which exists, and which can exist only to disgrace the character of the State, and to injure both the morals and the interests of the people. The memorialists are persuaded that a commanding majority of the citizens of every political party entertain sentiments of decided hostility to all lotteries. In praying, therefore, for legislative interposition, they feel that they are not in advance of public opinion, that they are not urging the General Assembly to anticipate public opinion, but only to imbody it; to accelerate its salutary impulses, and to augment its healthful vigour. The constitutional power of the legislature to interfere in the premises being undisputed, the memorialists beg leave to submit, for consideration, a few only of the many reasons which have forced upon their minds the conclusion--that Rhode Island should lose no time and spare no effort in extirpating the lottery system:--a system which has already worked extensive evil within her borders; which is repugnant to a cultivated moral sense; and which has been branded, both as illegal and immoral, by some of the most enlightened governments upon earth. In this connection, it should be stated, that England, and, it is believed, France likewise, have abandoned the lottery system. Some of the most populous and influential States in this Confederacy have abandoned it. Massachusetts has abandoned it; Pennsylvania has abandoned it; New York has abandoned it. Nay more, so hostile were the people of the latter State to the lottery system, that in revising its Constitution a few years since, they adopted a provision which prohibits the Legislature from ever making a lottery grant. These examples are adduced to show the progress of an enlightened public sentiment upon this subject, and to exhibit the grateful spectacle of governments, differently constituted, exercising their powers for the best interests of the people. The evils which the lottery system creates, and the evils which it exasperates, are so various and complicated, that the undersigned memorialists cannot attempt an enumeration. They are so revolting as to furnish no motive for rhetorical exaggeration. A few only of these evils the undersigned memorialists will now proceed to mention. 1. Lotteries are liable to many of the strongest objections which can be alleged against gambling. They have thus far escaped, it is true, the infamy of gambling, but they can plead no exemption from its malignant consequences. Like gamblers, they are hostile--not to say fatal--to all composure of thought and sobriety of conduct. Like gambling, they inflame the imagination of their victims and their dupes, with visions of ease, and affluence, and pleasure, destined never to be realized. Like gambling, they seduce men, especially the credulous and the unthinking, from the pursuits of regular industry, into the vortex of wild adventure and exasperated passions. Like gambling, they ultimately create a necessity for constant vicious excitement. Like gambling, they often lead to poverty and despair, to insanity and to suicide. Like gambling, they furnish strong temptations to fraud, and theft, and drunkenness. Like gambling, they work, in but too many cases, a permanent depravation of all moral principle and all moral habits. This fearful parallel might easily be extended. The picture here presented of the evils of lotteries, however fearful it may seem, is not overdrawn. This picture will be owned as just, by many a bereaved widow and by many a forsaken wife, who trace all their woes to the temptation into which this _respectable_ and legalized species of gambling had betrayed once affectionate husbands. It will be owned as just by many a child, who has been doomed perchance to a heritage of ignorance and poverty, by a father, for whose weak virtue the potent fascinations of the lottery were found too strong. In many respects, the lottery system may be deemed even more pernicious than ordinary gambling. It spreads a more accomplished snare; it is less offensive to decorum; it is less alarming to consciences which have not lost all sensitiveness; it numbers among its participants multitudes of those who ought to blush and to tremble for thus hazarding their own virtue, and for thus corrupting the virtues of others; it draws within its charmed circle men and women who fill up every gradation of age, and character, and fortune. 2. The lottery system, as at present constituted, presents the strongest temptations to fraud on the part of all those who are concerned either in the drawing of lotteries or in the sale of tickets. It is not known that fraud has in any case been perpetrated, though fraud is suspected. If perpetrated, it would be no easy matter to detect it. The ignorant and the credulous men and women, who seek to better their fortunes by gambling in lottery tickets, know nothing of those mystical combinations of numbers, on which their fate is suspended. Utter strangers as they are to all the "business transactions" of the lottery system, if cheated at all, they are cheated without remedy. 3. The lottery system operates as a most oppressive tax upon the community. This tax is paid, not by the rich and luxurious--but it is paid mainly by those who are struggling for independence, and by those who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow--by the servants in our kitchens--by clerks and apprentices, and day-labourers; by mechanics and traders; by the men and women who work in our factories; and in too many instances, it is to be feared, by our hardy yeomanry, who, impatient of the slow profits of agriculture, vainly expect from the chances of the lottery that which is never denied to the efforts of industry. The amount of pauperism and crime, of mental agitation and perchance of mental insanity, which the lottery system must create among these numerous classes, it would not be easy to calculate. 4. Lotteries are the parent of much of the pauperism which is to be found in this young, and free, and prosperous land. It entails poverty upon multitudes directly, by exhausting their limited means in abortive experiments to get rich by "high prizes"--and, yet more, by withdrawing multitudes from a dependence on labour, and accustoming them to hope miracles of good fortune from chance. After repeated disappointments, they discover, when it is too late to profit from the discovery, how sadly they have been duped, and how recklessly they have abandoned their confidence in themselves, and in that gracious Being who never forsakes those who put their trust in him. They sink into despondency, and, seeking to forget themselves, they bring upon their faculties the brutal stupor of intoxication, or they exhilarate them by its delirious gayety. Suicide is often the fearful issue. Dupin ascribes a hundred cases of suicide _annually_ to the lottery system in the single city of Paris. Many years ago a lottery scheme, displaying splendid prizes, was formed in London. Adventures to a very large amount was the consequence, and the night of the drawing was signalized by fifty cases of suicide! 5. Success in lotteries is hardly less fatal than failure. The fortunate adventurer is never satisfied. He ventures again and again, till ruin overtakes him. After all the tempting promises of wealth, which are made by those concerned in this iniquitous system, how very few, except managers of lotteries and venders of lottery tickets, has it ever made rich! and well may it be asked, whom has it ever made more diligent in business, more contented, and respectable, and happy? 6. Lotteries, it is believed, are rendered especially mischievous in this country by the nature of our institutions, and by the spirit of the times. Here, the path to eminence being open to every one--but too many are morbidly anxious to improve their condition; and by means, too, which in the wisdom of Providence were never intended to command success. A mad desire for wealth pervades all classes--it feeds all minds with fantastic hope; it is hostile to all patient toil, and legitimate enterprise, and economical expenditure. It generates a spirit of reckless speculation; it corrupts the simplicity of our tastes; and, what is yet worse, it impairs, not unfrequently, in reference to the transactions of business, the obligations of common honesty. Upon these elements of our social condition and character, the lottery system operates with malignant efficacy. The undersigned memorialists are far from thinking that, in the preceding remarks, they have exhausted the argument against the lottery system. They have dwelt, in general terms, upon only some of its more prominent evils. They do not allow themselves to believe that, aside from the ranks of those who have a direct personal interest in this system, a man of character could be found in Rhode Island to defend it. The memorialists deem lotteries to be in Rhode Island a paramount social evil. They entreat the General Assembly to survey this evil in all its phases, and then to apply the remedy. The interposition which is now asked at the hands of the Legislature has been delayed too long, either for the interests or for the character of the state. It is time that we protected our interests, and retrieved our character. It is time that the lottery had ceased to be the "_domestic institution_" of Rhode Island. It is time that we abandoned, and abandoned for ever, the policy of supporting schools, and building churches, with the wages of iniquity. The memorialists are aware that the General Assembly have made lottery grants, which have not yet expired. They seek not in any way to interfere with those grants; but in concluding this expression of their views, they cannot avoid repeating their earnest entreaty that the legislature would come up without unnecessary delay to the great work of reforming an abuse, which no length of time, or patronage of numbers, or policy of state, should be permitted to shelter for another hour. EXTRACTS _from a Report to the Society for the Prevention of Pauperism in the city of New York._ "It is not possible to estimate the sum that may have been drawn from the people by lottery devices. Nor is it possible to estimate the number of poor people that have engaged in lottery gambling. We have been told, that more than two hundred of these deluded people have been seen early in the mornings at the lottery offices, pressing to know their fate. _There_ might be seen the anxiety, the disappointment, and mortification, of unfortunate beings, who had lost their all! "Thus we see that this demoralizing contagion has spread its destructive influence over the most indigent and ignorant of the community. The injurious system of lotteries opens a wide door to gambling, fraud and imposition; of which the speculating, dishonest, idle, profligate and crafty avail themselves, and deceive the innocent and ignorant. "If we place this subject in a pecuniary view as it relates to the public funds, the mischievous effect is more obvious. From an estimate, made by a gentleman of accurate calculation, it appears, that the expense, or the amount drawn from the people, to raise by lottery the net sum of 30,000 dollars, amounts to $170,500, including the expense of the managers and their attendants, the clerks and attendants of the lottery offices, the expense of time lost by poor people, and the amount paid the proprietors of lottery offices. This enormous sum is paid for the collection of only 30,000 dollars. This is, therefore, not only the most expensive, but also the most demoralizing method that was ever devised to tax the people. "Upon the whole view of the subject, your committee are decidedly of opinion, that lotteries are the most injurious kind of taxation, and the very worst species of Gambling. By their insidious and fascinating influence on the public mind, their baleful effect is extended, and their mischievous consequences are most felt by the indigent and ignorant, who are seduced, deceived, and cheated out of their money, when their families are often suffering for the necessaries of life. Their principles are vitiated by lotteries, they are deceived by vain and delusive expectation, and are led into habits of idleness and vice, which produce innumerable evils, and, ultimately, end in misery and pauperism." LOTTERY COMBINATIONS. The numbers on lottery tickets are formed by combinations of certain numbers previously agreed upon; as from 1 to 60, 1 to 75, 1 to 78, &c., &c. Combination consists in taking a less number of things out of a greater, without any regard to the order in which they stand; no two combinations having the same quantities or numbers. _Problem._--To find the number of combinations which can be taken from any given number of things, all different from each other, taking a given number at a time. _Rule._--Take a series of numbers, the first term of which is equal to the number of things out of which the combinations are to be made, and decreasing by 1, till the number of terms is equal to the number of things to be taken at a time, and the product of all the terms. Then take the natural series 1, 2, 3, &c., up to the number of things to be taken at a time, and find the product of all the terms of this series. Divide the former product by the latter, and the quotient will be the answer. How many combinations of 3 numbers can be taken out of 78 numbers? 78�77�76 = 456456 and 1�2�3 = 6 6)456456 ------ 76076 Answer. How many combinations of 3 numbers can be taken out of 70 numbers? 70�69�68 = 328440 and 1�2�3 = 6 6)328440 ------ 54740 Answer. How many combinations of 3 numbers can be taken out of 60 numbers? 60�59�58 = 205320 and 1�2�3 = 6 6)205320 ------ 34220 Answer. How many combinations of 3 numbers can be taken out of 40 numbers? 40�39�38 = 59280 and 1�2�3 = 6 6)59280 ----- 9880 Answer. We have sufficient experience in lottery gambling to assure the community that their whole system is as foul as highway robbery. We purchased a wheel from one of the fraternity in Washington City, and drew in Philadelphia three times, then carried it to Washington, and there demonstrated to the satisfaction of those who witnessed our drawing, that what we asserted was true to the letter. We copy the notices of the American Courier, one of the first papers of our country in the cause of humanity, and ever ready to diffuse that which will promote the happiness and welfare of mankind. "GREEN'S LOTTERY, "On Saturday night, drew the prize of fifty dollars for the proprietor, he having declared to the audience the intention of giving them blanks, which he did to the satisfaction of the judges. We have the best authority for stating the belief that his expositions will prove not only interesting, but highly beneficial, in opening the eyes of thousands to the frauds practised in the shape of fairness by the lottery managers." After which the editor received the following:-- _Frederick, June 9th, 1848._ _Dear Sir_--Will you oblige some of your readers by giving them an idea of "Green's" manner of exposition of frauds, as practised by the lottery managers? and by so doing, no doubt but you will confer a favour on many of your subscribers. Respectfully, B. A. M'Makin, Esq., _Ed. American Courier, Philad._ EXPLANATION. In obedience to the request of "B," we have conversed with a gentleman who was one of a committee of the audience to superintend the drawing of "Green's Lottery" on a recent occasion. He says that the tickets were prepared and distributed precisely after the plan of the regular lottery managers, with the exception that Mr. Green announced to the audience that he had purposely reserved certain combinations of numbers, which he knew by calculation would draw for him the highest prize, and leave for them _blanks only!_--Each individual in the audience held a ticket, with a different combination of numbers, such as they choose to select from the packages opened to them. The numbers were placed in the wheel precisely in the usual way, the drawing conducted by the committee from the audience, and on the announcement of the drawn numbers it was discovered, sure enough, that the audience had received all blanks, and upon Mr. Green pointing to a package on the table reserved for himself, it was examined by the committee, and lo! there lay the ticket having the combination of numbers drawing _the capital prize_!--ED. A.C. _Communicated to the American Courier from Washington, D.C._ Green's great Consolidated Lottery drew in this city on the 22d inst. The Reformed Gambler astonished a highly respectable audience at his complete exposition of the fraud practised by lottery speculators throughout our Union. Mr. Green stated to the audience that though he wished them to understand the lottery system to be fraught with deception, he did not wish it to be understood that he was competent to make a clear and comprehensive exposition. This was his fourth effort, and he had succeeded in three to the satisfaction of his audience. He then stated that he would draw from the ternary combination of 42 numbers, and take therefore 8 drawn ballots, being equal to 15 in 75. He then placed in R.H. Gillet's hand 42 tickets, which he declared contained the drawn numbers, where any 3 numbers should be upon a ticket. Having explained satisfactorily his intentions, he requested Mr. J. Thaw to act as his commissioner, Mr. Thaw being well known as a gentleman of integrity. Mr. Green then requested Mr. Gillet to mark the numbers from 1 to 42, so that there should be no doubt resting upon the mind of any one that they were the same numbers which should afterwards be drawn out. The tickets were marked, and Mr. Thaw deposited them singly in tin tubes, from 1 to 42. Mr. Thaw then revolved the wheel, mixing them thoroughly; he then drew one at a time, until he drew 8, being the correct drawn ballots. Mr. Green then asked the audience if they had any prizes. Receiving a negative answer, he stated that he could draw one half of the numbers from the wheel and still they should have none, though they had some 400 tickets against his 42. The commissioner continued drawing, the prizes still falling in the manager's package, and the numbers from 1 to 29 were taken out of the 42 before the audience received a full compliment of 3 numbers on a ticket. The drawing appeared fair; the numbers placed in the wheel were those taken out. The wheel is one Mr. G. purchased from a lottery vender in Washington city. Mr. G.'s explanation of his power to prevent prizes being drawn without his consent appeared very satisfactory. He declared that the managers had it in their power to assort out certain numbers, and by the villany of those concerned in the distribution, were enabled to keep any numbers from the hands of the drawer. I must own that this exposition of Green's has taken me altogether by surprise. I did think that the deluded thousands who live on, day after day, in the vain hope of a prize, instead of depending solely upon their industry, skill, and talents, had some remote chance of getting a good drawn number. But, it seems that this is all a delusion, and that lotteries can be "stocked" as well as a pack of cards. 
21706	----	TWICE BOUGHT, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. "`Honesty is the best policy,' Tom, you may depend on it," said a youth to his companion, one afternoon, as they walked along the margin of one of those brawling rivulets which, born amid the snows of the Rocky Mountain peaks, run a wild and plunging course of many miles before finding comparative rest in the celebrated goldfields of Oregon. "I don't agree with you, Fred," said Tom, sternly; "and I don't believe in the proverb you have quoted. The world's maxims are not all gospel." "You are right, Tom; many of them are false; nevertheless, some are founded on gospel truth." "It matters not," returned Tom, angrily. "I have made up my mind to get back from that big thief Gashford what he has stolen from me, for it is certain that he cheated at play, though I could not prove it at the time. It is impossible to get it back by fair means, and I hold it quite allowable to steal from a thief, especially when that which you take is your own." Fred Westly shook his head, but did not reply. Many a time had he reasoned with his friend, Tom Brixton, about the sin of gambling, and urged him to be content with the result of each day's digging for gold, but his words had no effect. Young Brixton had resolved to make a fortune rapidly. He laboured each day with pick and shovel with the energy of a hero and the dogged perseverance of a navvy, and each night he went to Lantry's store to increase his gains by gambling. As a matter of course his "luck," as he called it, varied. Sometimes he returned to the tent which he shared with his friend Westly, depressed, out of humour, and empty-handed. At other times he made his appearance flushed with success--occasionally, also, with drink,--and flung down a heavy bag of golden nuggets as the result of his evening's play. Ultimately, when under the influence of drink, he staked all that he had in the world, except his clothes and tools, to a man named Gashford, who was noted for his size, strength of body, and utter disregard of God and man. As Brixton said, Gashford had cheated him at play, and this had rendered the ruined man unusually savage. The sun was down when the two friends entered their tent and began to pull off their muddy boots, while a little man in a blue flannel shirt and a brown wide-awake busied himself in the preparation of supper. "What have you got for us to-night, Paddy?" asked Westly. "Salt pork it is," said the little man, looking up with a most expressive grin; "the best o' victuals when there's nothin' better. Bein' in a luxurious frame o' mind when I was up at the store, I bought a few split-pays for seasonin'; but it comes hard on a man to spind his gould on sitch things when his luck's down. You've not done much to-day, I see, by the looks of ye." "Right, Paddy," said Tom Brixton, with a harsh laugh; "we've done nothing--absolutely nothing. See, there is my day's work." He pulled three small grains of gold, each about the size of a pea, from his trousers pocket, and flung them contemptuously into a washing-pan at his elbow. "Sure, we won't make our fortins fast at that rate," said Paddy, or Patrick Flinders. "This won't help it much," said Westly, with a mingled smile and sigh, as he added a small nugget and a little gold-dust to the pile. "Ah! then, haven't I forgot the shuggar for the tay; but I've not got far to go for to get it. Just kape stirrin' the pot, Mister Westly, I'll be back in a minit." "Tom," said Westly, when their comrade had gone out, "don't give way to angry feelings. Do try, like a good fellow, to look at things in a philosophical light, since you object to a religious one. Rightly or wrongly, Gashford has won your gold. Well, take heart and dig away. You know I have saved a considerable sum, the half of which is at your service to--" "Do you suppose," interrupted the other sharply, "that I will consent to become a beggar?" "No," replied Westly, "but there is no reason why you should not consent to accept an offer when it is made to you by an old chum. Besides, I offer the money on loan, the only condition being that you won't gamble it away." "Fred," returned Brixton, impressively, "I _must_ gamble with it if I take it. I can no more give up gambling than I can give up drinking. I'm a doomed man, my boy; doomed to be either a millionaire or a madman!" The glittering eyes and wild expression of the youth while he spoke induced his friend to fear that he was already the latter. "Oh! Tom, my dear fellow," he said, "God did not doom you. If your doom is fixed, you have yourself fixed it." "Now, Fred," returned the other impatiently, "don't bore me with your religious notions. Religion is all very well in the old country, but it won't work at all here at the diggin's." "My experience has proved the contrary," returned Westly, "for religion--or, rather, God--has saved _me_ from drink and gaming." "If it _be_ God who has saved you, why has He not saved me?" demanded Brixton. "Because that mysterious and incomprehensible power of Free Will stands in your way. In the exercise of your free will you have rejected God, therefore the responsibility rests with yourself. If you will now call upon Him, life will, by His Holy Spirit, enable you to accept salvation through Jesus Christ." "No use, Fred, no use," said Tom, shaking his head. "When you and I left England, three years ago, I might have believed and trusted as you do, but it's too late now--too late I say, so don't worry me with your solemn looks and sermons. My mind's made up, I tell you. With these three paltry little lumps of gold I'll gamble at the store to-night with Gashford. I'll double the stake every game. If I win, well--if not, I'll--" He stopped abruptly, because at that moment Paddy Flinders re-entered with the sugar; possibly, also, because he did not wish to reveal all his intentions. That night there was more noise, drinking, and gambling than usual at Lantry's store, several of the miners having returned from a prospecting trip into the mountains with a considerable quantity of gold. Loudest among the swearers, deepest among the drinkers, and most reckless among the gamblers was Gashford "the bully," as he was styled. He had just challenged any one present to play when Brixton entered the room. "We will each stake all that we own on a single chance," he said, looking round. "Come, that's fair, ain't it? for you know I've got lots of dust." There was a general laugh, but no one would accept the challenge--which Brixton had not heard--though he heard the laugh that followed. Many of the diggers, especially the poorer ones, would have gladly taken him up if they had not been afraid of the consequences if successful. "Well, boys, I couldn't make a fairer offer--all I possess against all that any other man owns, though it should only be half an ounce of gold," said the bully, tossing off a glass of spirits. "Done! I accept your challenge," cried Tom Brixton, stepping forward. "You!" exclaimed Gashford, with a look of contempt; "why, you've got nothing to stake. I cleaned you out yesterday." "I have this to stake," said Tom, holding out the three little nuggets of gold which he had found that day. "It is all that I possess, and it is more than half an ounce, which you mentioned as the lowest you'd play for." "Well, I'll stick to what I said," growled Gashford, "if it _be_ half an ounce. Come, Lantry, get out your scales." The storekeeper promptly produced the little balance which he used for weighing gold-dust, and the diggers crowded round with much interest to watch, while Lantry, with a show of unwonted care, dusted the scales, and put the three nuggets therein. "Three-quarters of an ounce," said the storekeeper, when the balance ceased to vibrate. "Come along, then, an' let's have another glass of grog for luck," cried Gashford, striking his huge fist on the counter. A throw of the dice was to decide the matter. While Lantry, who was appointed to make the throw, rattled the dice in the box, the diggers crowded round in eager curiosity, for, besides the unusual disparity between the stakes, there was much probability of a scene of violence as the result, Brixton having displayed a good deal of temper when he lost to the bully on the previous day. "Lost!" exclaimed several voices in disappointed tones, when the dice fell on the table. "Who's lost?" cried those in the rear of the crowd. "Tom Brixton, to be sure," answered Gashford, with a laugh. "He always loses; but it's no great loss this time, and I am not much the richer." There was no response to this sally. Every one looked at Brixton, expecting an outburst of rage, but the youth stood calmly contemplating the dice with an absent look, and a pleasant smile on his lips. "Yes," he said, recovering himself, "luck is indeed against me. But never mind. Let's have a drink, Lantry; you'll have to give it me on credit this time!" Lantry professed himself to be quite willing to oblige an old customer to that extent. He could well afford it, he said; and it was unquestionable truth that he uttered, for his charges were exorbitant. That night, when the camp was silent in repose, and the revellers were either steeped in oblivion or wandering in golden dreams, Tom Brixton sauntered slowly down to the river at a point where it spread out into a lakelet, in which the moon was brightly reflected. The overhanging cliffs, fringed with underwood and crowned with trees, shot reflections of ebony blackness here and there down into the water, while beyond, through several openings, could be seen a varied and beautiful landscape, backed and capped by the snow-peaks of the great backbone of America. It was a scene fitted to solemnise and soften, but it had no such influence on Tom Brixton, who did not give it even a passing thought though he stood with folded arms and contracted brows, gazing at it long and earnestly. After a time he began to mutter to himself in broken sentences. "Fred is mistaken--_must_ be mistaken. There is no law here. Law must be taken into one's own hands. It cannot be wrong to rob a robber. It is not robbery to take back one's own. Foul means are admissible when fair--yet it _is_ a sneaking thing to do! Ha! who said it was sneaking?" (He started and thrust his hands through his hair.) "Bah! Lantry, your grog is too fiery. It was the grog that spoke, not conscience. Pooh! I don't believe in conscience. Come, Tom, don't be a fool, but go and--Mother! What has _she_ got to do with it? Lantry's fire-water didn't bring _her_ to my mind. No, it _is_ Fred, confound him! He's always suggesting what she would say in circumstances which she has never been in and could not possibly understand. And he worries me on the plea that he promised her to stick by me through evil report and good report. I suppose that means through thick and thin. Well, he's a good fellow is Fred, but weak. Yes, I've made up my mind to do it and I _will_ do it." He turned hastily as he spoke, and was soon lost in the little belt of woodland that lay between the lake and the miner's camp. It pleased Gashford to keep his gold in a huge leathern bag, which he hid in a hole in the ground within his tent during the day, and placed under his pillow during the night. It pleased him also to dwell and work alone, partly because he was of an unsociable disposition, and partly to prevent men becoming acquainted with his secrets. There did not seem to be much fear of the big miner's secrets being discovered, for Lynch law prevailed in the camp at that time, and it was well known that death was the usual punishment for theft. It was also well known that Gashford was a splendid shot with the revolver, as well as a fierce, unscrupulous man. But strong drink revealed that which might have otherwise been safe. When in his cups Gashford sometimes became boastful, and gave hints now and then which were easily understood. Still his gold was safe, for, apart from the danger of the attempt to rob the bully, it would have been impossible to discover the particular part of his tent-floor in which the hole was dug, and, as to venturing to touch his pillow while his shaggy head rested on it, no one was daring enough to contemplate such an act although there were men there capable of doing almost anything. Here again, however, strong drink proved to be the big miner's foe. Occasionally, though not often, Gashford drank so deeply as to become almost helpless, and, after lying down in his bed, sank into a sleep so profound that it seemed as if he could not have been roused even with violence. He was in this condition on the night in which his victim made up his mind to rob him. Despair and brandy had united to render Brixton utterly reckless; so much so, that instead of creeping stealthily towards his enemy's tent, an act which would probably have aroused the suspicion of a light sleeper, he walked boldly up, entered it, raised Gashford's unconscious head with one hand, pulled out the bag of gold with the other, put it on his shoulder, and coolly marched out of the camp. The audacity of the deed contributed largely to its success. Great was the rage and consternation of Gashford when he awoke the following morning and found that his treasure had disappeared. Jumping at once to the conclusion that it had been stolen by Brixton, he ran to that youth's tent and demanded to know where the thief had gone to. "What do you mean by the thief?" asked Fred Westly, with misgiving at his heart. "I mean your chum, Tom Brixton," shouted the enraged miner. "How do you know he's a thief?" asked Westly. "I didn't come here to be asked questions by you," said Gashford. "Where has he gone to, I say?" "I don't know." "That's a lie!" roared the miner, clenching his fist in a threatening manner. "Poor Tom! I wish I did know where you have gone!" said Fred, shaking his head sadly as he gazed on the floor, and taking no notice whatever of the threatening action of his visitor. "Look here now, Westly," said Gashford, in a low suppressed voice, shutting the curtain of the tent and drawing a revolver from his pocket, "you know something about this matter, and you know _me_. If you don't tell me all you know and where your chum has bolted to, I'll blow your brains out as sure as there's a God in heaven." "I thought," said Westly, quietly, and without the slightest symptom of alarm, "you held the opinion that there is no God and no heaven." "Come, young fellow, none o' your religious chaff, but answer my question." "Nothing is farther from my thoughts than chaffing you," returned Westly, gently, "and if the mere mention of God's name is religion, then you may claim to be one of the most religious men at the diggings, for you are constantly praying Him to curse people. I have already answered your question, and can only repeat that I _don't know_ where my friend Brixton has gone to. But let me ask, in turn, what has happened to _you_?" There was no resisting the earnest sincerity of Fred's look and tone, to say nothing of his cool courage. Gashford felt somewhat abashed in spite of himself. "What has happened to me?" he repeated, bitterly. "The worst that could happen has happened. My gold has been stolen, and your chum is the man who has cribbed it. I know that as well as if I had seen him do it. But I'll hunt him down and have it out of him with interest; with interest, mark you--if I should have to go to the ends o' the 'arth to find him." Without another word Gashford thrust the revolver into his pocket, flung aside the tent curtain, and strode away. Meanwhile Tom Brixton, with the gold in a game-bag slung across his shoulder, was speeding down the valley, or mountain gorge, at the head of which the Pine Tree Diggings lay, with all the vigour and activity of youthful strength, but with none of the exultation that might be supposed to characterise a successful thief. On the contrary, a weight like lead seemed to lie on his heart, and the faces of his mother and his friend, Fred Westly, seemed to flit before him continually, gazing at him with sorrowful expression. As the fumes of the liquor which he had drunk began to dissipate, the shame and depression of spirit increased, and his strength, great though it was, began to give way. By that time, however, he had placed many a mile between him and the camp where he had committed the robbery. The valley opened into a wide, almost boundless stretch of comparatively level land, covered here and there with forests so dense, that, once concealed in their recesses, it would be exceedingly difficult if not impossible, for white men to trace him, especially men who were so little acquainted with woodcraft as the diggers. Besides this, the region was undulating in form, here and there, so that from the tops of many of the eminences, he could see over the whole land, and observe the approach of enemies without being himself seen. Feeling, therefore, comparatively safe, he paused in his mad flight, and went down on hands and knees to take a long drink at a bubbling spring. Rising, refreshed, with a deep sigh, he slowly mounted to the top of a knoll which was bathed at the time in the first beams of the rising sun. From the spot he obtained a view of intermingled forest, prairie, lake, and river, so resplendent that even _his_ mind was for a moment diverted from its gloomy introspections, and a glance of admiration shot from his eyes and chased the wrinkles from his brow; but the frown quickly returned, and the glorious landscape was forgotten as the thought of his dreadful condition returned with overwhelming power. Up to that day Tom Brixton, with all his faults, had kept within the circle of the world's laws. He had been well trained in boyhood, and, with the approval of his mother, had left England for the Oregon goldfields in company with a steady, well-principled friend, who had been a playmate in early childhood and at school. The two friends had experienced during three years the varying fortune of a digger's life; sometimes working for long periods successfully, and gradually increasing their "pile;" at other times toiling day after day for nothing and living on their capital, but on the whole, making what men called a good thing of it until Tom took to gambling, which, almost as a matter of course, led to drinking. The process of demoralisation had continued until, as we have seen, the boundary line was at last overstepped, and he had become a thief and an outlaw. At that period and in those diggings Judge Lynch--in other words, off-hand and speedy "justice" by the community of miners--was the order of the day, and, as stealing had become exasperatingly common, the penalty appointed was death, the judges being, in most cases, the prompt executioners. Tom Brixton knew well what his fate would be if captured, and this unquestionably filled him with anxiety, but it was not this thought that caused him, as he reclined on the sunny knoll, to spurn the bag of gold with his foot. "Trash!" he exclaimed, bitterly, repeating the kick. But the love of gold had taken deep root in the fallen youth's heart. After a brief rest he arose, slung the "trash" over his shoulder, and, descending the knoll, quickly disappeared in the glades of the forests. CHAPTER TWO. While Brixton was hurrying with a guilty conscience deeper and deeper into the dark woods which covered the spur of the mountains in the neighbourhood of Pine Tree Diggings, glancing back nervously from time to time as if he expected the pursuers to be close at his heels, an enemy was advancing to meet him in front, of whom he little dreamed. A brown bear, either enjoying his morning walk or on the look-out for breakfast, suddenly met him face to face, and stood up on its hind legs as if to have a good look at him. Tom was no coward; indeed he was gifted with more than an average amount of animal courage. He at once levelled his rifle at the creature's breast and fired. The bear rushed at him, nevertheless, as if uninjured. Drawing his revolver, Tom discharged two shots before the monster reached him. All three shots had taken effect but bears are noted for tenacity of life, and are frequently able to fight a furious battle after being mortally wounded. The rifle ball had touched its heart, and the revolver bullets had gone deep into its chest, yet it showed little sign of having been hurt. Knowing full well the fate that awaited him if he stood to wrestle with a bear, the youth turned to run, but the bear was too quick for him. It struck him on the back and felled him to the earth. Strange to say, at that moment Tom Brixton's ill-gotten gains stood him in good stead. There can be no question that the bear's tremendous claws would have sunk deep into the youth's back, and probably broken his spine, if they had not been arrested by the bag of gold which was slung at his back. Although knocked down and slightly stunned, Brixton was still unwounded, and, even in the act of falling, had presence of mind to draw his long knife and plunge it up to the haft in the creature's side, at the same time twisting himself violently round so as to fall on his back and thus face the foe. In this position, partly owing to the form of the ground, the bear found it difficult to grasp its opponent in its awful embrace, but it held him with its claws and seized his left shoulder with its teeth. This rendered the use of the revolver impossible, but fortunately Brixton's right arm was still free, and he drove the keen knife a second time deep into the animal's sides. Whether mortal or not, the wound did not immediately kill. Tom felt that his hour was come, and a deadly fear came over him as the thought of death, his recent life, and judgment, flashed through his brain. He drew out the knife, however, to make another desperate thrust. The bear's great throat was close over his face. He thought of its jugular vein, and made a deadly thrust at the spot where he imagined that to run. Instantly a flood of warm blood deluged his face and breast; at the same time he felt as if some dreadful weight were pressing him to death. Then consciousness forsook him. While this desperate fight was going on, the miners of Pine Tree camp were scouring the woods in all directions in search of the fugitive. As we have said, great indignation was felt at that time against thieves, because some of them had become very daring, and cases of theft were multiplying. Severe penalties had been imposed on the culprits by the rest of the community without curing the evil. At last death was decided on as the penalty for any act of theft, however trifling it might be. That these men were in earnest was proved by the summary execution of the next two offenders who were caught. Immediately after that thieving came to an abrupt end, insomuch that if you had left a bag of gold on an exposed place, men would have gone out of their way to avoid it! One can understand, therefore, the indignation that was roused in the camp when Tom Brixton revived the practice in such a cool and impudent manner. It was felt that, despite his being a favourite with many of the diggers, he must be made an example. Pursuit was, therefore, organised on an extensive scale and in a methodical manner. Among others, his friend Fred Westly took part in it. It cost those diggers something thus to give up the exciting work of gold-finding for a chase that promised to occupy time and tax perseverance. Some of them even refused to join in it, but on the whole the desire for vengeance seemed general. Bully Gashford, as he did not object to be called, was, in virtue of his size, energy, and desperate character, tacitly appointed leader. Indeed he would have assumed that position if it had not been accorded to him, for he was made of that stuff which produces either heroes of the highest type or scoundrels of the deepest dye. He arranged that the pursuers should proceed in a body to the mouth of the valley, and there, dividing into several parties, scatter themselves abroad until they should find the thief's trail and then follow it up. As the miners were not much accustomed to following trails, they engaged the services of several Indians who chanced to be at the camp at that time. "What direction d'ye think it's likely your precious chum has taken?" asked Gashford, turning abruptly to Fred Westly when the different parties were about to start. "It is impossible for me to tell." "I know that," retorted Gashford, with a scowl and something of a sneer, "but it ain't impossible for you to guess. However, it will do as well if you tell me which party you intend to join." "I shall join that which goes to the south-west," replied Westly. "Well, then, _I_ will join that which goes to the south-east," returned the bully, shouldering his rifle. "Go ahead, you red reptile," he added, giving a sign to the Indian at the head of the party he had selected to lead. The Indian at once went off at a swinging walk, amounting almost to a trot. The others followed suit and the forest soon swallowed them all in its dark embrace. In making this selection Gashford had fallen into a mistake not uncommon among scoundrels--that of judging other men by themselves. He knew that Westly was fond of his guilty friend, and concluded that he would tell any falsehood or put the pursuers on any false scent that might favour his escape. He also guessed--and he was fond of guessing--that Fred would answer his question by indicating the direction which he thought it most probable his friend had _not_ taken. In these guesses he was only to a small extent right. Westly did indeed earnestly hope that his friend would escape; for he deemed the intended punishment of death most unjustly severe, and, knowing intimately the character and tendencies of Tom Brixton's mind and tastes, he had a pretty shrewd guess as to the direction he had taken, but, so far from desiring to throw the pursuers off the scent his main anxiety was to join the party which he thought most likely to find the fugitive--if they should find him at all--in order that he might be present to defend him from sudden or unnecessary violence. Of course Paddy Flinders went with the same party, and we need scarcely add that the little Irishman sympathised with Fred. "D'ee think it's likely we'll cotch 'im?" he asked, in a whisper, on the evening of that day, as they went rapidly through the woods together, a little in rear of their party. "It is difficult to say," answered Westly. "I earnestly hope not; indeed I think not, for Tom has had a good start; but the search is well organised, and there are bloodthirsty, indignant, and persevering men among the various parties, who won't be easily baffled. Still Tom is a splendid runner. We may depend on having a long chase before we come up with him." "Ah, then, it's glad I am that ye think so, sor," returned Paddy, "for I've been afear'd Mister Tom hadn't got quite so much go in him, since he tuk to gambling and drinkin'." "Look here, Paddy," exclaimed his companion, stopping abruptly, and pointing to the ground, "are not these the footprints of one of your friends?" "Sure it's a bar," said the little man, going down on his knees to examine the footprints in question with deep interest. Flinders was a remarkably plucky little man, and one of his great ambitions was to meet with a bear, when alone, and slay it single-handed. His ambition had not up to that time, been gratified, fortunately for himself, for he was a bad shot and exceedingly reckless, two qualities which would probably have insured his own destruction if he had had his wish. "Let's go after it, Mister Westly," he said, springing to his feet with an excited look. "Nonsense, it is probably miles off by this time; besides, we should lose our party." "Niver a taste, sor; we could soon overhaul them agin. An' won't they have to camp at sundown anyhow? Moreover, if we don't come up wi' the bar in a mile or so we can give it up." "No, no, Paddy, we must not fall behind. At least, _I_ must not; but you may go after it alone if you choose." "Well, I will, sor. Sure it's not ivery day I git the chance; an' there's no fear o' ye overhaulin' Mister Tom this night. We'll have to slape over it, I'll be bound. Just tell the boys I'll be after them in no time." So saying Paddy shouldered his rifle, felt knife and axe to make sure of their being safe in his belt, and strode away in the track of the bear. He had not gone above a quarter of a mile when he came to the spot where the mortal combat had taken place, and found Tom Brixton and the bear dead--as he imagined--on the blood-stained turf. He uttered a mighty cry, partly to relieve his feelings and partly to recall his friend. The imprudence of this flashed upon him when too late, for others, besides Fred, might have heard him. But Tom Brixton was not dead. Soon after the dying bear had fallen on him, he recovered consciousness, and shaking himself clear of the carcass with difficulty had arisen; but, giddiness returning, he lay down, and while in this position, overcome with fatigue, had fallen asleep. Paddy's shout aroused him. With a sense of deadly peril hanging over him he leaped up and sprang on the Irishman. "Hallo, Paddy!" he cried, checking himself, and endeavouring to wipe from his face some of the clotted blood with which he had been deluged. "_You_ here? Are you alone?" "It's wishin' that I was," replied the little man, looking round anxiously. "Mister Fred 'll be here d'rectly, sor--an'--an' I hope that'll be all. But it's alive ye are, is it? An' didn't I take ye for dead. Oh! Mister Brixton, there's more blood on an' about ye, I do belave, than yer whole body could howld." Before an answer could be returned, Fred Westly, having heard Paddy's shout, came running up. "Oh! Tom, Tom," he cried, eagerly, "are you hurt? Can you walk? Can you run? The whole camp is out after you." "Indeed?" replied the fugitive, with a frown. "It would seem that even my _friends_ have joined in the chase." "We have," said the other, hurriedly, "but not to capture--to save, if possible. Come, Tom, can you make an effort? Are you hurt much? You are so horribly covered with blood--" He stopped short, for at that moment a shout was heard in the distance. It was replied to in another direction nearer at hand. There happened to be a man in the party which Westly had joined, named Crossby. He had suffered much from thieves, and had a particular spite against Brixton because he had lost to him at play. He had heard Paddy Flinders's unfortunate shout, and immediately ran in the direction whence it came; while others of the party, having discovered the fugitive's track, had followed it up. "Too late," groaned Fred on hearing Crossby's voice. "Not too late for _this_," growled Brixton, bitterly, as he quickly loaded his rifle. "For God's sake don't do that, Tom," cried his friend earnestly, as he laid his hand on his arm; but Tom shook him off and completed the operation just as Crossby burst from the bushes and ran towards them. Seeing the fugitive standing ready with rifle in hand, he stopped at once, took rapid aim, and fired. The ball whistled close past the head of Tom, who then raised his own rifle, took deliberate aim, and fired, but Westly threw up the muzzle and the bullet went high among the tree-tops. With an exclamation of fury Brixton drew his knife, while Crossby rushed at him with his rifle clubbed. The digger was a strong and fierce man, and there would doubtless have been a terrible and fatal encounter if Fred had not again interfered. He seized his friend from behind, and, whirling him sharply round, received on his own shoulder the blow which was meant for Tom's head. Fred fell, dragging his friend down with him. Flinders, who witnessed the unaccountable action of his companion with much surprise, now sprang to the rescue, but at the moment several of the other pursuers rushed upon the scene, and the luckless fugitive was instantly overpowered and secured. "Now, my young buck," said Crossby, "stand up! Hold him, four of you, till I fix his hands wi' this rope. There, it's the rope that you'll swing by, so you'll find it hard to break." While Tom was being bound he cast a look of fierce anger on Westly, who still lay prostrate and insensible on the ground, despite Paddy's efforts to rouse him. "I hope he is killed," muttered Tom between his teeth. "Och! no fear of him, he's not so aisy kilt," said Flinders, looking up. "Bad luck to ye for wishin' it." As if to corroborate Paddy's opinion, Westly showed signs of returning consciousness, and soon after sat up. "Did ye kill that bar all by yerself?" asked one of the men who held the fugitive. But Tom would not condescend to reply, and in a few minutes Crossby gave the word to march back towards Pine Tree Diggings. They set off--two men marching on either side of the prisoner with loaded rifles and revolvers, the rest in front and in rear. A party was left behind to skin the bear and bring away the tit-bits of the carcass for supper. Being too late to return to Pine Tree Camp that night, they arranged to bivouac for the night in a hollow where there was a little pond fed by a clear spring which was known as the Red Man's Teacup. Here they kindled a large fire, the bright sparks from which, rising above the tree-tops, soon attracted the attention of the other parties, so that, ere long, the whole band of pursuers was gathered to the spot. Gashford was the last to come up. On hearing that the thief had been captured by his former chum Westly, assisted by Flinders and Crossby, he expressed considerable surprise, and cast a long and searching gaze on Fred, who, however, being busy with the fire at the time, was unconscious of it. Whatever the bully thought, he kept his opinions to himself. "Have you tied him up well!" he said, turning to Crossby. "A wild horse couldn't break his fastenings," answered the digger. "Perhaps not," returned Gashford, with a sneer, "but you are always too sure by half o' yer work. Come, stand up," he added, going to where Tom lay, and stirring his prostrate form with his toe. Brixton having now had time to consider his case coolly, had made up his mind to submit with a good grace to his fate, and, if it were so decreed, to die "like a man." "I deserve punishment," he reasoned with himself, "though death is too severe for the offence. However, a guilty man can't expect to be the chooser of his reward. I suppose it is fate, as the Turks say, so I'll submit--like them." He stood up at once, therefore, on being ordered to do so, and quietly underwent inspection. "Ha! I thought so!" exclaimed Gashford, contemptuously. "Any man could free himself from that in half an hour. But what better could be expected from a land-lubber?" Crossby made some sharp allusions to a "sea-lubber," but he wisely restrained his voice so that only those nearest overheard him. Meanwhile Gashford undid the rope that bound Tom Brixton's arms behind him, and, holding him in his iron grip, ordered a smaller cord to be fetched. Paddy Flinders, who had a schoolboy tendency to stuff his various pockets full of all sorts of miscellaneous articles, at once stepped forward and handed the leader a piece of strong cod-line. "There ye are, sor," said he. "Just the thing, Paddy. Here, catch hold of this end of it an' haul." "Yis, gineral," said the Irishman, in a tone and with a degree of alacrity that caused a laugh from most of those who were looking on. Even the "gineral" observed it, and remarked with a sardonic smile-- "You seem to be pleased to see your old chum in this fix, I think." "Well now, gineral," returned Flinders, in an argumentative tone of voice, "I can't exactly say that, sor, for I'm troubled with what ye may call amiable weaknesses. Anyhow, I might see 'im in a worse fix." "Well, you're like to see him in a worse fix if you live long enough," returned the leader. "Haul now on this knot. It'll puzzle him to undo that. Lend me your knife." Flinders drew his glittering bowie-knife from its sheath and handed it to his leader, who cut off the superfluous cordage with it, after having bound the prisoner's wrists behind his back in a sailor-like manner. In returning the knife to its owner, Gashford, who was fond of a practical joke, tossed it high in the air towards him with a "Here, catch." The keen glittering thing came twirling down, but to the surprise of all, the Irishman caught it by the handle as deftly as though he had been a trained juggler. "Thank your gineralship," exclaimed Paddy, amid a shout of laughter and applause, bowing low in mock reverence. As he rose he made a wild flourish with the knife, uttered an Indian war-whoop, and cut a caper. In that flourish he managed to strike the cord that bound the prisoner, and severed one turn of it. The barefaced audacity of the act (like that of a juggler) caused it to pass unobserved. Even Tom, although he felt the touch of the knife, was not aware of what had happened, for, of course, a number of uncut turns of the cord still held his wrists painfully tight. "Now, lie down on your back," said Gashford, sternly, when the laugh that Paddy had raised subsided. Either the tone of this command, or the pain caused by his bonds, roused Tom's anger, for he refused to obey. "Lie down, ye spalpeen, whin the gineral bids ye," cried Flinders, suddenly seizing his old friend by the collar and flinging him flat on his back, in which act he managed to trip and fall on the top of him. The opportunity was not a good one, nevertheless the energetic fellow managed to whisper, "The rope's cut! Lie still!" in the very act of falling. "Well done, Paddy," exclaimed several of the laughing men, as Flinders rose with a pretended look of discomfiture, and went towards the fire, exclaiming-- "Niver mind, boys, I'll have me supper now. Hi! who's bin an' stole it whin I was out on dooty? Oh! here it is all right. Now then, go to work, an' whin the pipes is lighted I'll maybe sing ye a song, or tell ye a story about ould Ireland." CHAPTER THREE. Obedient to orders, Tom Brixton lay perfectly still on his back, just where he had fallen, wondering much whether the cord was really cut, for he did not feel much relaxation of it or abatement of the pain. He resolved, at any rate, to give no further cause for rough treatment, but to await the issue of events as patiently as he could. True to his promise, the Irishman after supper sang several songs, which, if not characterised by sweetness of tone, were delivered with a degree of vigour that seemed to make full amends in the estimation of his hearers. After that he told a thrilling ghost story, which drew the entire band of men round him. Paddy had a natural gift in the way of relating ghost stories, for, besides the power of rapid and sustained discourse, without hesitation or redundancy of words, he possessed a vivid imagination, a rich fancy, a deep bass voice, an expressive countenance, and a pair of large coal-black eyes, which, as one of the Yankee diggers said, "would sartinly bore two holes in a blanket if he only looked at it long enough." We do not intend to inflict that ghost story on the reader. It is sufficient to say that Paddy began it by exclaiming in a loud voice--"`Now or niver, boys--now or niver.' That's what the ghost said." "What's that you say, Paddy?" asked Gashford, leaving his own separate and private fire, which he enjoyed with one or two chosen comrades, and approaching that round which the great body of the diggers were already assembled. "I was just goin' to tell the boys, sor, a bit of a ghost story." "Well, go on, lad, I'd like to hear it, too." "`Now or niver!'" repeated the Irishman, with such startling emphasis that even Tom Brixton, lying bound as he was under the shelter of a spreading tree at some distance from the fire, had his curiosity aroused. "That's what the ghost said, under somewhat pecooliar circumstances; an' he said it twice so that there might be no mistake at all about it. `Now or niver! now or niver!' says he, an' he said it earnestly--" "I didn't know that ghosts could speak," interrupted Crossby, who, when not in a bad humour, was rather fond of thrusting bad jokes and blunt witticisms on his comrades. "Sure, I'm not surprised at that for there's many things ye don't know, Crossby; besides, no ghost with the smallest taste of propriety about it would condescind to spake wid _you_. Well, boys, that's what the ghost said in a muffled vice--their vices are muffled, you know, an their virtues too, for all I know to the contrairy. It's a good sentiment is that `Now or niver' for every wan of ye--so ye may putt it in yer pipes an' smoke it, an' those of ye who haven't got pipes can make a quid of it an' chaw it, or subject it to meditation. `Now or niver!' Think o' that! You see I'm partikler about it, for the whole story turns on that pint, as the ghost's life depended on it, but ye'll see an' onderstan' better whin I come to the end o' the story." Paddy said this so earnestly that it had the double effect of chaining the attention of his hearers and sending a flash of light into Tom Brixton's brain. "Now or never!" he muttered to himself, and turned gently on his side so as to be able to feel the cord that bound his wrists. It was still tight, but, by moving his fingers, he could feel that one of its coils had really been cut, and that with a little patience and exertion he might possibly free his hands. Slight as the motion was, however, Gashford observed it, for the fire-light shone brightly on Tom's recumbent figure. "Lie still, there!" he cried, sternly. Tom lay perfectly still, and the Irishman continued his story. It grew in mystery and in horror as he proceeded, and his audience became entranced, while some of the more superstitious among them cast occasional glances over their shoulders into the forest behind, which ere long was steeped in the blackness of an unusually dark night. A few of those outside the circle rose and drew nearer to the story-teller. At that moment a gleam of light which had already entered Brixton's brain flashed into that of Fred Westly, who arose, and, under pretext of being too far off from the speaker, went round to the opposite side of the fire so as to face him. By so doing he placed himself between the fire and his friend Tom. Two or three of the others followed his example, though not from the same motive, and thus, when the fire burnt low, the prisoner found himself lying in deep shadow. By that time he had freed his benumbed hands, chafed them into a condition of vitality, and was considering whether he should endeavour to creep quietly away or spring up and make a dash for life. "`Now or niver,' said the ghost, in a solemn muffled vice," continued Paddy-- "Who did he say that to?" asked Gashford, who was by that time as much fascinated as the rest of the party. "To the thief, sor, av coorse, who was standin' tremblin' fornint him, while the sexton was diggin' the grave to putt him in alive--in the dark shadow of a big tombstone." The Irishman had now almost reached the climax of his story, and was intensely graphic in his descriptions--especially at the horrible parts. He was obviously spinning it out, and the profound silence around told how completely he had enchained his hearers. It also warned Tom Brixton that his time was short, and that in his case it was indeed, "now or never." He crept quietly towards the bushes near him. In passing a tree against which several rifles had been placed he could not resist the temptation to take one. Laying hold of that which stood nearest, and which seemed to be similar in make to the rifle they had taken from himself when he was captured, he drew it towards him. Unfortunately it formed a prop to several other rifles, which fell with a crash, and one of them exploded in the fall. The effect on Paddy's highly-strung audience was tremendous. Many of them yelled as if they had received an electric shock. All of them sprang up and turned round just in time to see their captive vanish, not unlike a ghost, into the thick darkness! That glance, however, was sufficient to enlighten them. With shouts of rage many of them darted after the fugitive, and followed him up like bloodhounds. Others, who had never been very anxious for his capture or death, and had been turned somewhat in his favour by the bold stand he had made against the bear, returned to the fire after a short run. If there had been even a glimmering of light Tom would certainly have been retaken at once, for not a few of his pursuers were quite as active and hardy as himself, but the intense darkness favoured him. Fortunately the forest immediately behind him was not so dense as elsewhere, else in his first desperate rush, regardless of consequences, he would probably have dashed himself against a tree. As it was he went right through a thicket and plunged headlong into a deep hole. He scrambled out of this with the agility of a panther, just in time to escape Gashford, who chanced to plunge into the same hole, but not so lightly. Heavy though he was, however, his strength was equal to the shock, and he would have scrambled out quickly enough if Crossby had not run on the same course and tumbled on the top of him. Amid the growling half-fight, half-scramble that ensued, Tom crept swiftly away to the left, but the pursuers had so scattered themselves that he heard them panting and stumbling about in every direction-- before, on either hand, and behind. Hurrying blindly on for a few paces, he almost ran into the arms of a man whom he could hear, though he could not see him, and stopped. "Hallo! is that you, Bill Smith?" demanded the man. "Ay, that's me," replied Tom, promptly, mimicking Bill Smith's voice and gasping violently. "I thought you were Brixton. He's just passed this way. I saw him." "Did you?--where?" "Away there--to the left!" Off went the pursuer as fast as he dared, and Tom continued his flight with more caution. "Hallo! hi! hooroo!" came at that moment from a long distance to the right, in unmistakable tones. "Here he is, down this way. Stop, you big thief! Howld him. Dick! Have ye got him?" There was a general rush and scramble towards the owner of the bass voice, and Tom, who at once perceived the ruse, went quietly off in the opposite direction. Of course, the hunt came to an end in a very few minutes. Every one, having more or less damaged his head, knees, elbows, and shins, came to the natural conclusion that a chase in the dark was absurd as well as hopeless, and in a short time all were reassembled round the fire, where Fred Westly still stood, for he had not joined in the pursuit. Gashford was the last to come up, with the exception of Paddy Flinders. The bully came forward, fuming with rage, and strode up to Fred Westly with a threatening look. "You were at the bottom of this!" he cried, doubling his huge fist. "It was you who cut the rope, for no mortal man could have untied it!" "Indeed I did not!" replied Fred, with a steady but not defiant look. "Then it must have bin your little chum Flinders. Where is he?" "How could Flinders ha' done it when he was tellin' a ghost story?" said Crossby. Gashford turned with a furious look to the speaker, and seemed on the point of venting his ill-humour upon him, when he was arrested by the sound of the Irishman's voice shouting in the distance. As he drew nearer the words became intelligible. "Howld him tight, now! d'ye hear? Och! whereiver have ye gone an' lost yersilf? Howld him tight till I come an' help ye! What! is it let him go ye have? Ah then it's wishin' I had the eyes of a cat this night for I can't rightly see the length of my nose. Sure ye've niver gone an' let him go? Don't say so, now!" wound up Paddy as, issuing from the wood, he advanced into the circle of light. "Who's got hold of him, Flin?" asked one of the men as he came up. "Sorrow wan o' me knows," returned the Irishman, wiping the perspiration from his brow; "d'ye suppose I can see in the dark like the moles? All I know is that half a dozen of ye have bin shoutin' `Here he is!' an' another half-dozen, `No, he's here--this way!' an' sure I ran this way an' then I ran that way--havin' a nat'ral disposition to obey orders, acquired in the Louth Militia--an' then I ran my nose flat on a tree-- bad luck to it!--that putt more stars in me hid than you'll see in the sky this night. Ah! ye may laugh, but it's truth I'm tellin'. See, there's a blob on the ind of it as big as a chirry!" "That blob's always there, Paddy," cried one of the men; "it's a grog-blossom." "There now, Peter, don't become personal. But tell me--ye've got him, av coorse?" "No, we haven't got him," growled Crossby. "Well, now, you're a purty lot o' hunters. Sure if--" "Come, shut up, Flinders," interrupted Gashford, swallowing his wrath. (Paddy brought his teeth together with a snap in prompt obedience.) "You know well enough that we haven't got him, and you know you're not sorry for it; but mark my words, I'll hunt him down yet. Who'll go with me?" "I'll go," said Crossby, stepping forward at once. "I've a grudge agin the puppy, and I'll help to make him swing if I can." Half a dozen other men, who were noted for leading idle and dissipated lives, and who would rather have hunted men than nothing, also offered to go, but the most of the party had had enough of it, and resolved to return home in the morning. "We can't go just now, however," said Crossby, "we'd only break our legs or necks." "The moon will rise in an hour," returned Gashford; "we can start then." He flung himself down sulkily on the ground beside the fire and began to fill his pipe. Most of the others followed his example, and sat chatting about the recent escape, while a few, rolling themselves in their blankets, resigned themselves to sleep. About an hour later, as had been predicted, the moon rose, and Gashford with his men set forth. But by that time the fugitive, groping his way painfully with many a stumble and fall, had managed to put a considerable distance between him and his enemies, so that when the first silvery moonbeans tipped the tree-tops and shed a faint glimmer on the ground, which served to make darkness barely visible, he had secured a good start, and was able to keep well ahead. The pursuers were not long in finding his track, however, for they had taken a Red Indian with them to act as guide, but the necessity for frequent halts to examine the footprints carefully delayed them much, while Tom Brixton ran straight on without halt or stay. Still he felt that his chance of escape was by no means a good one, for as he guessed rightly, they would not start without a native guide, and he knew the power and patience of these red men in following an enemy's trail. What made his case more desperate was the sudden diminution of his strength. For it must be borne in mind that he had taken but little rest and no food since his flight from Pine Tree Diggings, and the wounds he had received from the bear, although not dangerous, were painful and exhausting. A feeling of despair crept over the stalwart youth when the old familiar sensation of bodily strength began to forsake him. Near daybreak he was on the point of casting himself on the ground to take rest at all hazards, when the sound of falling water broke upon his ear. His spirit revived at once, for he now knew that in his blind wandering he had come near to a well-known river or stream, where he could slake his burning thirst, and, by wading down its course for some distance, throw additional difficulty in the pursuers' way. Not that he expected by that course to throw them entirely off the scent, he only hoped to delay them. On reaching the river's brink he fell down on his breast and, applying his lips to the bubbling water, took a deep refreshing draught. "God help me!" he exclaimed, on rising, and then feeling the burden of gold (which, all through his flight had been concealed beneath his shirt, packed flat so as to lie close), he took it off and flung it down. "There," he said bitterly, "for _you_ I have sold myself body and soul, and now I fling you away!" Instead of resting as he had intended, he now, feeling strengthened, looked about for a suitable place to enter the stream and wade down so as to leave no footprints behind. To his surprise and joy he observed the bow of a small Indian canoe half hidden among the bushes. It had apparently been dragged there by its owner, and left to await his return, for the paddles were lying under it. Launching this frail bark without a moment's delay, he found that it was tight; pushed off and went rapidly down with the current. Either he had forgotten the gold in his haste, or the disgust he had expressed was genuine, for he left it lying on the bank. He now no longer fled without a purpose. Many miles down that same stream there dwelt a gold-digger in a lonely hut. His name was Paul Bevan. He was an eccentric being, and a widower with an only child, a daughter, named Elizabeth--better known as Betty. One phase of Paul Bevan's eccentricity was exhibited in his selection of a spot in which to search for the precious metal. It was a savage, gloomy gorge, such as a misanthrope might choose in which to end an unlovely career. But Bevan was no misanthrope. On the contrary, he was one of those men who are gifted with amiable dispositions, high spirits, strong frames, and unfailing health. He was a favourite with all who knew him, and, although considerably past middle life, possessed much of the fire, energy, and light-heartedness of youth. There is no accounting for the acts of eccentric men, and we make no attempt to explain why it was that Paul Bevan selected a home which was not only far removed from the abodes of other men, but which did not produce much gold. Many prospecting parties had visited the region from time to time, under the impression that Bevan had discovered a rich mine, which he was desirous of keeping all to himself; but, after searching and digging all round the neighbourhood, and discovering that gold was to be found in barely paying quantities, they had left in search of more prolific fields, and spread the report that Paul Bevan was an eccentric fellow. Some said he was a queer chap; others, more outspoken, styled him an ass, but all agreed in the opinion that his daughter Betty was the finest girl in Oregon. Perhaps this opinion may account for the fact that many of the miners-- especially the younger among them--returned again and again to Bevan's Gully to search for gold although the search was not remunerative. Among those persevering though unsuccessful diggers had been, for a considerable time past, our hero Tom Brixton. Perhaps the decision with which Elizabeth Bevan repelled him had had something to do with his late reckless life. But we must guard the reader here from supposing that Betty Bevan was a beauty. She was not. On the other hand, she was by no means plain, for her complexion was good, her nut-brown hair was soft and wavy, and her eyes were tender and true. It was the blending of the graces of body and of soul that rendered Betty so attractive. As poor Tom Brixton once said in a moment of confidence to his friend Westly, while excusing himself for so frequently going on prospecting expeditions to Bevan's Gully, "There's no question about it, Fred; she's the sweetest girl in Oregon--pshaw! in the world, I should have said. Loving-kindness beams in her eyes, sympathy ripples on her brow, grace dwells in her every motion, and honest, straightforward simplicity sits enthroned upon her countenance!" Even Crossby, the surly digger, entertained similar sentiments regarding her, though he expressed them in less refined language. "She's a bu'ster," he said once to a comrade, "that's what _she_ is, an' no mistake about it. What with her great eyes glarin' affection, an' her little mouth smilin' good-natur', an' her figure goin' about as graceful as a small cat at play--why, I tell 'ee what it is, mate, with such a gal for a wife a feller might snap his fingers at hunger an' thirst, heat an' cold, bad luck an' all the rest of it. But she's got one fault that don't suit me. She's overly religious--an' that don't pay at the diggin's." This so-called fault did indeed appear to interfere with Betty Bevan's matrimonial prospects, for it kept a large number of dissipated diggers at arm's-length from her, and it made even the more respectable men feel shy in her presence. Tom Brixton, however, had not been one of her timid admirers. He had a drop or two of Irish blood in his veins which rendered that impossible! Before falling into dissipated habits he had paid his addresses to her boldly. Moreover, his suit was approved by Betty's father, who had taken a great fancy to Tom. But, as we have said, this Rose of Oregon repelled Tom. She did it gently and kindly, it is true, but decidedly. It was, then, towards the residence of Paul Bevan that the fugitive now urged his canoe, with a strange turmoil of conflicting emotions however; for, the last time he had visited the Gully he had been at least free from the stain of having broken the laws of man. Now, he was a fugitive and an outlaw, with hopes and aspirations blighted and the last shred of self-respect gone. CHAPTER FOUR. When Tom Brixton had descended the river some eight or ten miles he deemed himself pretty safe from his pursuers, at least for the time being, as his rate of progress with the current far exceeded the pace at which men could travel on foot; and besides, there was the strong probability that, on reaching the spot where the canoe had been entered and the bag of gold left on the bank, the pursuers would be partially satisfied as well as baffled, and would return home. On reaching a waterfall, therefore, where the navigable part of the river ended and its broken course through Bevan's Gully began, he landed without any show of haste, drew the canoe up on the bank, where he left it concealed among bushes, and began quietly to descend by a narrow footpath with which he had been long familiar. Up to that point the unhappy youth had entertained no definite idea as to why he was hurrying towards the hut of Paul Bevan, or what he meant to say for himself on reaching it. But towards noon, as he drew near to it, the thought of Betty in her innocence and purity oppressed him. She rose before his mind's eye like a reproving angel. How could he ever face her with the dark stain of a mean theft upon his soul? How could he find courage to confess his guilt to her? or, supposing that he did not confess it, how could he forge the tissue of lies that would be necessary to account for his sudden appearance, and in such guise--bloodstained, wounded, haggard, and worn out with fatigue and hunger? Such thoughts now drove him to the verge of despair. Even if Betty were to refrain from putting awkward questions, there was no chance whatever of Paul Bevan being so considerate. Was he then to attempt to deceive them, or was he to reveal all? He shrank from answering the question, for he believed that Bevan was an honest man, and feared that he would have nothing further to do with him when he learned that he had become a common thief. A thief! How the idea burned into his heart, now that the influence of strong drink no longer warped his judgment! "Has it _really_ come to this?" he muttered, gloomily. Then, as he came suddenly in sight of Bevan's hut, he exclaimed more cheerfully, "Come, I'll make a clean breast of it." Paul Bevan had pitched his hut on the top of a steep rocky mound, the front of which almost overhung a precipice that descended into a deep gully, where the tormented river fell into a black and gurgling pool. Behind the hut flowed a streamlet, which being divided by the mound into a fork, ran on either side of it in two deep channels, so that the hut could only be reached by a plank bridge thrown across the lower or western fork. The forked streamlet tumbled over the precipice and descended into the dark pool below in the form of two tiny silver threads. At least it would have done so if its two threads had not been dissipated in misty spray long before reaching the bottom of the cliff. Thus it will be seen that the gold-digger occupied an almost impregnable fortress, though why he had perched himself in such a position no one could guess, and he declined to tell. It was therefore set down, like all his other doings, to eccentricity. Of course there was so far a pretext for his caution in the fact that there were scoundrels in those regions, who sometimes banded together and attacked people who were supposed to have gold-dust about them in large quantities, but as such assaults were not common, and as every one was equally liable to them, there seemed no sufficient ground for Bevan's excessive care in the selection of his fortress. On reaching it, Tom found its owner cutting up some firewood near his plank-bridge. "Hallo, Brixton!" he cried, looking up in some surprise as the young man advanced; "you seem to have bin in the wars. What have 'e been fightin' wi', lad?" "With a bear, Paul Bevan," replied Tom, sitting down on a log, with a long-drawn sigh. "You're used up, lad, an' want rest; mayhap you want grub also. Anyhow you look awful bad. No wounds, I hope, or bones broken, eh?" "No, nothing but a broken heart," replied Tom with a faint attempt to smile. "Why, that's a queer bit o' you for a b'ar to break. If you had said it was a girl that broke it, now, I could have--" "Where is Betty?" interrupted the youth, quickly, with an anxious expression. "In the hut, lookin' arter the grub. You'll come in an' have some, of course. But I'm coorious to hear about that b'ar. Was it far from here you met him?" "Ay, just a short way this side o' Pine Tree Diggings." "Pine Tree Diggin's!" repeated Paul in surprise. "Why, then, didn't you go back to Pine Tree Diggin's to wash yourself an' rest, instead o' comin' all the way here?" "Because--because, Paul Bevan," said Tom with sudden earnestness, as he gazed on the other's face, "because I'm a thief!" "You might be worse," replied Bevan, while a peculiarly significant smile played for a moment on his rugged features. "What do you mean?" exclaimed Tom, in amazement. "Why, you might have bin a murderer, you know," replied Bevan, with a nod. The youth was so utterly disgusted with this cool, indifferent way of regarding the matter, that he almost regretted having spoken. He had been condemning himself so severely during the latter part of his journey, and the meanness of his conduct as well as its wickedness had been growing so dark in colour, that Bevan's unexpected levity took him aback, and for a few seconds he could not speak. "Listen," he said at last, seizing his friend by the arm and looking earnestly into his eyes. "Listen, and I will tell you all about it." The man became grave as Tom went on with his narrative. "Yes, it's a bad business," he said, at its conclusion, "an uncommon bad business. Got a very ugly look about it." "You are right, Paul," said Tom, bowing his head, while a flush of shame covered his face. "No one, I think, can be more fully convinced of the meanness--the sin--of my conduct than I am now--" "Oh! as to that," returned Bevan, with another of his peculiar smiles, "I didn't exactly mean _that_. You were tempted, you know, pretty bad. Besides, Bully Gashford is a big rascal, an' richly deserves what he got. No, it wasn't that I meant--but it's a bad look-out for you, lad, if they nab you. I knows the temper o' them Pine Tree men, an' they're in such a wax just now that they'll string you up, as sure as fate, if they catch you." Again Tom was silent, for the lightness with which Bevan regarded his act of theft only had the effect of making him condemn himself the more. "But I say, Brixton," resumed Bevan, with an altered expression, "not a word of all this to Betty. You haven't much chance with her as it is, although I do my best to back you up; but if she came to know of this affair, you'd not have the ghost of a chance at all--for you know the gal is religious, more's the pity, though I will say it, she's a good obedient gal, in spite of her religion, an' a 'fectionate darter to me. But she'd never marry a thief, you know. You couldn't well expect her to." The dislike with which Tom Brixton regarded his companion deepened into loathing as he spoke, and he felt it difficult to curb his desire to fell the man to the ground, but the thought that he was Betty's father soon swallowed up all other thoughts and feelings. He resolved in his own mind that, come of it what might, he would certainly tell all the facts to the girl, and then formally give her up, for he agreed with Bevan at least on one point, namely, that he could not expect a good religious girl to marry a thief! "But you forget, Paul," he said, after a few moments' thought, "that Betty is sure to hear about this affair the first time you have a visitor from Pine Tree Diggings." "That's true, lad, I did forget that. But you know you can stoutly deny that it was you who did it. Say there was some mistake, and git up some cock-an'-a-bull story to confuse her. Anyhow, say nothing about it just now." Tom was still meditating what he should say in reply to this, when Betty herself appeared, calling her father to dinner. "Now, mind, not a word about the robbery," he whispered as he rose, "and we'll make as much as we can of the b'ar." "Yes, not a word about it," thought Tom, "till Betty and I are alone, and then--a clean breast and good-bye to her, for ever!" During dinner the girl manifested more than usual sympathy with Tom Brixton. She saw that he was almost worn out with fatigue, and listened with intense interest to her father's embellished narrative of the encounter with the "b'ar," which narrative Tom was forced to interrupt and correct several times, in the course of its delivery. But this sympathy did not throw her off her guard. Remembering past visits, she took special care that Tom should have no opportunity of being alone with her. "Now, you must be off to rest," said Paul Bevan, the moment his visitor laid down his knife and fork, "for, let me tell you, I may want your help before night. I've got an enemy, Tom, an enemy who has sworn to be the death o' me, and who _will_ be the death o' me, I feel sure o' that in the long-run. However, I'll keep him off as long as I can. He'd have been under the sod long afore now, lad--if--if it hadn't bin for my Betty. She's a queer girl is Betty, and she's made a queer man of her old father." "But who is this enemy, and when--what--? explain yourself." "Well, I've no time to explain either `when' or `what' just now, and you have no time to waste. Only I have had a hint from a friend, early this morning, that my enemy has discovered my whereabouts, and is following me up. But I'm ready for him, and right glad to have your stout arm to help--though you couldn't fight a babby just now. Lie down, I say, an' I'll call you when you're wanted." Ceasing to press the matter, Tom entered a small room, in one corner of which a narrow bed, or bunk, was fixed. Flinging himself on this, he was fast asleep in less than two minutes. "Kind nature's sweet restorer" held him so fast, that for three hours he lay precisely as he fell, without the slightest motion, save the slow and regular heaving of his broad chest. At the end of that time he was rudely shaken by a strong hand. The guilty are always easily startled. Springing from his couch he had seized Bevan by the throat before he was quite awake. "Hist! man, not quite so fast" gasped his host shaking him off. "Come, they've turned up sooner than I expected." "What--who?" said Brixton, looking round. "My enemy, of coorse, an' a gang of redskins to help him. They expect to catch us asleep, but they'll find out their mistake soon enough. That lad there brought me the news, and, you see, he an' Betty are getting things ready." Tom glanced through the slightly opened doorway, as he tightened his belt, and saw Betty and a boy of about fourteen years of age standing at a table, busily engaged loading several old-fashioned horse-pistols with buckshot. "Who's the boy?" asked Tom. "They call him Tolly. I saved the little chap once from a grizzly b'ar, an' he's a grateful feller, you see--has run a long way to give me warnin' in time. Come, here's a shot-gun for you, charged wi' slugs. I'm not allowed to use ball, you must know, 'cause Betty thinks that balls kill an' slugs only wound! I humour the little gal, you see, for she's a good darter to me. We've both on us bin lookin' forward to this day, for we knowed it must come sooner or later, an' I made her a promise that, when it did come, I'd only defend the hut wi' slugs. But slugs ain't bad shots at a close range, when aimed low." The man gave a sly chuckle and a huge wink as he said this, and entered the large room of the hut. Betty was very pale and silent. She did not even look up from the pistol she was loading when Tom entered. The boy Tolly, however, looked at his tall, strong figure with evident satisfaction. "Ha!" he exclaimed, ramming down a charge of slugs with great energy; "we'll be able to make a good fight without your services, Betty. Won't we, old man?" The pertly-put question was addressed to Paul Bevan, between whom and the boy there was evidently strong affection. "Yes, Tolly," replied Bevan, with a pleasant nod, "three men are quite enough for the defence of this here castle." "But, I say, old man," continued the boy, shaking a powder-horn before his face, "the powder's all done. Where'll I git more?" A look of anxiety flitted across Bevan's face. "It's in the magazine. I got a fresh keg last week, an' thought it safest to put it there till required--an' haven't I gone an' forgot to fetch it in!" "Well, that don't need to trouble you," returned the boy, "just show me the magazine, an' I'll go an' fetch it in!" "The magazine's over the bridge," said Bevan. "I dug it there for safety. Come, Tom, the keg's too heavy for the boy. I must fetch it myself, and you must guard the bridge while I do it." He went out quickly as he spoke, followed by Tom and Tolly. It was a bright moonlight night, and the forks of the little stream glittered like two lines of silver, at the bottom of their rugged bed on either side of the hut. The plank-bridge had been drawn up on the bank. With the aid of his two allies Bevan quickly thrust it over the gulf, and, without a moment's hesitation, sprang across. While Tom stood at the inner end, ready with a double-barrelled gun to cover his friend's retreat if necessary, he saw Bevan lift a trap-door not thirty yards distant and disappear. A few seconds, and he re-appeared with a keg on his shoulder. All remained perfectly quiet in the dark woods around. The babbling rivulet alone broke the silence of the night. Bevan seemed to glide over the ground, he trod so softly. "There's another," he whispered, placing the keg at Tom's feet, and springing back towards the magazine. Again he disappeared, and, as before, re-issued from the hole with the second keg on his shoulder. Suddenly a phantom seemed to glide from the bushes, and fell him to the earth. He dropped without even a cry, and so swift was the act that his friends had not time to move a finger to prevent it. Tom, however, discharged both barrels of his gun at the spot where the phantom seemed to disappear, and Tolly Trevor discharged a horse pistol in the same direction. Instantly a rattling volley was fired from the woods, and balls whistled all round the defenders of the hut. Most men in the circumstances would have sought shelter, but Tom Brixton's spirit was of that utterly reckless character that refuses to count the cost before action. Betty's father lay helpless on the ground in the power of his enemies! That was enough for Tom. He leaped across the bridge, seized the fallen man, threw him on his shoulder, and had almost regained the bridge, when three painted Indians uttered a hideous war-whoop and sprang after him. Fortunately, having just emptied their guns, they could not prevent the fugitive from crossing the bridge, but they reached it before there was time to draw in the plank, and were about to follow, when Tolly Trevor planted himself in front of them with a double-barrelled horse-pistol in each band. "We don't want _you_ here, you--red-faced--baboons!" he cried, pausing between each of the last three words to discharge a shot and emphasising the last word with one of the pistols, which he hurled with such precision that it took full effect on the bridge of the nearest red man's nose. All three fell, but rose again with a united screech and fled back to the bushes. A few moments more and the bridge was drawn back, and Paul Bevan was borne into the hut, amid a scattering fire from the assailants, which, however, did no damage. To the surprise and consternation of Tolly, who entered first, Betty was found sitting on a chair with blood trickling from her left arm. A ball entering through the window had grazed her, and she sank down, partly from the shock, coupled with alarm. She recovered, however, on seeing her father carried in, sprang up, and ran to him. "Only stunned, Betty," said Tom; "will be all right soon, but we must rouse him, for the scoundrels will be upon us in a minute. What--what's this--wounded?" "Only a scratch. Don't mind me. Father! dear father--rouse up! They will be here--oh! rouse up, dear father!" But Betty shook him in vain. "Out o' the way, _I_ know how to stir him up," said Tolly, coming forward with a pail of water and sending the contents violently into his friend's face--thus drenching him from head to foot. The result was that Paul Bevan sneezed, and, sitting up, looked astonished. "Ha! I thought that 'ud fetch you," said the boy, with a grin. "Come, you'd better look alive if you don't want to lose yer scalp." "Ho! ho!" exclaimed Bevan, rising with a sudden look of intelligence and staggering to the door, "here, give me the old sword, Betty, and the blunderbuss. Now then." He went out at the door, and Tom Brixton was following, when the girl stopped him. "Oh! Mr Brixton," she said, "do not _kill_ any one, if you can help it." "I won't if I can help it. But listen, Betty," said the youth, hurriedly seizing the girl's hand. "I have tried hard to speak with you alone to-day, to tell you that I am _guilty_, and to say good-bye _for ever_." "Guilty! what do you mean?" she exclaimed in bewildered surprise. "No time to explain. I may be shot, you know, or taken prisoner, though the latter's not likely. In any case remember that I confess myself _guilty_! God bless you, dear, _dear_ girl." Without waiting for a reply, he ran to a hollow on the top of the mound where his friend and Tolly were already ensconced, and whence they could see every part of the clearing around the little fortress. "I see the reptiles," whispered Bevan, as Tom joined them. "They are mustering for an attack on the south side. Just what I wish," he added, with a suppressed chuckle, "for I've got a pretty little arrangement of cod-hooks and man-traps in that direction." As he spoke several dark figures were seen gliding among the trees. A moment later, and these made a quick silent rush over the clearing to gain the slight shelter of the shrubs that fringed the streamlet. "Just so," remarked Bevan, in an undertone, when a crash of branches told that one of his traps had taken effect; "an' from the row I should guess that two have gone into the hole at the same time. Ha! that's a fish hooked!" he added, as a short sharp yell of pain, mingled with surprise, suddenly increased the noise. "An' there goes another!" whispered Tolly, scarcely able to contain himself with delight at such an effective yet comparatively bloodless way of embarrassing their foes. "And another," added Bevan; "but look out now; they'll retreat presently. Give 'em a dose o' slug as they go back, but take 'em low, lads--about the feet and ankles. It's only a fancy of my dear little gal, but I like to humour her fancies." Bevan was right. Finding that they were not only surrounded by hidden pit-falls, but caught by painfully sharp little instruments, and entangled among cordage, the Indians used their scalping-knives to free themselves, and rushed back again towards the wood, but before gaining its shelter they received the slug-dose above referred to, and instantly filled the air with shrieks of rage, rather than of pain. At that moment a volley was fired from the other side of the fortress, and several balls passed close over the defenders' heads. "Surrounded and outnumbered!" exclaimed Bevan, with something like a groan. As he spoke another, but more distant, volley was heard, accompanied by shouts of anger and confusion among the men who were assaulting the fortress. "The attackers are attacked," exclaimed Bevan, in surprise; "I wonder who by." He looked round for a reply, but only saw the crouching figure of Tolly beside him. "Where's Brixton?" he asked. "Bolted into the hut," answered the boy. "Betty," exclaimed Tom, springing into the little parlour or hall, where he found the poor girl on her knees, "you are safe now. I heard the voice of Gashford, and the Indians are flying. But I too must fly. I am guilty, as I have said, but my crime is not worthy of death, yet death is the award, and, God knows, I am not fit to die. Once more-- farewell!" He spoke rapidly, and was turning to go without even venturing to look at the girl, when she said-- "Whatever your crime may be, remember that there is a Saviour from sin. Stay! You cannot leap the creek, and, even if you did, you would be caught, for I hear voices near us. Come with me." She spoke in a tone of decision that compelled obedience. Lifting a trap-door in the floor she bade her lover descend. He did so, and found himself in a cellar half full of lumber and with several casks ranged round the walls. The girl followed, removed one of the casks, and disclosed a hole behind it. "It is small," she said, quickly, "but you will be able to force yourself through. Inside it enlarges at once to a low tunnel, along which you will creep for a hundred yards, when you will reach open air in a dark, rocky dell, close to the edge of the precipice above the river. Descend to its bed, and, when free, use your freedom to escape from death--but much more, to escape from sin. Go quickly!" Tom Brixton would fain have delayed to seize and kiss his preserver's hand, but the sound of voices overhead warned him to make haste. Without a word he dropped on hands and knees and thrust himself through the aperture. Betty replaced the cask, returned to the upper room, and closed the trap-door just a few minutes before her father ushered Gashford and his party into the hut. CHAPTER FIVE. When our hero found himself in a hole, pitch dark and barely large enough to permit of his creeping on hands and knees, he felt a sudden sensation of fear--of undefinable dread--come over him, such as one might be supposed to experience on awaking to the discovery that he had been buried alive. His first impulse was to shout for deliverance, but his manhood returned to him, and he restrained himself. Groping his way cautiously along the passage or tunnel, which descended at first steeply, he came to a part which he could feel was regularly built over with an arch of brickwork or masonry, and the sound of running water overhead told him that this was a tunnel under the rivulet. As he advanced the tunnel widened a little, and began to ascend. After creeping what he judged to be a hundred yards or so, he thought he could see a glimmer of light like a faint star in front of him. It was the opening to which Betty had referred. He soon reached it and emerged into the fresh air. As he raised himself, and drew a long breath of relief, the words of his deliverer seemed to start up before him in letters of fire-- "Use your freedom to escape from death--but _much more, to escape from sin_." "I will, so help me God!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands convulsively and looking upward. In the strength of the new-born resolution thus induced by the Spirit of God, he fell on his knees and tried to pray. Then he rose and sat down to think, strangely forgetful of the urgent need there was for flight. Meanwhile Gashford and his men proceeded to question Paul Bevan and his daughter. The party included, among others, Fred Westly, Paddy Flinders, and Crossby. Gashford more than suspected the motives of the first two in accompanying him, but did not quite see his way to decline their services, even if he had possessed the power to do so. He consoled himself, however, with the reflection that he could keep a sharp eye on their movements. "No, no, Bevan," he said, when the man brought out a case-bottle of rum and invited him to drink, "we have other work on hand just now. We have traced that young thief Brixton to this hut, and we want to get hold of him." "A thief, is he?" returned Bevan, with a look of feigned surprise. "Well, now, that _is_ strange news. Tom Brixton don't look much like a thief, do he?" (appealing to the by-standers). "There must be some mistake, surely." "There's no mistake," said Gashford, with an oath. "He stole a bag o' gold from my tent. To be sure he dropped it in his flight so I've got it back again, but that don't affect his guilt." "But surely, Mister Gashford," said Bevan slowly, for, having been hurriedly told in a whisper by Betty what she had done for Tom, he was anxious to give his friend as much time as possible to escape, "surely as you've come by no loss, ye can afford to let the poor young feller off this time." "No, we can't," shouted Gashford, fiercely. "These mean pilferers have become a perfect pest at the diggin's, an' we intend to stop their little game, we do, by stoppin' their windpipes when we catch them. Come, don't shilly-shally any longer, Paul Bevan. He's here, and no mistake, so you'd better hand him over. Besides, you owe us something, you know, for coming to your help agin the redskins in the nick of time." "Well, as to that I _am_ much obliged, though, after all, it wasn't to help me you came." "No matter," exclaimed the other impatiently, "you know he is here, an' you're bound to give him up." "But I _don't_ know that he's here, an' I _can't_ give him up, cause why? he's escaped." "Escaped! impossible, there is only one bridge to this mound, and he has not crossed that since we arrived, I'll be bound. There's a sentry on it now." "But an active young feller can jump, you know." "No, he couldn't jump over the creek, unless he was a human flea or a Rocky Mountain goat. Come, since you won't show us where he is, we'll take the liberty of sarchin' your premises. But stay, your daughter's got the name o' bein' a religious gal. If there's any truth in that she'd be above tellin' a lie. Come now, Betty, tell us, like a good gal, is Tom Brixton here?" "No, he is not here," replied the girl. "Where is he, then?" "I do not know." "That's false, you _do_ know. But come, lads, we'll sarch, and here's a cellar to begin with." He laid hold of the iron ring of the trap-door, opened it, and seizing a light descended, followed by Bevan, Crossby, Flinders, and one or two others. Tossing the lumber about he finally rolled aside the barrels ranged beside the wall, until the entrance to the subterranean way was discovered. "Ho! ho!" he cried, lowering the light and gazing into it. "Here's something, anyhow." After peering into the dark hole for some time he felt with his hand as far as his arm could reach. "Mind he don't bite!" suggested Paddy Flinders, in a tone that drew a laugh from the by-standers. "Hand me that stick, Paddy," said Gashford, "and keep your jokes to a more convenient season." "Ah! then 'tis always a convanient season wid me, sor," replied Paddy, with a wink at his companions as he handed the stick. "Does this hole go far in?" he asked, after a fruitless poking about with the stick. "Ay, a long way. More'n a hundred yards," returned Bevan. "Well, I'll have a look at it." Saying which Gashford pushed the light as far in as he could reach, and then, taking a bowie-knife between his teeth, attempted to follow. We say attempted, because he was successful only in a partial degree. It must be remembered that Gashford was an unusually large man, and that Tom Brixton had been obliged to use a little force in order to gain an entrance. When, therefore, the huge bully had thrust himself in about as far as his waist he stuck hard and fast, so that he could neither advance nor retreat! He struggled violently, and a muffled sound of shouting was heard inside the hole, but no one could make out what was said. "Och! the poor cratur," exclaimed Paddy Flinders, with a look of overdone commiseration, "what'll we do for 'im at all at all?" "Let's try to pull him out," suggested Crossby. They tried and failed, although as many as could manage it laid hold of him. "Sure he minds me of a stiff cork in a bottle," said Flinders, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, "an' what a most awful crack he'll make whin he does come out! Let's give another heave, boys." They gave another heave, but only caused the muffled shouting inside to increase. "Och! the poor cratur's stritchin' out like a injin-rubber man; sure he's a fut longer than he used to be--him that was a sight too long already," said Flinders. "Let's try to shove him through," suggested the baffled Crossby. Failure again followed their united efforts--except as regards the muffled shouting within, which increased in vigour and was accompanied by no small amount of kicking by what of Gashford remained in the cellar. "I'm afeared his legs'll come off altogether if we try to pull harder than we've done," said Crossby, contemplating the huge and helpless limbs of the victim with a perplexed air. "What a chance, boys," suddenly exclaimed Flinders, "to pay off old scores with a tree-mendous wallopin'! We could do it aisy in five or six minutes, an' then lave 'im to think over it for the rest of his life." As no one approved of Paddy's proposal, it was finally resolved to dig the big man out and a pick and shovel were procured for the purpose. Contrary to all expectations, Gashford was calm, almost subdued, when his friends at last set him free. Instead of storming and abusing every one, he said quietly but quickly, "Let us search the bush now. He can't be far off yet, and there's moonlight enough." Leading the way, he sprang up the cellar stair, out at the hut-door, and across the bridge, followed closely by his party. "Hooroo!" yelled Paddy Flinders, as if in the irrepressible ardour of the chase, but in reality to give Brixton intimation of the pursuit, if he should chance to be within earshot. The well-meant signal did indeed take effect, but it came too late. It found Tom still seated in absorbed meditation. Rudely awakened to the consciousness of his danger and his stupidity, he leaped up and ran along the path that Betty had described to him. At the same moment it chanced that Crossby came upon the same path at its river-side extremity, and in a few moments each ran violently into the other's arms, and both rolled upon the ground. The embrace that Crossby gave the youth would have been creditable even to a black bear, but Tom was a match for him in his then condition of savage despair. He rolled the rough digger over on his back, half strangled him, and bumped his shaggy head against the conveniently-situated root of a tree. But Crossby held on with the tenacity of sticking-plaster, shouting wildly all the time, and before either could subdue the other, Gashford and his men coming up stopped the combat. It were vain attempting to describe the conflict of Brixton's feelings as they once more bound his arms securely behind him and led him back to Paul Bevan's hut. The thought of death while fighting with man or beast had never given him much concern, but to be done to death by the rope as a petty thief was dreadful to contemplate, while to appear before the girl he loved, humiliated and bound, was in itself a sort of preliminary death. Afterwards, when confined securely in the cellar and left to himself for the night, with a few pine branches as a bed, the thought of home and mother came to him with overwhelming power, and finally mingled with his dreams. But those dreams, however pleasant they might be at first and in some respects, invariably ended with the branch of a tree and a rope with a noose dangling at the end thereof, and he awoke again and again with a choking sensation, under the impression that the noose was already tightening on his throat. The agony endured that night while alone in the dark cellar was terrible, for Tom knew the temper of the diggers too well to doubt his fate. Still hope, blessed hope, did not utterly desert him. More than once he struggled to his knees and cried to God for mercy in the Saviour's name. By daybreak next morning he was awakened out of the first dreamless sleep that he had enjoyed, and bid get up. A slight breakfast of bread and water was handed to him, which he ate by the light of a homemade candle stuck in the neck of a quart bottle. Soon afterwards Crossby descended, and bade him ascend the wooden stair or ladder. He did so, and found the party of miners assembled under arms, and ready for the road. "I'm sorry I can't help 'ee," said Paul Bevan, drawing the unhappy youth aside, and speaking in a low voice. "I would if I could, for I owe my life to you, but they won't listen to reason. I sent Betty out o' the way, lad, a-purpose. Thought it better she shouldn't see you, but--" "Come, come, old man, time's up," interrupted Gashford, roughly; "we must be off. Now, march, my young slippery-heels. I needn't tell you not to try to bolt again. You'll find it difficult to do that." As they moved off and began their march through the forest on foot, Tom Brixton felt that escape was indeed out of the question, for, while three men marched in front of him, four marched on either side, each with rifle on shoulder, and the rest of the band brought up the rear. But even if his chances had not been so hopeless, he would not have made any further effort to save himself, for he had given himself thoroughly up to despair. In the midst of this a slight sense of relief, mingled with the bitterness of disappointment, when he found that Betty had been sent out of the way, and that he would see her no more, for he could not bear the thought of her seeing him thus led away. "May I speak with the prisoner for a few minutes?" said Fred Westly to Gashford, as they plodded through the woods. "He has been my comrade for several years, and I promised his poor mother never to forsake him. May I, Gashford?" "No," was the sharp reply, and then, as if relenting, "Well, yes, you may; but be brief, and no underhand dealing, mind, for if you attempt to help him you shall be a dead man the next moment, as sure as I'm a living one. An' you needn't be too soft, Westly," he added, with a cynical smile. "Your chum has--Well, it's no business o' mine. You can go to him." Poor Tom Brixton started as his old friend went up to him, and then hung his head. "Dear Tom," said Fred, in a low voice, "don't give way to despair. With God all things are possible, and even if your life is to be forfeited, it is not too late to save the soul, for Jesus is able and willing to save to the uttermost. But I want to comfort you with the assurance that I will spare no effort to save you. Many of the diggers are not very anxious that you should bear the extreme punishment of the law, and I think Gashford may be bought over. If so, I need not tell you that my little private store hidden away under the pine-tree--" "There is no such store, Fred," interrupted Tom, with a haggard look of shame. "What do you mean, Tom?" "I mean that I gambled it all away unknown to you. Oh! Fred, you do not--you cannot know what a fearful temptation gambling is when given way to, especially when backed by drink. No, it's of no use your trying to comfort me. I do believe, now, that I deserve to die." "Whatever you deserve, Tom, it is my business to save you, if I can-- both body and soul; and what you now tell me does not alter my intentions or my hopes. By the way, does Gashford know about this?" "Yes, he knows that I have taken your money." "And that's the reason," said Gashford himself, coming up at the moment, "that I advised you not to be too soft on your chum, for he's a bad lot altogether." "Is the man who knows of a crime, and connives at it, and does not reveal it, a much better `lot'?" demanded Fred, with some indignation. "Perhaps not," replied Gashford, with a short laugh; "but as I never set up for a good lot, you see, there's no need to discuss the subject. Now, fall to the rear, my young blade. Remember that I'm in command of this party, and you know, or ought to know, that I suffer no insolence in those under me." Poor Fred fell back at once, bitterly regretting that he had spoken out, and thus injured to some extent his influence with the only man who had the power to aid his condemned friend. It was near sunset when they reached Pine Tree Diggings. Tom Brixton was thrust into a strong blockhouse, used chiefly as a powder magazine, but sometimes as a prison, the key of which was kept on that occasion in Gashford's pocket, while a trusty sentinel paced before the door. That night Fred Westly sat in his tent, the personification of despair. True, he had not failed all along to lay his friend's case before God, and, up to this point, strong hope had sustained him; but now, the only means by which he had trusted to accomplish his end were gone. The hidden hoard, on which he had counted too much, had been taken and lost by the very man he wished to save, and the weakness of his own faith was revealed by the disappearance of the gold--for he had almost forgotten that the Almighty can provide means at any time and in all circumstances. Fred would not allow himself for a moment to think that Tom had _stolen_ his gold. He only _took_ it for a time, with the full intention of refunding it when better times should come. On this point Fred's style of reasoning was in exact accord with that of his unhappy friend. Tom never for a moment regarded the misappropriation of the gold as a theft. Oh no! it was merely an appropriated loan--a temporary accommodation. It would be interesting, perhaps appalling, to know how many thousands of criminal careers have been begun in this way! "Now, Mister Westly," said Flinders, entering the tent in haste, "what's to be done? It's quite clear that Mister Tom's not to be hanged, for there's two or three of us'll commit murder before that happens; but I've bin soundin' the boys, an' I'm afeared there's a lot o' the worst wans that'll be glad to see him scragged, an' there's a lot as won't risk their own necks to save him, an' what betune the wan an' the other, them that'll fight for him are a small minority--so, again I say, what's to be done?" Patrick Flinders's usually jovial face had by that time become almost as long and lugubrious as that of Westly. "I don't know," returned Fred, shaking his head. "My one plan, on which I had been founding much hope, is upset. Listen. It was this. I have been saving a good deal of my gold for a long time past and hiding it away secretly, so as to have something to fall back upon when poor Tom had gambled away all his means. This hoard of mine amounted, I should think, to something like five hundred pounds. I meant to have offered it to Gashford for the key of the prison, and for his silence, while we enabled Tom once more to escape. But this money has, without my knowledge, been taken away and--" "Stolen, you mean!" exclaimed Flinders, in surprise. "No, not stolen--taken! I can't explain just now. It's enough to know that it is gone, and that my plan is thus overturned." "D'ee think Gashford would let him out for that?" asked the Irishman, anxiously. "I think so; but, after all, I'm almost glad that the money's gone, for I can't help feeling that this way of enticing Gashford to do a thing, as it were slily, is underhand. It is a kind of bribery." "Faix, then, it's not c'ruption anyhow, for the baste is as c'rupt as he can be already. An', sure, wouldn't it just be bribin' a blackguard not to commit murther?" "I don't know, Pat. It is a horrible position to be placed in. Poor, poor Tom!" "Have ye had supper?" asked Flinders, quickly. "No--I cannot eat." "Cook it then, an' don't be selfish. Other people can ait, though ye can't. It'll kape yer mind employed--an I'll want somethin' to cheer me up whin I come back." Pat Flinders left the tent abruptly, and poor Fred went about the preparation of supper in a half mechanical way, wondering what his comrade meant by his strange conduct. Pat's meaning was soon made plain, that night, to a dozen or so of his friends, whom he visited personally and induced to accompany him to a sequestered dell in an out-of-the-way thicket where the moonbeams struggled through the branches and drew a lovely pale-blue pattern on the green-sward. "My frinds," he said, in a low, mysterious voice, "I know that ivery mother's son of ye is ready to fight for poor Tom Brixton to-morrow, if the wust comes to the wust. Now, it has occurred to my chum Westly an' me, that it would be better, safer, and surer to buy him up, than to fight for him, an' as I know some o' you fellers has dug up more goold than you knows well what to do wid, an' you've all got liberal hearts-- lastewise ye should have, if ye haven't--I propose, an' second the resolootion, that we make up some five hundred pounds betune us, an' presint it to Bully Gashford as a mark of our estaim--if he'll on'y give us up the kay o' the prison, put Patrick Flinders, Esquire, sintry over it, an' then go to slape till breakfast-time tomorry mornin'." This plan was at once agreed to, for five hundred pounds was not a large sum to be made up by men who--some of them at least--had nearly made "their pile"--by which they meant their fortune, while the liberality of heart with which they had been credited was not wanting. Having settled a few details, this singular meeting broke up, and Patrick Flinders-- acting as the secretary, treasurer, and executive committee--went off, with a bag of golden nuggets and unbounded self-confidence, to transact the business. CHAPTER SIX. Gashford was not quite so ready to accept Flinders's offer as that enthusiast had expected. The bully seemed to be in a strangely unusual mood, too--a mood which at first the Irishman thought favourable to his cause. "Sit down," said Gashford, with less gruffness than usual, when his visitor entered his hut. "What d'ye want wi' me?" Flinders addressed himself at once to the subject of his mission, and became quite eloquent as he touched on the grandeur of the sum offered, the liberality of the offerers, and the ease with which the whole thing might be accomplished. A very faint smile rested on Gashford's face as he proceeded, but by no other sign did he betray his thoughts until his petitioner had concluded. "So you want to buy him off?" said Gashford, the smile expanding to a broad grin. "If yer honour had bin born a judge an' sot on the bench since iver ye was a small spalpeen, ye couldn't have hit it off more nately. That's just what we want--to buy him off. It's a purty little commercial transaction--a man's life for five hundred pound; an', sure it's a good price to give too, consitherin' how poor we all are, an what a dale o' sweatin' work we've got to do to git the goold." "But suppose I won't sell," said Gashford, "what then?" "Fair, then, I'll blow your brains out" thought the Irishman, his fingers tingling with a desire to grasp the loaded revolver that lay in his pocket, but he had the wisdom to restrain himself and to say, "Och! sor, sure ye'll niver refuse such a nat'ral request. An' we don't ask ye to help us. Only to hand me the kay o' the prison, remove the sintry, an' then go quietly to yer bed wid five hundred pound in goold benathe yar hid to drame on." To add weight to his proposal he drew forth the bag of nuggets from one of his capacious coat pockets and held it up to view. "It's not enough," said Gashford, with a stern gruffness of tone and look which sank the petitioner's hopes below zero. "Ah! then, Muster Gashford," said Flinders, with the deepest pathos, "it's yer own mother would plade wid ye for the poor boy's life, av she was here--think o' that. Sure he's young and inexparienced, an' it's the first offince he's iver committed--" "No, not the first" interrupted Gashford. "The first that I knows on," returned Flinders. "Tell me--does Westly know of this proposal of yours?" "No sor, he doesn't." "Ah, I thought not. With his religious notions, it would be difficult for him to join in an attempt to _bribe_ me to stop the course of justice." "Well, sor, you're not far wrong, for Muster Westly had bin havin' a sort o' tussle wid his conscience on that very pint. You must know, he had made up his mind to do this very thing an' offer you all his savings--a thousand pound, more or less--to indooce you to help to save his frind, but he found his goold had bin stolen, so, you see, sor, he couldn't do it." "Did he tell you who stole his gold?" "No, sor, he didn't--he said that some feller had took it--on loan, like, though I calls it stalin'--but he didn't say who." "And have you had no tussle with _your_ conscience, Flinders, about this business?" The Irishman's face wrinkled up into an expression of intense amusement at this question. "It's jokin' ye are, Muster Gashford. Sure, now, me conscience--if I've got wan--doesn't bother me oftin; an' if it did, on this occasion, I'd send it to the right-about double quick, for it's not offerin' ye five hundred pound I am to stop the coorse o' justice, but to save ye from committin' murther! Give Muster Brixton what punishment the coort likes--for stailin'--only don't hang him. That's all we ask." "You'll have to pay more for it then," returned the bully. "That's not enough." "Sure we haven't got a rap more to kape our pots bilin', sor," returned Flinders, in a tone of despair. "Lastewise I can spake for myself; for I'm claned out--all _but_." "Row much does the `all but' represent?" "Well, sor, to tell you the raal truth, it's about tchwo hundred pound, more or less, and I brought it wid me, for fear you might want it, an' I haven't got a nugget more if it was to save me own life. It's the truth I'm tellin' ye, sor." There was a tone and look of such intense sincerity about the poor fellow, as he slowly drew a second bag of gold from his pocket and placed it beside the first, that Gashford could not help being convinced. "Two hundred and five hundred," he said, meditatively. "That makes siven hundred, sor," said Flinders, suggestively. The bully did not reply for a few seconds. Then, taking up the bags of gold, he threw them into a corner. Thereafter he drew a large key from his pocket and handed it to the Irishman, who grasped it eagerly. "Go to the prison," said Gashford, "tell the sentry you've come to relieve him, and send him to me. Mind, now, the rest of this business must be managed entirely by yourself, and see to it that the camp knows nothing about our little commercial transaction, for, _if it does_, your own days will be numbered." With vows of eternal secrecy, and invoking blessings of an elaborate nature on Gashford's head, the Irishman hastened away, and went straight to the prison, which stood considerably apart from the huts and tents of the miners. "Who goes there?" challenged the sentry as he approached, for the night was very dark. "Mesilf, av coorse." "An' who may that be, for yer not the only Patlander in camp, more's the pity!" "It's Flinders I am. Sure any man wid half an ear might know that. I've come to relave ye." "But you've got no rifle," returned the man, with some hesitation. "Aren't revolvers as good as rifles, ay, an' better at close quarters? Shut up your tatie-trap, now, an' be off to Muster Gashford's hut for he towld me to sind you there widout delay." This seemed to satisfy the man, who at once went away, leaving Flinders on guard. Without a moment's loss of time Paddy made use of the key and entered the prison. "Is it there ye are, avic?" he said, in a hoarse whisper, as he advanced with caution and outstretched hands to prevent coming against obstructions. "Yes; who are you?" replied Tom Brixton, in a stern voice. "Whist, now, or ye'll git me into throuble. Sure, I'm yer sintry, no less, an' yer chum Pat Flinders." "Indeed, Paddy! I'm surprised that they should select you to be my jailer." "Humph! well, they didn't let me have the place for nothing--och! musha!" The last exclamations were caused by the poor man tumbling over a chair and hitting his head on a table. "Not hurt, I hope," said Brixton, his spirit somewhat softened by the incident. "Not much--only a new bump--but it's wan among many, so it don't matter. Now, listen. Time is precious. I've come for to set you free--not exactly at this momint, howiver, for the boys o' the camp haven't all gone to bed yet; but whin they're quiet, I'll come again an' help you to escape. I've only come now to let you know." The Irishman then proceeded to give Tom Brixton a minute account of all that had been done in his behalf. He could not see how the news affected him, the prison being as dark as Erebus, but great was his surprise and consternation when the condemned man said, in a calm but firm voice, "Thank you, Flinders, for your kind intentions, but I don't mean to make a second attempt to escape." "Ye don't intind to escape!" exclaimed his friend, with a look of blank amazement at the spot where the voice of the other came from. "No; I don't deserve to live, Paddy, so I shall remain and be hanged." "I'll be hanged if ye do," said Paddy, with much decision. "Come, now, don't be talkin' nonsense. It's jokin' ye are, av coorse." "I'm very far from joking, my friend," returned Tom, in a tone of deep despondency, "as you shall find when daylight returns. I am guilty-- more guilty than you fancy--so I shall plead guilty, whether tried or not, and take the consequences. Besides, life is not worth having. I'm tired of it!" "Och! but we've bought you, an' paid for you, an' you've no manner o' right to do what ye like wi' yourself," returned his exasperated chum. "But it's of no use talkin' to ye. There's somethin' wrong wi' your inside, no doubt. When I come back for ye at the right time you'll have thought better of it. Come, now, give us your hand." "I wish I could, Flinders, but the rascal that tied me has drawn the cord so tight that I feel as if I had no hands at all." "I'll soon putt that right. Where are ye? Ah, that's it, now, kape stidy." Flinders severed the cord with his bowie knife, unwound it, and set his friend free. "Now thin, remain where ye are till I come for ye; an' if any wan should rap at the door an' ax where's the sintinel an' the kay, just tell him ye don't know, an don't care; or, if ye prefer it, tell him to go an' ax his grandmother." With this parting piece of advice Flinders left the prisoner, locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and went straight to Fred Westly, whom he found seated beside the fire with his face buried in his hands. "If Tom told you he wouldn't attempt to escape," said Westly, on hearing the details of all that his eccentric friend had done, "you may be sure that he'll stick to it." "D'ye raaly think so, Muster Fred?" said his companion in deep anxiety. "I do. I know Tom Brixton well, and when he is in this mood nothing will move him. But, come, I must go to the prison and talk with him." Fred's talk, however, was not more effective than that of his friend had been. "Well, Tom," he said, as he and Flinders were about to quit the block-house, "we will return at the hour when the camp seems fairly settled to sleep, probably about midnight, and I hope you will then be ready to fly. Remember what Flinders says is so far true--your life has been bought and the price paid, whether you accept or refuse it. Think seriously of that before it be too late." Again the prison door closed, and Tom Brixton was left, with this thought turning constantly and persistently in his brain: "Bought and the price paid!" he repeated to himself; for the fiftieth time that night, as he sat in his dark prison. "'Tis a strange way to put it to a fellow, but that does not alter the circumstances. No, I won't be moved by mere sentiment. I'll try the Turk's plan, and submit to fate. I fancy this is something of the state of mind that men get into when they commit suicide. And yet I don't feel as if I would kill myself if I were free. Bah! what's the use of speculating about it? Anyhow my doom is fixed, and poor Flinders with his friends will lose their money. My only regret is that that unmitigated villain Gashford will get it. It would not be a bad thing, now that my hands are free, to run a-muck amongst 'em. I feel strength enough in me to rid the camp of a lot of devils before I should be killed! But, after all, what good would that do me when I couldn't know it--couldn't know it! Perhaps I _could_ know it! No, no! Better to die quietly, without the stain of human blood on my soul--if I _have_ a soul. Escape! Easy enough, maybe, to escape from Pine Tree Diggings; but how escape from conscience? how escape from facts?--the girl I love holding me in contempt! my old friend and chum regarding me with pity! character gone! a life of crime before me! and death, by rope, or bullet or knife, sooner or later! Better far to die now and have it over at once; prevent a deal of sin, too, as well as misery. `Bought, and the price paid!' 'Tis a strange way to put it and there is something like logic in the argument of Paddy, that I've got no right to do what I like with myself! Perhaps a casuist would say it is my _duty_ to escape. Perhaps it is!" Now, while Tom Brixton was revolving this knotty question in his mind, and Bully Gashford was revolving questions quite as knotty, and much more complex, and Fred Westly was discussing with Flinders the best plan to be pursued in the event of Tom refusing to fly, there was a party of men assembled under the trees in a mountain gorge, not far distant, who were discussing a plan of operations which, when carried out, bade fair to sweep away, arrest, and overturn other knotty questions and deep-laid plans altogether. It was the band of marauders who had made the abortive attack on Bevan's fortress. When the attack was made, one of the redskins who guided the miners chanced to hear the war-whoop of a personal friend in the ranks of the attacking party. Being troubled with no sense of honour worth mentioning, this faithless guide deserted at once to the enemy, and not only explained all he knew about the thief that he had been tracking, but gave, in addition, such information about the weak points of Pine Tree Diggings, that the leader of the band resolved to turn aside for a little from his immediate purposes, and make a little hay while the sun shone in that direction. The band was a large one--a few on horseback, many on foot; some being Indians and half-castes, others disappointed miners and desperadoes. A fierce villain among the latter was the leader of the band, which was held together merely by unity of purpose and interest in regard to robbery, and similarity of condition in regard to crime. "Now, lads," said the leader, who was a tall, lanky, huge-boned, cadaverous fellow with a heavy chin and hawk-nose, named Stalker, "I'll tell 'e what it is. Seems to me that the diggers at Pine Tree Camp are a set of out-an'-out blackguards--like most diggers--except this poor thief of a fellow Brixton, so I vote for attackin' the camp, carryin' off all the gold we can lay hands on in the hurry-skurry, an' set this gentleman--this thief Brixton--free. He's a bold chap, I'm told by the redskin, an' will no doubt be glad to jine us. An' we want a few bold men." The reckless robber-chief looked round with a mingled expression of humour and contempt, as he finished his speech, whereat some laughed and a few scowled. "But how shall we find Brixton?" asked a man named Goff, who appeared to be second in command. "I know the Pine Tree Camp, but I don't know where's the prison." "No matter," returned Stalker. "The redskin helps us out o' that difficulty. He tells me the prison is a blockhouse, that was once used as a powder-magazine, and stands on a height, a little apart from the camp. I'll go straight to it, set the young chap free, let him jump up behind me and ride off, while you and the rest of the boys are makin' the most of your time among the nuggets. We shall all meet again at the Red Man's Teacup." "And when shall we go to work, captain!" asked the lieutenant. "Now. There's no time like the present. Strike when the iron's hot, boys!" he added, looking round at the men by whom he was encircled. "You know what we've got to do. Advance together, like cats, till we're within a yard or two of the camp, then a silent rush when you hear my signal, the owl's hoot. No shouting, mind, till the first screech comes from the enemy; then, as concealment will be useless, give tongue, all of you, till your throats split if you like, an' pick up the gold. Now, don't trouble yourselves much about fighting. Let the bags be the main look-out--of course you'll have to defend your own heads, though I don't think there'll be much occasion for that--an' you know, if any of them are fools enough to fight for their gold, you'll have to dispose of them somehow." Having delivered this address with much energy, the captain of the band put himself at its head and led the way. While this thunder-cloud was drifting down on the camp, Fred Westly and Flinders were preparing for flight. They did not doubt that their friend would at the last be persuaded to escape, and had made up their minds to fly with him and share his fortunes. "We have nothing to gain, you see, Paddy," said Fred, "by remaining here, and, having parted with all our gold, have nothing to lose by going." "Thrue for ye, sor, an' nothin' to carry except ourselves, worse luck!" said the Irishman, with a deep sigh. "Howiver, we lave no dibts behind us, that's wan comfort, so we may carry off our weapons an' horses wid clear consciences. Are ye all ready now, sor?" "Almost ready," replied Fred, thrusting a brace of revolvers into his belt and picking up his rifle. "Go for the horses, Pat, and wait at the stable for me. Our neighbours might hear the noise if you brought them round here." Now, the stable referred to was the most outlying building of the camp, in the direction in which the marauders were approaching. It was a small log-hut of the rudest description perched on a little knoll which overlooked the camp, and from which Tom Brixton's prison could be clearly seen, perched on a neighbouring knoll. Paddy Flinders ruminated on the dangers and perplexities that might be in store for him that night, as he went swiftly and noiselessly up to the hut. To reach the door he had to pass round from the back to the front. As he did so he became aware of voices sounding softly close at hand. A large log lay on the ground. With speed worthy of a redskin he sank down beside it. "This way, captain; I've bin here before, an' know that you can see the whole camp from it--if it wasn't so confoundedly dark. There's a log somewhere--ah, here it is; we'll be able to see better if we mount it." "I wish we had more light," growled the so-called captain; "it won't be easy to make off on horseback in such--is this the log? Here, lend a hand." As he spoke the robber-chief put one of his heavy boots on the little finger of Pat Flinders's left hand, and well-nigh broke it in springing on to the log in question! A peculiarly Irish howl all but escaped from poor Flinders's lips. "I see," said Stalker, after a few moments. "There's enough of us to attack a camp twice the size. Now we must look sharp. I'll go round to the prison and set Brixton free. When that's done, I'll hoot three times--so--only a good deal louder. Then you an' the boys will rush in and--you know the rest. Come." Descending from the log on the other side, the two desperadoes left the spot. Then Paddy rose and ran as if he had been racing, and as if the prize of the race were life! "Bad luck to you, ye murtherin' thieves," growled the Irishman, as he ran, "but I'll stop yer game, me boys!" CHAPTER SEVEN. As straight, and almost as swiftly, as an arrow, Flinders ran to his tent, burst into the presence of his amazed comrade, seized him by both arms, and exclaimed in a sharp hoarse voice, the import of which there could be no mistaking-- "Whisht!--howld yer tongue! The camp'll be attacked in ten minutes! Be obadient now, an' foller me." Flinders turned and ran out again, taking the path to Gashford's hut with the speed of a hunted hare. Fred Westly followed. Bursting in upon the bully, who had not yet retired to rest, the Irishman seized him by both arms and repeated his alarming words, with this addition: "Sind some wan to rouse the camp--but _silently_! No noise--or it's all up wid us!" There was something in Paddy's manner and look that commanded respect and constrained obedience--even in Gashford. "Bill," he said, turning to a man who acted as his valet and cook, "rouse the camp. Quietly--as you hear. Let no man act however, till my voice is heard. You'll know it when ye hear it!" "No mistake about _that_!" muttered Bill, as he ran out on his errand. "Now--foller!" cried Flinders, catching up a bit of rope with one hand and a billet of firewood with the other, as he dashed out of the hut and made straight for the prison, with Gashford and Westly close at his heels. Gashford meant to ask Flinders for an explanation as he ran, but the latter rendered this impossible by outrunning him. He reached the prison first, and had already entered when the others came up and ran in. He shut the door and locked it on the inside. "Now, then, listen, all of ye," he said, panting vehemently, "an' take in what I say, for the time's short. The camp'll be attacked in five minits--more or less. I chanced to overhear the blackguards. Their chief comes here to set Muster Brixton free. Then--och! here he comes! Do as I bid ye, ivery wan, an' howld yer tongues." The latter words were said energetically, but in a low whisper, for footsteps were heard outside as if approaching stealthily. Presently a rubbing sound was heard, as of a hand feeling for the door. It touched the handle and then paused a moment, after which there came a soft tap. "I'll spake for ye," whispered Flinders in Brixton's ear. Another pause, and then another tap at the door. "Arrah! who goes there?" cried Paddy, stretching himself, as if just awakened out of a sound slumber and giving vent to a mighty yawn. "A friend," answered the robber-chief through the keyhole. "A frind!" echoed Pat. "Sure an' that's a big lie, if iver there was one. Aren't ye goin' to hang me i' the mornin'?" "No indeed, I ain't one o' this camp. But surely you can't be the man-- the--the thief--named Brixton, for you're an Irishman." "An' why not?" demanded Flinders. "Sure the Brixtons are Irish to the backbone--an' thieves too--root an' branch from Adam an' Eve downwards. But go away wid ye. I don't belave that ye're a frind. You've only just come to tormint me an' spile my slape the night before my funeral. Fie for shame! Go away an' lave me in pace." "You're wrong, Brixton; I've come to punish the blackguards that would hang you, an' set you free, as I'll soon show you. Is the door strong?" "Well, it's not made o' cast iron, but it's pretty tough." "Stand clear, then, an' I'll burst it in wi' my foot," said Stalker. "Och! is it smashin' yer bones you'll be after! Howld fast. Are ye a big man?" "Yes, pretty big." "That's a good job, for a little un would only bust hisself agin it for no use. You'll have to go at it like a hoy-draulic ram." "Never fear. There's not many doors in these diggin's that can remain shut when I want 'em open," said the robber, as he retired a few paces to enable him to deliver his blow with greater momentum. "Howld on a minit, me frind," said Paddy, who had quietly turned the key and laid hold of the handle; "let me git well out o' the way, and give me warnin' before you come." "All right. Now then, look out!" cried Stalker. Those inside heard the rapid little run that a man takes before launching himself violently against an object. Flinders flung the door wide open in the nick of time. The robber's foot dashed into empty space, and the robber himself plunged headlong, with a tremendous crash, on the floor. At the same instant Flinders brought his billet of wood down with all his might on the spot where he guessed the man's head to be. The blow was well aimed, and rendered the robber chief incapable of further action for the time being. "Faix, ye'll not `hoot' to yer frinds this night, anyhow," said Flinders, as they dragged the fallen chief to the doorway, to make sure, by the faint light, that he was helpless. "Now, thin," continued Paddy, "we'll away an' lead the boys to battle. You go an' muster them, sor, an' I'll take ye to the inimy." "Have you seen their ambush, and how many there are!" asked Gashford. "Niver a wan have I seen, and I've only a gineral notion o' their whereabouts." "How then can you lead us?" "Obey orders, an' you'll see, sor. I'm in command to-night. If ye don't choose to foller, ye'll have to do the best ye can widout me." "Lead on, then," cried Gashford, half amused and half angered by the man's behaviour. Flinders led the way straight to Gashford's hut where, as he anticipated, the man named Bill had silently collected most of the able-bodied men of the camp, all armed to the teeth. He at once desired Gashford to put them in fighting order and lead them. When they were ready he went off at a rapid pace towards the stable before mentioned. "They should be hereabouts, Muster Gashford," he said, in a low voice, "so git yer troops ready for action." "What do ye mean?" growled Gashford. To this Flinders made no reply, but turning to Westly and Brixton, who stood close at his side, whispered them to meet him at the stable before the fight was quite over. He then put his hand to his mouth and uttered three hoots like an owl. "I believe you are humbugging us," said Gashford. "Whisht, sor--listen!" The breaking of twigs was heard faintly in the distance, and, a few moments later, the tramp, apparently, of a body of men. Presently dark forms were dimly seen to be advancing. "Now's your time, gineral! Give it 'em hot," whispered Flinders. "Ready! Present! Fire!" said Gashford, in a deep, solemn tone, which the profound silence rendered distinctly audible. The marauders halted, as if petrified. Next moment a sheet of flame burst from the ranks of the miners, and horrible yells rent the air, high above which, like the roar of a lion, rose Gashford's voice in the single word:-- "Charge!" But the panic-stricken robbers did not await the onset. They turned and fled, hotly pursued by the men of Pine Tree Diggings. "That'll do!" cried Flinders to Brixton; "they'll not need us any more this night. Come wid me now." Fred Westly, who had rushed to the attack with the rest, soon pulled up. Remembering the appointment, he returned to the stable, where he found Tom gazing in silence at Flinders, who was busily employed saddling their three horses. He at once understood the situation. "Of course you've made up your mind to go, Tom?" he said. "N-no," answered Tom. "I have not." "Faix, thin, you'll have to make it up pritty quick now, for whin the boys come back the prisoners an wounded men'll be sure to tell that their chief came for the express purpose of rescuin' that `thief Brixton'--an' it's hangin' that'll be too good for you then. Roastin' alive is more likely. It's my opinion that if they catch us just now, Muster Fred an' I will swing for it too! Come, sor, git up!" Tom hesitated no longer. He vaulted into the saddle. His comrades also mounted, and in a few minutes more the three were riding away from Pine Tree Diggings as fast as the nature of the ground and the darkness of the hour would permit. It was not quite midnight when they left the place where they had toiled so long, and had met with so many disasters, and the morning was not far advanced when they reached the spring of the Red Man's Teacup. As this was a natural and convenient halting-place to parties leaving those diggings, they resolved to rest and refresh themselves and their steeds for a brief space, although they knew that the robber-chief had appointed that spot as a rendezvous after the attack on the camp. "You see, it's not likely they'll be here for an hour or two," said Tom Brixton, as he dismounted and hobbled his horse, "for it will take some time to collect their scattered forces, and they won't have their old leader to spur them on, as Paddy's rap on the head will keep him quiet till the men of the camp find him." "Troth, I'm not so sure o' that, sor. The rap was a stiff wan, no doubt, but men like that are not aisy to kill. Besides, won't the boys o' the camp purshoo them, which'll be spur enough, an' if they finds us here, it'll matter little whether we fall into the hands o' diggers or robbers. So ye'll make haste av ye take my advice." They made haste accordingly, and soon after left; and well was it that they did so, for, little more than an hour later, Stalker--his face covered with blood and his head bandaged--galloped up at the head of the mounted men of his party. "We'll camp here for an hour or two," he said sharply, leaping from his horse, which he proceeded to unsaddle. "Hallo! somebody's bin here before us. Their fire ain't cold yet. Well, it don't matter. Get the grub ready, boys, an' boil the kettle. My head is all but split. If ever I have the luck to come across that Irish blackguard Brixton I'll--" He finished the sentence with a deep growl and a grind of his teeth. About daybreak the marauders set out again, and it chanced that the direction they took was the same as that taken by Fred Westly and his comrades. These latter had made up their minds to try their fortune at a recently discovered goldfield, which was well reported of, though the yield had not been sufficient to cause a "rush" to the place. It was about three days' journey on horseback from the Red Man's Teacup, and was named Simpson's Gully, after the man who discovered it. The robbers' route lay, as we have said, in the same direction, but only for part of the way, for Simpson's Gully was not their ultimate destination. They happened to be better mounted than the fugitives, and travelled faster. Thus it came to pass that on the second evening, they arrived somewhat late at the camping-place where Fred and his friends were spending the night. These latter had encamped earlier that evening. Supper was over, pipes were out and they were sound asleep when the robber band rode up. Flinders was first to observe their approach. He awoke his comrades roughly. "Och! the blackguards have got howld of us. Be aisy, Muster Brixton. No use fightin'. Howld yer tongues, now, an' let _me_ spake. Yer not half liars enough for the occasion, aither of ye." This compliment had barely been paid when they were surrounded and ordered to rise and give an account of themselves. "What right have _you_ to demand an account of us?" asked Tom Brixton, recklessly, in a supercilious tone that was meant to irritate. "The right of might," replied Stalker, stepping up to Tom, and grasping him by the throat. Tom resisted, of course, but being seized at the same moment by two men from behind, was rendered helpless. His comrades were captured at the same moment, and the arms of all bound behind them. "Now, gentlemen," said the robber chief, "perhaps you will answer with more civility." "You are wrong, for I won't answer at all," said Tom Brixton, "which I take to be _less_ civility." "Neither will I," said Fred, who had come to the conclusion that total silence would be the easiest way of getting over the difficulties that filled his mind in regard to deception. Patrick Flinders, however, had no such difficulties. To the amazement of his companions, he addressed a speech to Stalker in language so broken with stuttering and stammering that the marauders around could scarcely avoid laughing, though their chief seemed to be in no mood to tolerate mirth. Tom and Fred did not at first understand, though it soon dawned upon them that by this means he escaped being recognised by the man with whom he had so recently conversed through the keyhole of Tom Brixton's prison door. "S-s-s-sor," said he, in a somewhat higher key than he was wont to speak, "my c-c-comrades are c-c-cross-g-grained critters b-both of 'em, th-th-though they're g-good enough in their way, for all that. A-a-ax _me_ what ye w-w-want to know." "Can't you speak without so many k-k-kays an' j-j-gees?" demanded Stalker, impatiently. "N-n-no, s-sor, I c-can't, an' the m-more you t-try to make me the w-w-wus I g-gits." "Well, then, come to the point, an' don't say more than's needful." "Y-y-yis, sor." "What's this man's name!" asked the chief, settling the bandages uneasily on his head with one hand, and pointing to Brixton with the other. "M-Muster T-T-Tom, sor." "That's his Christian name, I suppose?" "W-w-well, I'm not sure about his bein' a c-c-c-Christian." "Do you spell it T-o-m or T-h-o-m?" "Th-that depinds on t-t-taste, sor." "Bah! you're a fool!" "Thank yer honour, and I'm also an I-I-Irish m-man as sure me name's Flinders." "There's one of your countrymen named Brixton," said the chief, with a scowl, "who's a scoundrel of the first water, and I have a crow to pluck with him some day when we meet. Meanwhile I feel half-disposed to give his countryman a sound thrashing as part payment of the debt in advance." "Ah! sure, sor, me counthryman'll let ye off the dibt, no doubt," returned Flinders. "Hallo! you seem to have found your tongue all of a sudden!" "F-faix, then, it's b-bekaise of yer not houndin' me on. I c-c-can't stand bein' hurried, ye s-see. B-besides, I was havin' me little j-j-joke, an' I scarcely sp-splutter at all whin I'm j-j-jokin'." "Where did you come from?" demanded the chief, sharply. "From P-Pine Tree D-Diggin's." "Oh, indeed? When did you leave the camp?" "On M-Monday mornin', sor." "Then of course you don't know anything about the fight that took place there on Monday night!" "D-don't I, sor?" "Why don't you answer whether you do or not?" said Stalker, beginning to lose temper. "Sh-shure yer towld me th-that I d-d-don't know, an I'm too p-p-purlite to c-contradic' yer honour." "Bah! you're a fool." "Ye t-t-towld me that before, sor." The robber chief took no notice of the reply, but led his lieutenant aside and held a whispered conversation with him for a few minutes. Now, among other blessings, Flinders possessed a pair of remarkably acute ears, so that, although he could not make out the purport of the whispered conversation, he heard, somewhat indistinctly, the words "Bevan" and "Betty." Coupling these words with the character of the men around him, he jumped to a conclusion and decided on a course of action in one and the same instant. Presently Stalker returned, and addressing himself to Tom and Fred, said-- "Now, sirs, I know not your circumstances nor your plans, but I'll take the liberty of letting you know something of mine. Men give me and my boys bad names. We call ourselves Free-and-easy Boys. We work hard for our living. It is our plan to go round the country collecting taxes-- revenue--or whatever you choose to call it, and punishing those who object to pay. Now, we want a few stout fellows to replace the brave men who have fallen at the post of duty. Will you join us?" "Certainly not," said Fred, with decision. "Of course not," said Tom, with contempt. "Well, then, my fine fellows, you may follow your own inclinations, for there's too many willing boys around to make us impress unwilling ones, but I shall take the liberty of relieving you of your possessions. I will tax _you_ to the full amount." He turned and gave orders in a low voice to those near him. In a few minutes the horses, blankets, food, arms, etcetera, of the three friends were collected, and themselves unbound. "Now," said the robber chief, "I mean to spend the night here. You may bid us good-night. The world lies before you--go!" "B-b-but, sor," said Flinders, with a perplexed and pitiful air. "Ye niver axed _me_ if I'd j-j-jine ye." "Because I don't want you," said Stalker. "Ah! thin, it's little ye know th-the j-j-jewel ye're th-throwin' away." "What can you do?" asked the robber, while a slight smile played on his disfigured face. "What c-can I _not_ do? ye should ax. W-w-why, I can c-c-c-cook, an' f-f-fight, an' d-dance, an' t-t-tell stories, an' s-s-sing an'--" "There, that'll do. I accept you," said Stalker, turning away, while his men burst into a laugh, and felt that Flinders would be a decided acquisition to the party. "Are we to go without provisions or weapons?" asked Fred Westly, before leaving. "You may have both," answered Stalker, "by joining us. If you go your own way--you go as you are. Please yourselves." "You may almost as well kill us as turn us adrift here in the wilderness, without food or the means of procuring it," remonstrated Fred. "Is it not so, Tom?" Tom did not condescend to reply. He had evidently screwed his spirit up--or down--to the Turkish condition of apathy and contempt. "You're young, both of you, and strong," answered the robber. "The woods are full of game, berries, roots, and fish. If you know anything of woodcraft you can't starve." "An' sh-sh-sure Tomlin's Diggin's isn't far--far off--straight f-f-fornint you," said Flinders, going close up to his friends, and whispering, "Kape round by Bevan's Gully. You'll be--" "Come, none of your whisperin' together!" shouted Stalker. "You're one of _us_ now, Flinders, so say goodbye to your old chums an' fall to the rear." "Yis, sor," replied the biddable Flinders, grasping each of his comrades by the hand and wringing it as he said, "G-g-good-bye, f-f-foolish b-boys, (Bevan's Gully--_sharp_!) f-farewell f-for i-i-iver!" and, covering his face with his hands, burst into crocodile's tears while he fell to the rear. He separated two of his fingers, however, in passing a group of his new comrades, in order to bestow on them a wink which produced a burst of subdued laughter. Surprised, annoyed, and puzzled, Tom Brixton thrust both hands into his trousers pockets, turned round on his heel, and, without uttering a word, sauntered slowly away. Fred Westly, in a bewildered frame of mind, followed his example, and the two friends were soon lost to view--swallowed up, as it were, by the Oregon wilderness. CHAPTER EIGHT. After walking through the woods a considerable distance in perfect silence--for the suddenness of the disaster seemed to have bereft the two friends of speech--Tom Brixton turned abruptly and said-- "Well, Fred, we're in a nice fix now. What is to be our next move in this interesting little game?" Fred Westly shook his head with an air of profound perplexity, but said nothing. "I've a good mind," continued Tom, "to return to Pine Tree Diggings, give myself up, and get hanged right off. It would be a good riddance to the world at large, and would relieve me of a vast deal of trouble." "There is a touch of selfishness in that speech, Tom--don't you think?-- for it would not relieve _me_ of trouble; to say nothing of your poor mother!" "You're right, Fred. D'you know, it strikes me that I'm a far more selfish and despicable brute than I used to think myself." He looked at his companion with a sad sort of smile; nevertheless, there was a certain indefinable ring of sincerity in his tone. "Tom," said the other, earnestly, "will you wait for me here for a few minutes while I turn aside to pray?" "Certainly, old boy," answered Tom, seating himself on a mossy bank. "You know I cannot join you." "I know you can't, Tom. It would be mockery to pray to One in whom you don't believe; but as _I_ believe in God, the Bible, and prayer, you'll excuse my detaining you, just for--" "Say no more, Fred. Go; I shall wait here for you." A slight shiver ran through Brixton's frame as he sat down, rested his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands. "God help me!" he exclaimed, under a sudden impulse, "I've come down _very_ low, God help me!" Fred soon returned. "You prayed for guidance, I suppose?" said Tom, as his friend sat down beside him. "I did." "Well, what is the result?" "There is no result as yet--except, of course, the calmer state of my mind, now that I have committed our case into our Father's hands." "_Your_ Father's, you mean." "No, I mean _our_, for He is your father as well as mine, whether you admit it or not. Jesus has bought you and paid for you, Tom, with His own blood. You are not your own." "Not my own? bought and paid for!" thought Brixton, recalling the scene in which words of somewhat similar import had been addressed to him. "Bought and paid for--twice bought! Body and soul!" Then, aloud, "And what are you going to do now, Fred?" "Going to discuss the situation with you." "And after you have discussed it, and acted according to our united wisdom, you will say that you have been guided." "Just so! That is exactly what I will say and believe, for `He is faithful who has promised.'" "And if you make mistakes and go wrong, you will still hold, I suppose, that you have been guided?" "Undoubtedly I will--not guided, indeed, into the mistakes, but guided to what will be best in the long-run, in spite of them." "But Fred, how can you call guidance in the wrong direction _right_ guidance?" "Why, Tom, can you not conceive of a man being guided wrongly as regards some particular end he has in view, and yet that same guidance being right, because leading him to something far better which, perhaps, he has _not_ in view?" "So that" said Tom, with a sceptical laugh, "whether you go right or go wrong, you are sure to come right in the end!" "Just so! `_All_ things work together for good to them that love God.'" "Does not that savour of Jesuitism, Fred, which teaches the detestable doctrine that you may do evil if good is to come of it?" "Not so, Tom; because I did not understand you to use the word _wrong_ in the sense of _sinful_, but in the sense of erroneous--mistaken. If I go in a wrong road, knowing it to be wrong, I sin; but if I go in a wrong road mistakenly, I still count on guidance, though not perhaps to the particular end at which I aimed--nevertheless, guidance to a _good_ end. Surely you will admit that no man is perfect?" "Admitted." "Well, then, imperfection implies mistaken views and ill-directed action, more or less, in every one, so that if we cannot claim to be guided by God except when free from error in thought and act, then there is no such thing as Divine guidance at all. Surely you don't hold that!" "Some have held it." "Yes; `the fool hath said in his heart, There is no God,'--some have even gone the length of letting it out of the heart and past the lips. With such we cannot argue; their case admits only of pity and prayer." "I agree with you there, Fred; but if your views are not Jesuitical, they seem to me to be strongly fatalistic. Commit one's way to God, you say; then, shut one's eyes, drive ahead anyhow, and--the end will be sure to be all right!" "No, I did not say that. With the exception of the first sentence, Tom, that is your way of stating the case, not God's way. If you ask in any given difficulty, `What shall I do?' His word replies, `Commit thy way unto the Lord. Trust also in Him, and He will bring it to pass.' If you ask, `How am I to know what is best?' the Word again replies, `hear, ye deaf; look, ye blind, that you may see.' Surely that is the reverse of shutting the eyes, isn't it? If you say, `how shall I act?' the Word answers, `A good man will guide his affairs with discretion.' That's not driving ahead anyhow, is it?" "You may be right," returned Tom, "I hope you are. But, come, what does your wisdom suggest in the present difficulty?" "The first thing that occurs to me," replied the other, "is what Flinders said, just before we were ordered off by the robbers. `Keep round by Bevan's Gully,' he said, in the midst of his serio-comic leave-taking; and again he said, `Bevan's Gully--sharp!' Of course Paddy, with his jokes and stammering, has been acting a part all through this business, and I am convinced that he has heard something about Bevan's Gully; perhaps an attack on Bevan himself, which made him wish to tell us to go there." "Of course; how stupid of me not to see that before! Let's go at once!" cried Tom, starting up in excitement. "Undoubtedly he meant that. He must have overheard the villains talk of going there, and we may not be in time to aid them unless we push on." "But in what direction does the gully lie?" asked Fred, with a puzzled look. Tom returned the look with one of perplexity, for they were now a considerable distance both from Bevan's Gully and Pine Tree Diggings, in the midst of an almost unknown wilderness. From the latter place either of the friends could have travelled to the former almost blindfold; but, having by that time lost their exact bearings, they could only guess at the direction. "I think," said Fred, after looking round and up at the sky for some time, "considering the time we have been travelling, and the position of the sun, that the gully lies over yonder. Indeed, I feel almost sure it does." He pointed, as he spoke, towards a ridge of rocky ground that cut across the western sky and hid much of the more distant landscape in that direction. "Nonsense, man!" returned Tom, sharply, "it lies in precisely the opposite direction. Our adventures have turned your brain, I think. Come, don't let us lose time. Think of Betty; that poor girl may be killed if there is another attack. She was slightly wounded last time. Come!" Fred looked quickly in his friend's face. It was deeply flushed, and his eye sparkled with unwonted fire. "Poor fellow! his case is hopeless; she will never wed him," thought Fred, but he only said, "I, too, would not waste time, but it seems to me we shall lose much if we go in that direction. The longer I study the nature of the ground, and calculate our rate of travelling since we left the diggings, the more am I convinced that our way lies westward." "I feel as certain as you do," replied Tom with some asperity, for he began to chafe under the delay. "But if you are determined to go that way you must go by yourself, old boy, for I can't afford to waste time on a wrong road." "Nay, if you are so sure, I will give in and follow. Lead on," returned Tom's accommodating friend, with a feeling of mingled surprise and chagrin. In less than an hour they reached a part of the rocky ridge before mentioned, from which they had a magnificent view of the surrounding country. It was wilderness truly, but such a wilderness of tree and bush, river and lake, cascade and pool, flowering plant and festooned shrub, dense thicket and rolling prairie, backed here and there by cloud-capped hills, as seldom meets the eye or thrills the heart of traveller, except in alpine lands. Deep pervading silence marked the hour, for the air was perfectly still, and though the bear, the deer, the wolf, the fox, and a multitude of wild creatures were revelling there in the rich enjoyment of natural life, the vast region, as it were, absorbed and dissipated their voices almost as completely as their persons, so that it seemed but a grand untenanted solitude, just freshly laid out by the hand of the wonder-working Creator. Every sheet of water, from the pool to the lake, reflected an almost cloudless blue, excepting towards the west, where the sun, by that time beginning to descend, converted all into sheets of liquid gold. The two friends paused on the top of a knoll, more to recover breath than to gaze on the exquisite scene, for they both felt that they were speeding on a mission that might involve life or death. Fred's enthusiastic admiration, however, would no doubt have found vent in fitting words if he had not at the moment recognised a familiar landmark. "I knew it!" he cried, eagerly. "Look, Tom, that is Ranger's Hill on the horizon away to the left. It is very faint from distance, but I could not mistake its form." "Nonsense, Fred! you never saw it from this point of view before, and hills change their shape amazingly from different points of view. Come along." "No, I am too certain to dispute the matter any longer. If you will have it so, we must indeed part here. But oh! Tom, don't be obstinate! Why, what has come over you, my dear fellow? Don't you see--" "I see that evening is drawing on, and that we shall be too late. Good-bye! One friendly helping hand will be better to her than none. I _know_ I'm right." Tom hurried away, and poor Fred, after gazing in mingled surprise and grief at his comrade until he disappeared, turned with a heavy sigh and went off in the opposite direction. "Well," he muttered to himself, as he sped along at a pace that might have made even a red man envious, "we are both of us young and strong, so that we are well able to hold out for a considerable time on such light fare as the shrubs of the wilderness produce, and when Tom discovers his mistake he'll make good use of his long legs to overtake me. I cannot understand his infatuation. But with God's blessing, all shall yet be well." Comforting himself with the last reflection, and offering up a heartfelt prayer as he pressed on, Fred Westly was soon separated from his friend by many a mile of wilderness. Meanwhile Tom Brixton traversed the land with strides not only of tremendous length, but unusual rapidity. His "infatuation" was not without its appropriate cause. The physical exertions and sufferings which the poor fellow had undergone for so long a period, coupled with the grief, amounting almost to despair, which tormented his brain, had at last culminated in fever; and the flushed face and glittering eyes, which his friend had set down to anxiety about Bevan's pretty daughter, were, in reality, indications of the gathering fires within. So also was the obstinacy. For it must be admitted that the youth's natural disposition was tainted with that objectionable quality which, when fever, drink, or any other cause of madness operates in any man, is apt to assert itself powerfully. At first he strode over the ground with terrific energy, thinking only of Betty and her father in imminent danger; pausing now and then abruptly to draw his hand across his brow and wonder if he was getting near Bevan's Gully. Then, as his mind began to wander, he could not resist a tendency to shout. "What a fool I am!" he muttered, after having done this once or twice. "I suppose anxiety about that dear girl is almost driving me mad. But she can never--never be mine. I'm a thief! a thief! Ha! ha-a-a-ah!" The laugh that followed might have appalled even a red and painted warrior. It did terrify, almost into fits, all the tree and ground squirrels within a mile of him, for these creatures went skurrying off to holes and topmost boughs in wild confusion when they heard it echoing through the woods. When this fit passed off Tom took to thinking again. He strode over hillock, swamp, and plain in silence, save when, at long intervals, he muttered the words, "Think, think, thinking. Always thinking! Can't stop think, thinking!" Innumerable wild fowl, and many of the smaller animals of the woods, met him in his mad career, and fled from his path, but one of these seemed at last inclined to dispute the path with him. It was a small brown bear, which creature, although insignificant when compared with the gigantic grizzly, is, nevertheless, far more than a match for the most powerful unarmed man that ever lived. This rugged creature chanced to be rolling sluggishly along as if enjoying an evening saunter at the time when Tom approached. The place was dotted with willow bushes, so that when the two met there was not more than a hundred yards between them. The bear saw the man instantly, and rose on its hind legs to do battle. At that moment Tom lifted his eyes. Throwing up his arms, he uttered a wild yell of surprise, which culminated in a fit of demoniacal laughter. But there was no laughter apparent on poor Tom's flushed and fierce visage, though it issued from his dry lips. Without an instant's hesitation he rushed at the bear with clenched fists. The animal did not await the charge. Dropping humbly on its fore-legs, it turned tail and fled, at such a pace that it soon left its pursuer far behind! Just as it disappeared over a distant ridge Tom came in sight of a small pond or lakelet covered with reeds, and swarming with ducks and geese, besides a host of plover and other aquatic birds--most of them with outstretched necks, wondering no doubt what all the hubbub could be about. Tom incontinently bore down on these, and dashing in among them was soon up to his neck in water! He remained quiet for a few minutes and deep silence pervaded the scene. Then the water began to feel chill. The wretched man crept out and, remembering his errand, resumed his rapid journey. Soon the fever burned again with intensified violence, and the power of connected thought began to depart from its victim altogether. While in this condition Tom Brixton wandered aimlessly about, sometimes walking smartly for a mile or so, at other times sauntering slowly, as if he had no particular object in view, and occasionally breaking into a run at full speed, which usually ended in his falling exhausted on the ground. At last, as darkness began to overspread the land, he became so worn-out that he flung himself down under a tree, with a hazy impression on his mind that it was time to encamp for the night. The fever was fierce and rapid in its action. First it bereft him of reason and then left him prostrate, without the power to move a limb except with the greatest difficulty. It was about the hour of noon when his reasoning powers returned, and, strange to say, the first conscious act of his mind was to recall the words "_twice bought_," showing that the thought had been powerfully impressed on him before delirium set in. What he had said or done during his ravings he knew not, for memory was a blank, and no human friend had been there to behold or listen. At that time, however, Tom did not think very deeply about these words, or, indeed, about anything else. His prostration was so great that he did not care at first to follow out any line of thought or to move a limb. A sensation of absolute rest and total indifference seemed to enchain all his faculties. He did not even know where he was, and did not care, but lay perfectly still, gazing up through the overhanging branches into the bright blue sky, sometimes dozing off into a sleep that almost resembled death, from which he awoke gently, to wonder, perhaps, in an idle way, what had come over him, and then ceasing to wonder before the thought had become well defined. The first thing that roused him from this condition was a passing thought of Betty Bevan. He experienced something like a slight shock, and the blood which had begun to stagnate received a new though feeble impulse at its fountain-head, the heart. Under the force of it he tried to rise, but could not although he strove manfully. At last, however, he managed to raise himself on one elbow, and looked round with dark and awfully large eyes, while he drew his left hand tremblingly across his pale brow. He observed the trembling fingers and gazed at them inquiringly. "I--I must have been ill. So weak, too! Where am I? The forest-- everywhere! What can it all mean? There was a--a thought--what could it--Ah! Betty--dear girl--that was it. But what of her? Danger--yes-- in danger. Ha! _now_ I have it!" There came a slight flush on his pale cheeks, and, struggling again with his weakness, he succeeded in getting on his feet, but staggered and fell with a crash that rendered him insensible for a time. On recovering, his mind was clearer and more capable of continuous thought; but this power only served to show him that he was lost, and that, even if he had known his way to Bevan's Gully, his strength was utterly gone, so that he could not render aid to the friends who stood in need of it so sorely. In the midst of these depressing thoughts an intense desire for food took possession of him, and he gazed around with a sort of wolfish glare, but there was no food within his reach--not even a wild berry. "I believe that I am dying," he said at last, with deep solemnity. "God forgive me! Twice bought! Fred said that Jesus had bought my soul before the miners bought my life." For some time he lay motionless; then, rousing himself, again began to speak in low, disjointed sentences, among which were words of prayer. "It is terrible to die here--alone!" he murmured, recovering from one of his silent fits. "Oh that mother were here now! dear, dishonoured, but still beloved mother! Would that I had a pen to scratch a few words before--stay, I have a pencil." He searched his pockets and found the desired implement, but he could not find paper. The lining of his cap occurred to him; it was soft and unfit for his purpose. Looking sadly round, he observed that the tree against which he leaned was a silver-stemmed birch, the inner bark of which, he knew, would serve his purpose. With great difficulty he tore off a small sheet of it and began to write, while a little smile of contentment played on his lips. From time to time weakness compelled him to pause, and more than once he fell asleep in the midst of his labour. Heavy labour it was, too, for the nerveless hands almost refused to form the irregular scrawl. Still he persevered--till evening. Then a burning thirst assailed him, and he looked eagerly round for water, but there was none in view. His eyes lighted up, however, as he listened, for the soft tinkling of a tiny rill filled his ear. With a desperate effort he got upon his hands and knees, and crept in the direction whence the sound came. He found the rill in a few moments, and, falling on his breast, drank with feelings of intense gratitude in his heart. When satisfied he rose to his knees again and tried to return to his tree, but even while making the effort he sank slowly on his breast, pillowed his head on the wet green moss, and fell into a profound slumber. CHAPTER NINE. We left Fred hastening through the forest to the help of his friends at Bevan's Gully. At first, after parting from his comrade, he looked back often and anxiously, in the hope that Tom might find out his mistake and return to him; but as mile after mile was placed between them, he felt that this hope was vain, and turned all his energies of mind and body to the task that lay before him. This was to outwalk Stalker's party of bandits and give timely warning to the Bevans; for, although Flinders's hints had been vague enough, he readily guessed that the threatened danger was the descent of the robbers on their little homestead, and it naturally occurred to his mind that this was probably the same party which had made the previous attack, especially as he had observed several Indians among them. Young, sanguine, strong, and active, Fred, to use a not inapt phrase, devoured the ground with his legs! Sometimes he ran, at other times he walked, but more frequently he went along at an easy trot, which, although it looked slower than quick walking, was in reality much faster, besides being better suited to the rough ground he had to traverse. Night came at last but night could not have arrested him if it had not been intensely dark. This, however, did not trouble him much, for he knew that the same cause would arrest the progress of his foes, and besides, the moon would rise in an hour. He therefore flung himself on the ground for a short rest, and fell asleep, while praying that God would not suffer him to sleep too long. His prayer was answered, for he awoke with a start an hour afterwards, just as the first pale light of the not quite risen moon began to tinge the clear sky. Fred felt very hungry, and could not resist the tendency to meditate on beefsteaks and savoury cutlets for some time after resuming his journey; but, after warming to the work, and especially after taking a long refreshing draught at a spring that bubbled like silver in the moonlight, these longings passed away. Hour after hour sped by, and still the sturdy youth held on at the same steady pace, for he knew well that to push beyond his natural strength in prolonged exertion would only deduct from the end of his journey whatever he might gain at the commencement. Day broke at length. As it advanced the intense longing for food returned, and, to his great anxiety, it was accompanied by a slight feeling of faintness. He therefore glanced about for wild fruits as he went along, without diverging from his course, and was fortunate to fall in with several bushes which afforded him a slight meal of berries. In the strength of these he ran on till noon, when the faint feeling returned, and he was fain to rest for a little beside a brawling brook. "Oh! Father, help me!" he murmured, as he stooped to drink. On rising, he continued to mutter to himself, "If only a tithe of my ordinary strength were left, or if I had one good meal and a short rest, I could be there in three hours; but--" Whatever Fred's fears were, he did not express them. He arose and recommenced his swinging trot with something like the pertinacity of a bloodhound on the scent. Perhaps he was thinking of his previous conversation with Tom Brixton about being guided by God in _all_ circumstances, for the only remark that escaped him afterwards was, "It is my duty to act and leave results to Him." Towards the afternoon of that day Paul Bevan was busy mending a small cart in front of his hut, when he observed a man to stagger out of the wood as if he had been drunk, and approach the place where his plank-bridge usually spanned the brook. It was drawn back, however, at the time, and lay on the fortress side, for Paul had been rendered somewhat cautious by the recent assault on his premises. "Hallo, Betty!" he cried. "Yes, father," replied a sweet musical voice, the owner of which issued from the doorway with her pretty arms covered with flour and her face flushed from the exertion of making bread. "Are the guns loaded, lass?" "Yes, father," replied Betty, turning her eyes in the direction towards which Paul gazed. "But I see only one man," she added. "Ay, an' a drunk man too, who couldn't make much of a fight if he wanted to. But lass, the drunk man may have any number of men at his back, both drunk and sober, so it's well to be ready. Just fetch the revolvers an' have 'em handy while I go down to meet him." "Father, it seems to me I should know that figure. Why, it's--no, surely it cannot be young Mister Westly!" "No doubt of it, girl. Your eyes are better than mine, but I see him clearer as he comes on. Young Westly--drunk--ha! ha!--as a hatter! I'll go help him over." Paul chuckled immensely--as sinners are wont to do when they catch those whom they are pleased to call "saints" tripping--but when he had pushed the plank over, and Fred, plunging across, fell at his feet in a state of insensibility, his mirth vanished and he stooped to examine him. His first act was to put his nose to the youth's mouth and sniff. "No smell o' drink there," he muttered. Then he untied Fred's neckcloth and loosened his belt. Then, as nothing resulted from these acts, he set himself to lift the fallen man in his arms. Being a sturdy fellow he succeeded, though with considerable difficulty, and staggered with his burden towards the hut, where he was met by his anxious daughter. "Why, lass, he's no more drunk than you are!" cried Paul, as he laid Fred on his own bed. "Fetch me the brandy--flask--no? Well, get him a cup of coffee, if ye prefer it." "It will be better for him, father; besides, it is fortunately ready and hot." While the active girl ran to the outer room or "hall" of the hut for the desired beverage, Paul slily forced a teaspoonful of diluted brandy into Fred's mouth. It had, at all events, the effect of restoring him to consciousness, for he opened his eyes and glanced from side to side with a bewildered air. Then he sat up suddenly, and said-- "Paul, the villains are on your track again. I've hastened ahead to tell you. I'd have been here sooner--but--but I'm--starving." "Eat, then--eat before you speak, Mr Westly," said Betty, placing food before him. "But the matter is urgent!" cried Fred. "Hold on, Mr Fred," said Paul; "did you an' the enemy--whoever he may be, though I've a pretty fair guess--start to come here together?" "Within the same hour, I should think." "An' did you camp for the night?" "No. At least I rested but one hour." "Then swallow some grub an' make your mind easy. They won't be here for some hours yet, for you've come on at a rate that no party of men could beat, I see that clear enough--unless they was mounted." "But a few of the chief men _were_ mounted, Paul." "Pooh! that's nothing. Chief men won't come on without the or'nary men. It needs or'nary men, you know, to make chief 'uns. Ha! ha! Come, now, if you can't hold your tongue, try to speak and eat at the same time." Thus encouraged, Fred set to work on some bread and cheese and coffee with all the _gusto_ of a starving man, and, at broken intervals, blurted out all he knew and thought about the movements of the robber band, as well as his own journey and his parting with Brixton. "'Tis a pity, an' strange, too, that he was so obstinate," observed Paul. "But he thought he was right" said Betty; and then she blushed with vexation at having been led by impulse even to appear to justify her lover. But Paul took no notice. "It matters not," said he, "for it happens that you have found us almost on the wing, Westly. I knew full well that this fellow Buxley--" "They call him Stalker, if you mean the robber chief" interrupted Fred. "Pooh! Did you ever hear of a robber chief without half a dozen aliases?" rejoined Paul. "This Buxley, havin' found out my quarters, will never rest till he kills me; so as I've no fancy to leave my little Betty in an unprotected state yet a while, we have packed up our goods and chattels--they ain't much to speak of--and intend to leave the old place this very night. Your friend Stalker won't attack till night--I know the villain well--but your news inclines me to set off a little sooner than I intended. So, what you have got to do is to lie down an' rest while Betty and I get the horse an' cart ready. We've got a spare horse, which you're welcome to. We sent little Tolly Trevor off to Briant's Gulch to buy a pony for my little lass. He should have been back by this time if he succeeded in gettin' it." "But where do you mean to go to?" asked Fred. "To Simpson's Gully." "Why, that's where Tom and I were bound for when we fell in with Stalker and his band! We shall probably meet Tom returning. But the road is horrible--indeed there is no road at all, and I don't think a cart could--" "Oh! I know that" interrupted Paul, "and have no intention of smashing up my cart in the woods. We shall go round by the plains, lad. It is somewhat longer, no doubt, but once away, we shall be able to laugh at men on foot if they are so foolish as to follow us. Come now, Betty, stir your stumps and finish your packing. I'll go get the--" A peculiar yell rent the air outside at that moment, cutting short the sentence, and almost petrifying the speaker, who sprang up and began frantically to bar the door and windows of the hut, at the same time growling, "They've come sooner than I expected. Who'd have thought it! Bar the small window at the back, Betty, an' then fetch all the weapons. I was so taken up wi' you, Fred, that I forgot to haul back the plank; that's how they've got over. Help wi' this table--so--they'll have some trouble to batter in the door wi' that agin it, an' I've a flankin' battery at the east corner to prevent them settin' the place on fire." While the man spoke he acted with violent haste. Fred sprang up and assisted him, for the shock--coupled, no doubt, with the hot coffee and bread and cheese--had restored his energies, at least for the time, almost as effectually as if he had had a rest. They were only just in time, for at that moment a man ran with a wild shout against the door. Finding it fast, he kept thundering against it with his heavy boots, and shouting Paul Bevan's name in unusually fierce tones. "Are ye there?" he demanded at last and stopped to listen. "If you'll make less noise mayhap ye'll find out" growled Paul. "Och! Paul, dear, open av ye love me," entreated the visitor, in a voice there was no mistaking. "I do believe it's my mate Flinders!" said Fred. Paul said nothing, but proved himself to be of the same opinion by hastily unbarring and opening the door, when in burst the irrepressible Flinders, wet from head to foot, splashed all over with mud and blood, and panting like a race-horse. "Is that--tay ye've got there--my dear?" he asked in gasps. "No, it is coffee. Let me give you some." "Thank 'ee kindly--fill it up--my dear. Here's wishin'--ye all luck!" Paddy drained the cup to the dregs, wiped his mouth on the cuff of his coat, and thus delivered himself-- "Now, don't all spake at wance. Howld yer tongues an' listen. Av coorse, Muster Fred's towld ye when an' where an' how I jined the blackguards. Ye'll be able now to guess why I did it. Soon after I jined 'em I began to boast o' my shootin' in a way that would ha' shocked me nat'ral modesty av I hadn't done it for a raisin o' me own. Well, they boasted back, so I defied 'em to a trial, an' soon showed 'em what I could do. There wasn't wan could come near me wi' the rifle. So they made me hunter-in-chief to the band then an' there. I wint out at wance an' brought in a good supply o' game. Then, as my time was short, you see, I gave 'em the slip nixt day an' comed on here, neck an' crop, through fire an' water, like a turkey-buzzard wi' the cholera. An' so here I am, an' they'll soon find out I've given 'em the slip, an' they'll come after me, swearin', perhaps; an' if I was you, Paul Bevan, I wouldn't stop to say how d'ye do to them." "No more I will, Paddy--an', by good luck, we're about ready to start only I've got a fear for that poor boy Tolly. If he comes back arter we're gone an' falls into their hands it'll be a bad look-out for him." "No fear o' Tolly," said Flinders; "he's a 'cute boy as can look after himself. By the way, where's Muster Tom?" The reason of Brixton's absence was explained to him by Betty, who bustled about the house packing up the few things that could be carried away, while her father and Fred busied themselves with the cart and horses outside. Meanwhile the Irishman continued to refresh himself with the bread and cheese. "Ye see it's o' no manner o' use me tryin' to help ye, my dear," he said, apologetically, "for I niver was much of a hand at packin', my exparience up to this time havin' run pretty much in the way o' havin' little or nothin' to pack. Moreover, I'm knocked up as well as hungry, an' ye seem such a good hand that it would be a pity to interfere wid ye. Is there any chance o' little Tolly turnin' up wi' the pony before we start?" "Every chance," replied the girl, smiling, in spite of herself, at the man's free-and-easy manner rather than his words. "He ought to have been here by this time. We expect him every moment." But these expectations were disappointed, for, when they had packed the stout little cart, harnessed and saddled the horses, and were quite ready to start, the boy had not appeared. "We durstn't delay," said Paul, with a look of intense annoyance, "an' I can't think of how we are to let him know which way we've gone, for I didn't think of telling him why we wanted another pony." "He can read, father. We might leave a note for him on the table, and if he arrives before the robbers that would guide him." "True, Betty; but if the robbers should arrive before _him_, that would also guide _them_." "But we're so sure of his returning almost immediately," urged Betty. "Not so sure o' that, lass. No, we durstn't risk it, an' I can't think of anything else. Poor Tolly! he'll stand a bad chance, for he's sure to come gallopin' up, an' singin' at the top of his voice in his usual reckless way." "Cudn't we stick up a bit o' paper in the way he's bound to pass, wid a big wooden finger to point it out and the word `notice' on it writ big?" "Oh! I know what I'll do," cried Betty. "Tolly will be sure to search all over the place for us, and there's one place, a sort of half cave in the cliff, where he and I used to read together. He'll be quite certain to look there." "Right, lass, an' we may risk that, for the reptiles won't think o' sarchin' the cliff. Go, Betty; write, `We're off to Simpson's Gully, by the plains. Follow hard.' That'll bring him on if they don't catch him--poor Tolly!" In a few minutes the note was written and stuck on the wall of the cave referred to; then the party set off at a brisk trot, Paul, Betty, and Flinders in the cart, while Fred rode what its owner styled the spare horse. They had been gone about two hours, when Stalker, alias Buxley, and his men arrived in an unenviable state of rage, for they had discovered Flinders's flight, had guessed its object, and now, after hastening to Bevan's Gully at top speed, had reached it to find the birds flown. This they knew at once from the fact that the plank-bridge, quadrupled in width to let the horse and cart pass, had been left undrawn as if to give them a mocking invitation to cross. Stalker at once accepted the invitation. The astute Bevan had, however, anticipated and prepared for this event by the clever use of a saw just before leaving. When the robber-chief gained the middle of the bridge it snapped in two and let him down with a horrible rending of wood into the streamlet, whence he emerged like a half-drowned rat, amid the ill-suppressed laughter of his men. The damage he received was slight. It was only what Flinders would have called, "a pleasant little way of showing attintion to his inimy before bidding him farewell." Of course every nook and corner of the stronghold was examined with the utmost care--also with considerable caution, for they knew not how many more traps and snares might have been laid for them. They did not, however, find those for whom they sought, and, what was worse in the estimation of some of the band, they found nothing worth carrying away. Only one thing did they discover that was serviceable, namely, a large cask of gunpowder in the underground magazine formerly mentioned. Bevan had thought of blowing this up before leaving, for his cart was already too full to take it in, but the hope that it might not be discovered, and that he might afterwards return to fetch it away, induced him to spare it. Of course all the flasks and horns of the band were replenished from this store, but there was still left a full third of the cask which they could not carry away. With this the leader determined to blow up the hut, for he had given up all idea of pursuing the fugitives, he and his men being too much exhausted for that. Accordingly the cask was placed in the middle of the hut and all the unportable remains of Paul Bevan's furniture were piled above it. Then a slow match was made by rubbing gunpowder on some long strips of calico. This was applied and lighted, and the robbers retired to a spot close to a spring about half a mile distant, where they could watch the result in safety while they cooked some food. But these miscreants were bad judges of slow matches! Their match turned out to be very slow. So slow that they began to fear it had gone out--so slow that the daylight had time to disappear and the moon to commence her softly solemn journey across the dark sky--so slow that Stalker began seriously to think of sending a man to stir up the spark, though he thought there might be difficulty in finding a volunteer for the dangerous job--so slow that a certain reckless little boy came galloping towards the fortress on a tall horse with a led pony plunging by his side--all before the spark of the match reached its destination and did its work. Then, at last, there came a flush that made the soft moon look suddenly paler, and lighted up the world as if the sun had shot a ray right through it from the antipodes. This was followed by a crash and a roar that caused the solid globe itself to vibrate and sent Paul Bevan's fortress into the sky a mass of blackened ruins. One result was that a fiendish cheer arose from the robbers' camp, filling the night air with discord. Another result was that the happy-go-lucky little boy and his horses came to an almost miraculous halt and remained so for some time, gazing straight before them in a state of abject amazement! CHAPTER TEN. How long Tolly Trevor remained in a state of horrified surprise no one can tell, for he was incapable of observation at the time, besides being alone. On returning to consciousness he found himself galloping towards the exploded fortress at full speed, and did not draw rein till he approached the bank of the rivulet. Reflecting that a thoroughbred hunter could not clear the stream, even in daylight, he tried to pull up, but his horse refused. It had run away with him. Although constitutionally brave, the boy felt an unpleasant sensation of some sort as he contemplated the inevitable crash that awaited him; for, even if the horse should perceive his folly and try to stop on reaching the bank, the tremendous pace attained would render the attempt futile. "Stop! won't you? Wo-o-o!" cried Tolly, straining at the reins till the veins of his neck and forehead seemed about to burst. But the horse would neither "stop" nor "wo-o-o!" It was otherwise, however, with the pony. That amiable creature had been trained well, and had learned obedience. Blessed quality! Would that the human race--especially its juvenile section--understood better the value of that inestimable virtue! The pony began to pull back at the sound of "wo!" Its portion in childhood had probably been woe when it refused to recognise the order. The result was that poor Tolly's right arm, over which was thrown the pony's rein, had to bear the strain of conflicting opinions. A bright idea struck his mind at this moment. Bright ideas always do strike the mind of genius at critical moments! He grasped both the reins of his steed in his right hand, and took a sudden turn of them round his wrist. Then he turned about--not an instant too soon--looked the pony straight in the face, and said "Wo!" in a voice of command that was irresistible. The pony stopped at once, stuck out its fore legs, and was absolutely dragged a short way over the ground. The strain on Tolly's arm was awful, but the arm was a stout one, though small. It stood the strain, and the obstinate runaway was arrested on the brink of destruction with an almost broken jaw. The boy slipped to the ground and hastily fastened the steeds to a tree. Even in that hour of supreme anxiety he could not help felicitating himself on the successful application of pony docility to horsey self-will. But these and all other feelings of humour and satisfaction were speedily put to flight when, after crossing the remains of the plank bridge with some difficulty, he stood before the hideous wreck of his friend's late home, where he had spent so many glad hours listening to marvellous adventures from Paul Bevan, or learning how to read and cipher, as well as drinking in wisdom generally, from the Rose of Oregon. It was an awful collapse. A yawning gulf had been driven into the earth, and the hut--originally a solid structure--having been hurled bodily skyward, shattered to atoms, and inextricably mixed in its parts, had come down again into the gulf as into a ready-made grave. It would be vain to search for any sort of letter, sign, or communication from his friends among the _debris_. Tolly felt that at once, yet he could not think of leaving without a search. After one deep and prolonged sigh he threw off his lethargy, and began a close inspection of the surroundings. "You see," he muttered to himself, as he moved quickly yet stealthily about, "they'd never have gone off without leavin' some scrap of information for me, to tell me which way they'd gone, even though they'd gone off in a lightnin' hurry. But p'raps they didn't. The reptiles may have comed on 'em unawares, an' left 'em no time to do anything. Of _course_ they can't have killed 'em. Nobody ever could catch Paul Bevan asleep--no, not the sharpest redskin in the land. That's quite out o' the question." Though out of the question, however, the bare thought of such a catastrophe caused little Trevor's under lip to tremble, a mist to obscure his vision, and a something-or-other to fill his throat, which he had to swallow with a gulp. Moreover, he went back to the ruined hut and began to pull about the wreck with a fluttering heart, lest he should come on some evidence that his friends had been murdered. Then he went to the highest part of the rock to rest a little, and consider what had best be done next. While seated there, gazing on the scene of silent desolation, which the pale moonlight rendered more ghastly, the poor boy's spirit failed him a little. He buried his face in his hands and burst into tears. Soon this weakness, as he deemed it, passed away. He dried his eyes, roughly, and rose to resume his search, and it is more than probable that he would ere long have bethought him of the cave where Betty had left her note, if his attention had not been suddenly arrested by a faint glimmer of ruddy light in a distant part of the forest. The robbers were stirring up their fires, and sending a tell-tale glow into the sky. "O-ho!" exclaimed Tolly Trevor. He said nothing more, but there was a depth of meaning in the tone and look accompanying that "O-ho!" which baffles description. Tightening his belt, he at once glided down the slope, flitted across the rivulet, skimmed over the open space, and melted into the forest after the most approved method of Red Indian tactics. The expedition from which he had just returned having been peaceful, little Trevor carried no warlike weapons--for the long bowie-knife at his side, and the little hatchet stuck in his girdle, were, so to speak, merely domestic implements, without which he never moved abroad. But as war was not his object, the want of rifle and revolver mattered little. He soon reached the neighbourhood of the robbers' fire, and, when close enough to render extreme caution necessary, threw himself flat on the ground and advanced a la "snake-in-the-grass." Presently he came within earshot, and listened attentively, though without much interest, to a deal of boastful small talk with which the marauders beguiled the time, while they fumigated their mouths and noses preparatory to turning in for the night. At last the name of Paul Bevan smote his ear, causing it, metaphorically, to go on full cock. "I'm sartin sure," said one of the speakers, "that the old screw has gone right away to Simpson's Gully." "If I thought that, I'd follow him up, and make a dash at the Gully itself," said Stalker, plucking a burning stick from the fire to rekindle his pipe. "If you did you'd get wopped," remarked Goff, with a touch of sarcasm, for the lieutenant of the band was not so respectful to his commander as a well-disciplined man should be. "What makes you think so?" demanded the chief. "The fact that the diggers are a sight too many for us," returned Goff. "Why, we'd find 'em three to one, if not four." "Well, that, coupled with the uncertainty of his having gone to Simpson's Gully," said the chief, "decides me to make tracks down south to the big woods on the slopes of the Sawback Hills. There are plenty of parties travelling thereabouts with lots of gold, boys, and difficulties enough in the way of hunting us out o' the stronghold. I'll leave you there for a short time and make a private excursion to Simpson's Gully, to see if my enemy an' the beautiful Betty are there." "An' get yourself shot or stuck for your pains," said Goff. "Do you suppose that such a hulking, long-legged fellow as you are, can creep into a camp like an or'nary man without drawin' attention?" "Perhaps not," returned Stalker; "but are there not such things as disguises? Have you not seen me with my shootin'-coat and botanical box an' blue spectacles, an' my naturally sandy hair." "No, no, captain!" cried Goff, with a laugh, "not sandy; say yellow, or golden." "Well, golden, then, if you will. You've seen it dyed black, haven't you?" "Oh yes! I've seen you in these humblin' circumstances before now," returned the lieutenant, "and I must say your own mother wouldn't know you. But what's the use o' runnin' the risk, captain?" "Because I owe Bevan a grudge!" said the chief, sternly, "and mean to be revenged on him. Besides, I want the sweet Betty for a wife, and intend to have her, whether she will or no. She'll make a capital bandit's wife--after a little while, when she gets used to the life. So now you know some of my plans, and you shall see whether the hulking botanist won't carry all before him." "O-ho!" muttered the snake-in-the-grass, very softly; and there was something so compound and significant in the tone of that second "O-ho!" soft though it was, that it not only baffles description, but--really, you know, it would be an insult to your understanding, good reader, to say more in the way of explanation! There was also a heaving of the snake's shoulders, which, although unaccompanied by sound, was eminently suggestive. Feeling that he had by that time heard quite enough, Tolly Trevor effected a masterly retreat, and returned to the place where he had left the horses. On the way he recalled with satisfaction the fact that Paul Bevan had once pointed out to him the exact direction of Simpson's Gully at a time when he meant to send him on an errand thither. "You've on'y to go over there, lad," Paul had said, pointing towards the forest in rear of his hut, "and hold on for two days straight as the crow flies till you come to it. You can't well miss it." Tolly knew that there was also an easier though longer route by the plains, but as he was not sure of it he made up his mind to take to the forest. The boy was sufficiently trained in woodcraft to feel pretty confident of finding his way, for he knew the north side of trees by their bark, and could find out the north star when the sky was clear, besides possessing a sort of natural aptitude for holding on in a straight line. He mounted the obstinate horse, therefore, took the rein of the obedient pony on his right arm, and, casting a last look of profound regret on Bevan's desolated homestead, rode swiftly away. So eager was he that he took no thought for the morrow. He knew that the wallet slung at his saddle-bow contained a small supply of food--as much, probably, as would last three days with care. That was enough to render Tolly Trevor the most independent and careless youth in Oregon. While these events were occurring in the neighbourhood of Bevan's Gully, three red men, in all the glory of vermilion, charcoal, and feathers, were stalking through the forest in the vicinity of the spot where poor Tom Brixton had laid him down to die. These children of the wilderness stalked in single file--from habit we presume, for there was ample space for them to have walked abreast if so inclined. They seemed to be unsociable beings, for they also stalked in solemn silence. Suddenly the first savage came to an abrupt pause, and said, "Ho!" the second savage said, "He!" and the third said, "Hi!" After which, for full a minute, they stared at the ground in silent wonder and said nothing. They had seen a footprint! It did not by any means resemble that deep, well developed, and very solitary footprint at which Robinson Crusoe is wont to stare in nursery picture-books. No; it was a print which was totally invisible to ordinary eyes, and revealed itself to these children of the woods in the form of a turned leaf and a cracked twig. Such as it was, it revealed a track which the three children followed up until they found Tom Brixton--or his body--lying on the ground near to the little spring. Again these children said, "Ho!" "He!" and "Hi!" respectively, in varying tones according to their varied character. Then they commenced a jabber, which we are quite unable to translate, and turned Tom over on his back. The motion awoke him, for he sat up and stared. Even that effort proved too much for him in his weak state, for he fell back and fainted. The Indians proved to be men of promptitude. They lifted the white man up; one got Tom's shoulders on his back, another put his legs over his shoulders, and thus they stalked away with him. When the first child of the wood grew tired, the unburdened one stepped in to his relief; when the second child grew tired, the first one went to his aid; when all the children grew tired, they laid their burden on the ground and sat down beside it. Thus, by easy stages, was Tom Brixton conveyed away from the spot where he had given himself up as hopelessly lost. Now, it could not have been more than six hours after Tom had thus been borne away that poor Tolly Trevor came upon the same scene. We say "poor" advisedly, for he had not only suffered the loss of much fragmentary clothing in his passage through that tangled wood, but also most of the food with which he had started, and a good deal of skin from his shins, elbows, knuckles, and knees, as well as the greater part of his patience. Truly, he was in a pitiable plight, for the forest had turned out to be almost impassable for horses, and in his journey he had not only fallen off, and been swept out of the saddle by overhanging branches frequently, but had to swim swamps, cross torrents, climb precipitous banks, and had stuck in quagmires innumerable. As for the horses--their previous owner could not have recognised them. It is true they were what is styled "all there," but there was an inexpressible droop of their heads and tails, a weary languor in their eyes, and an abject waggle about their knees which told of hope deferred and spirit utterly gone. The pony was the better of the two. Its sprightly glance of amiability had changed into a gaze of humble resignation, whereas the aspect of the obstinate horse was one of impotent ill-nature. It would have bitten, perhaps, if strength had permitted, but as to its running away--ha! Well, Tolly Trevor approached--it could hardly be said he rode up to-- the spring before mentioned, where he passed the footprints in stupid blindness. He dismounted, however, to drink and rest a while. "Come on--you brute!" he cried, almost savagely, dragging the horse to the water. The creature lowered its head and gazed as though to say, "What liquid is that?" As the pony, however, at once took a long and hearty draught it also condescended to drink, while Tolly followed suit. Afterwards he left the animals to graze, and sat down under a neighbouring tree to rest and swallow his last morsel of food. It was sad to see the way in which the poor boy carefully shook out and gathered up the few crumbs in his wallet so that not one of them should be lost; and how slowly he ate them, as if to prolong the sensation of being gratified! During the two days which he had spent in the forest his face had grown perceptibly thinner, and his strength had certainly diminished. Even the reckless look of defiant joviality, which was one of the boy's chief characteristics, had given place to a restless anxiety that prevented his seeing humour in anything, and induced a feeling of impatience when a joke chanced irresistibly to bubble up in his mind. He was once again reduced almost to the weeping point, but his sensations were somewhat different for, when he had stood gazing at the wreck of Bevan's home, the nether lip had trembled because of the sorrows of friends, whereas now he was sorrowing because of an exhausted nature, a weakened heart, and a sinking spirit. But the spirit had not yet utterly given way! "Come!" he cried, starting up. "This won't do, Tolly. Be a man! Why, only think--you have got over two days and two nights. That was the time allowed you by Paul, so your journey's all but done--must be. Of course those brutes--forgive me, pony, _that_ brute, I mean--has made me go much slower than if I had come on my own legs, but notwithstanding, it cannot be--hallo! what's that!" The exclamation had reference to a small dark object which lay a few yards from the spot on which he sat. He ran and picked it up. It was Tom Brixton's cap--with his name rudely written on the lining. Beside it lay a piece of bark on which was pencil-writing. With eager, anxious haste the boy began to peruse it, but he was unaccustomed to read handwriting, and when poor Tom had pencilled the lines his hand was weak and his brain confused, so that the characters were doubly difficult to decipher. After much and prolonged effort the boy made out the beginning. It ran thus: "This is probably the last letter that I, Tom Brixton, shall ever write. (I put down my name now, in case I never finish it.) O dearest mother!--" Emotion had no doubt rendered the hand less steady at this point, for here the words were quite illegible--at least to little Trevor--who finally gave up the attempt in despair. The effect of this discovery, however, was to send the young blood coursing wildly through the veins, so that a great measure of strength returned, as if by magic. The boy's first care was naturally to look for traces of the lost man, and he set about this with a dull fear at his heart, lest at any moment he should come upon the dead body of his friend. In a few minutes he discovered the track made by the Indians, which led him to the spot near to the spring where Tom had fallen. To his now fully-awakened senses Trevor easily read the story, as far as signs could tell it. Brixton had been all but starved to death. He had lain down under a tree to die--the very tree under which he himself had so recently given way to despair. While lying there he--Brixton--had scrawled his last words on the bit of birch-bark. Then he had tried to reach the spring, but had fainted either before reaching it or after leaving. This he knew, because the mark of Tom's coat, part of his waist-belt and the handle of his bowie-knife were all impressed on the softish ground with sufficient distinctness to be discerned by a sharp eye. The moccasined footprints told of Indians having found Brixton--still alive, for they would not have taken the trouble to carry him off if he had been dead. The various sizes of the moccasined feet told that the party of Indians numbered three; and the trail of the red men, with its occasional halting-places, pointed out clearly the direction in which they had gone. Happily this was also the direction in which little Trevor was going. Of course the boy did not read this off as readily as we have written it all down. It cost him upwards of an hour's patient research; but when at last he did arrive at the result of his studies he wasted no time in idle speculation. His first duty was to reach Simpson's Gully, discover his friend Paul Bevan, and deliver to him the piece of birch-bark he had found, and the information he had gleaned. By the time Tolly had come to this conclusion his horse and pony had obtained both rest and nourishment enough to enable them to raise their drooping heads and tails an inch or two, so that when the boy mounted the former with some of his old dash and energy, it shook its head, gave a short snort, and went off at a fair trot. Fortunately the ground improved just beyond this point, opening out into park-like scenery, which, in another mile or two, ran into level prairie land. This Trevor knew from description was close to the mountain range, in which lay the gully he was in quest of. The hope which had begun to rise increased, and communicating itself, probably by sympathetic electricity, to the horse, produced a shuffling gallop, which ere long brought them to a clump of wood. On rounding this they came in sight of the longed-for hills. Before nightfall Simpson's Gully was reached, and little Trevor was directed to the tent of Paul Bevan, who had arrived there only the day before. "It's a strange story, lad," said Paul, after the boy had run rapidly over the chief points of the news he had to give, to which Betty, Fred, and Flinders sat listening with eager interest. "We must be off to search for him without delay," said Fred Westly, rising. "It's right ye are, sor," cried Flinders, springing up. "Off to-night an' not a moment to lose." "We'll talk it over first, boys," said Paul. "Come with me. I've a friend in the camp as'll help us." "Did you not bring the piece of bark?" asked Betty of the boy, as the men went out. "Oh! I forgot. Of course I did," cried Trevor, drawing it from his breast-pocket. "The truth is I'm so knocked up that I scarce know what I'm about." "Lie down here on this deer-skin, poor boy, and rest while I read it." Tolly Trevor flung himself on the rude but welcome couch, and almost instantly fell asleep, while Betty Bevan, spreading the piece of birch-bark on her knee, began to spell out the words and try to make sense of Tom Brixton's last epistle. CHAPTER ELEVEN. With considerable difficulty Betty Bevan succeeded in deciphering the tremulous scrawl which Tom Brixton had written on the piece of birch-bark. It ran somewhat as follows:-- "This is probably the last letter that I, Tom Brixton, shall ever write. (I put down my name now, in case I never finish it.) O dearest mother! what would I not now give to unsay all the hard things I have ever said to you, and to undo all the evil I have done. But this cannot be. `Twice bought!' It is strange how these words run in my mind. I was condemned to death at the gold-fields--my comrades bought me off. Fred--dear Fred--who has been true and faithful to the last--reminded me that I had previously been bought with the blood of Jesus--that I have been _twice bought_! I think he put it in this way to fix my obstinate spirit on the idea, and he has succeeded. The thought has been burned in upon my soul as with fire. I am very, _very_ weak--dying, I fear, in the forest, and alone! How my mind seems to wander! I have slept since writing the last sentence, and dreamed of food! Curious mixing of ideas! I also dreamed of Betty Bevan. Ah, sweet girl! if this ever meets your eye, believe that I loved you sincerely. It is well that I should die, perhaps, for I have been a thief, and would not ask your hand now even if I might. I would not sully it with a touch of mine, and I could not expect you to believe in me after I tell you that I not only robbed Gashford, but also Fred--my chum Fred--and gambled it all away, and drank away my reason almost at the same time... I have slept again, and dreamed of water this time--bright, pure, crystal water-- sparkling and gushing in the sunshine. O God! how I despised it once, and how I long for it now! I am too weak and wandering, mother, to think about religion now. But why should I? Your teaching has not been altogether thrown away; it comes back like a great flood while I lie here dreaming and trying to write. The thoughts are confused, but the sense comes home. All is easily summed up in the words you once taught me, `I am a poor sinner, and nothing at all, but Jesus Christ is all in all.' Not sure that I quote rightly. No matter, the sense is there also. And yet it seems--it is--such a mean thing to sin away one's life and ask for pardon only at the end--the very end! But the thief on the cross did it; why not I? Sleep--_is_ it sleep? may it not be slowly-approaching death?--has overpowered me again. I have been attempting to read this. I seem to have mixed things somehow. It is sadly confused--or my mind is. A burning thirst consumes me--and--I _think_ I hear water running! I will--" Here the letter ended abruptly. "No doubt," murmured Betty, as she let the piece of bark fall on the table and clasped her hands over her eyes, "he rose and tried to reach the water. Praise God that there is hope!" She sat for a few seconds in profound silence, which was broken by Paul and his friends re-entering the tent. "It's all arranged, Betty," he said, taking down an old rifle which hung above the door; "old Larkins has agreed to look arter my claim and take care of you, lass, while we're away." "I shall need no one to take care of me." "Ah! so you think, for you're as brave as you're good; but--I think otherwise. So he'll look arter you." "Indeed he won't, father!" returned Betty, smiling, "because I intend that _you_ shall look after me." "Impossible, girl! I'm going to sarch for Tom Brixton, you see, along with Mister Fred an' Flinders, so I can't stop here with you." "But I am going too, father!" "But--but we can't wait for you, my good girl," returned Paul, with a perplexed look; "we're all ready to start, an' there ain't a hoss for you except the poor critters that Tolly Trevor brought wi' him, an', you know, they need rest very badly." "Well, well, go off, father; I won't delay you," said Betty; "and don't disturb Tolly, let him sleep, he needs it, poor boy. I will take care of him and his horses." That Tolly required rest was very obvious, for he lay sprawling on the deer-skin couch just as he had flung himself down, buried in the profoundest sleep he perhaps ever experienced since his career in the wilderness began. After the men had gone off, Betty Bevan--who was by that time better known, at least among those young diggers whose souls were poetical, as the Rose of Oregon, and among the matter-of-fact ones as the Beautiful Nugget--conducted herself in a manner that would have increased the admiration of her admirers, if they had seen her, and awakened their curiosity also. First of all she went out to the half-ruined log-hut that served her father for a stable, and watered, fed, and rubbed down the horse and pony which Tolly had brought, in a manner that would have done credit to a regular groom. Then, returning to the tent, she arranged and packed a couple of saddle-bags with certain articles of clothing, as well as biscuits, dried meat, and other provisions. Next she cleaned and put in order a couple of revolvers, a bowie-knife, and a small hatchet; and ultimately, having made sundry other mysterious preparations, she lifted the curtain which divided the tent into two parts, and entered her own private apartment. There, after reading her nightly portion of God's Word and committing herself, and those who were out searching in the wilderness for the lost man, to His care, she lay down with her clothes on, and almost instantly fell into a slumber as profound as that which had already overwhelmed Tolly. As for that exhausted little fellow, he did not move during the whole night, save once, when an adventurous insect of the earwig type walked across his ruddy cheek and upper lip and looked up his nose. There are sensitive portions of the human frame which may not be touched with impunity. The sleeper sneezed, blew the earwig out of existence, rolled over on his back, flung his arms wide open, and, with his mouth in the same condition, spent the remainder of the night in motionless repose. The sun was well up next morning, and the miners of Simpson's Gully were all busy, up to their knees in mud and gold, when Betty Bevan awoke, sprang up, ran into the outer apartment of her tent, and gazed admiringly at Tolly's face. A band of audacious and early flies were tickling it, and causing the features to twitch, but they could not waken the sleeper. Betty gazed only for a moment with an amused expression, and then shook the boy somewhat vigorously. "Come, Tolly, rise!" "Oh! d-on't b-borrer." "But I must bother. Wake up, I say. Fire!" At the last word the boy sat up and gazed idiotically. "Hallo! Betty--my dear Nugget--is that you? Why, where am I?" "Your body is here," said Betty, laughing. "When your mind comes to the same place I'll talk to you." "I'm _all_ here now, Betty; so go ahead," said the boy, with a hearty yawn as he arose and stretched himself. "Oh! I remember now all about it. Where is your father?" "I will tell you presently, but first let me know what you mean by calling me Nugget." "Why, don't you know? It's the name the men give you everywhere--one of the names at least--the Beautiful Nugget." "Indeed!" exclaimed the Nugget with a laugh and blush; "very impudent of the men; and, pray, if this is one of the names, what may the others be?" "There's only one other that I know of--the Rose of Oregon. But come, it's not fair of you to screw my secrets out o' me when I'm only half awake; and you haven't yet told me where Paul Bevan is." "I'll tell you that when I see you busy with this pork pie," returned the Rose. "I made it myself, so you ought to find it good. Be quick, for I have work for you to do, and there is no time to lose. Content yourself with a cold breakfast for once." "Humph! as if I hadn't contented myself with a cold breakfast at any time. Well, it _is_ a good pie. Now--about Paul?" "He has gone away with Mr Westly and Flinders to search for Mr Brixton." "What! without _me_?" exclaimed Tolly, overturning his chair as he started up and pushed his plate from him. "Yes, without you, Tolly; I advised him not to awake you." "It's the unkindest thing you've ever done to me," returned the boy, scarcely able to restrain his tears at the disappointment. "How can they know where to search for him without me to guide them? Why didn't you let them waken me!" "You forget, Tolly, that my father knows every inch of these woods and plains for at least fifty miles round the old house they have blown up; and, as to waking you, it would have been next to impossible to have done so, you were so tired, and you would have been quite unable to keep your eyes open. Besides, I had a little plan of my own which I want you to help me to carry out. Go on with your breakfast and I'll explain." The boy sat down to his meal again without speaking, but with a look of much curiosity on his expressive face. "You know, without my telling you," continued Betty, "that I, like my father, have a considerable knowledge of this part of the country, and of the ways of Indians and miners, and from what you have told me, coupled with what father has said, I think it likely that the Indians have carried poor T---Mr Brixton, I mean--through the Long Gap rather than by the plains--" "So _I_ would have said, had they consulted _me_," interrupted the boy, with an offended air. "Well, but," continued Betty, "they would neither have consulted you nor me, for father has a very decided will, you know, and a belief in his own judgment--which is quite right of course, only I cannot help differing from him on this occasion--" "No more can I," growled Tolly, thrusting his fork into the pie at a tempting piece of pork. "So, you see, I'm going to take the big horse you brought here and ride round by the Long Gap to see if I'm right, and I want you to go with me on the pony and take care of me." Tolly Trevor felt his heart swell with gratification at the idea of his being the chosen protector of the Rose of Oregon--the Beautiful Nugget; selected by herself, too. Nevertheless his good sense partially subdued his vanity on the point. "But, I say," he remarked, looking up with a half-serious expression, "d'you think that you and I are a sufficient party to make a good fight if we are attacked by Redskins? You know your father will hold me responsible, for carrying you off into the midst of danger in this fashion." "I don't mean to fight at all," returned Betty, with a pleasant laugh, "and I will free you from all responsibility; so, have done, now, and come along." "It's _so_ good," said Tolly, looking as though he were loath to quit the pork pie; "but, come, I'm your man! Only don't you think it would be as well to get up a good fighting party among the young miners to go with us? They'd only be too happy to take service under the Beautiful Nugget, you know." "Tolly," exclaimed the Nugget, with more than her wonted firmness, "if you are to take service under _me_ you must learn to obey without question. Now, go and saddle the horses. The big one for me, the pony for yourself. Put the saddle-bags on the horse, and be quick." There was a tone and manner about the usually quiet and gentle girl which surprised and quite overawed little Trevor, so that he was reduced at once to an obedient and willing slave. Indeed he was rather glad than otherwise that Betty had declined to listen to his suggestion about the army of young diggers--which an honest doubt as to his own capacity to fight and conquer all who might chance to come in his way had induced him to make--while he was by no means unwilling to undertake, singlehanded, any duties his fair conductor should require of him. In a few minutes, therefore, the steeds were brought round to the door of the tent, where Betty already stood equipped for the journey. Our fair readers will not, we trust, be prejudiced against the Rose of Oregon when we inform them that she had adopted man's attitude in riding. Her costume was arranged very much after the pattern of the Indian women's dress--namely, a close-fitting body, a short woollen skirt reaching a little below the knees, and blue cloth leggings in continuation. These latter were elegantly wrought with coloured silk thread, and the pair of moccasins which covered her small feet were similarly ornamented. A little cloth cap, in shape resembling that of a cavalry foraging cap, but without ornaments, graced her head, from beneath which her wavy hair tumbled in luxuriant curls on her shoulders, and, as Tolly was wont to remark, looked after itself anyhow. Such a costume was well adapted to the masculine position on horseback, as well as to the conditions of a land in which no roads, but much underwood, existed. Bevan's tent having been pitched near the outskirts of Simpson's Camp, the maiden and her gallant protector had no difficulty in quitting it unobserved. Riding slowly at first, to avoid attracting attention as well as to pick their steps more easily over the somewhat rugged ground near the camp, they soon reached the edge of an extensive plain, at the extremity of which a thin purple line indicated a range of hills. Here Tolly Trevor, unable to restrain his joy at the prospect of adventure before him, uttered a war-whoop, brought his switch down smartly on the pony's flank, and shot away over the plain like a wild creature. The air was bracing, the prospect was fair, the sunshine was bright. No wonder that the obedient pony, forgetting for the moment the fatigues of the past, and strong in the enjoyment of the previous night's rest and supper, went over the ground at a pace that harmonised with its young rider's excitement; and no wonder that the obstinate horse was inclined to emulate the pony, and stretched its long legs into a wild gallop, encouraged thereto by the Rose on its back. The gallop was ere long pressed to racing speed, and there is no saying when the young pair would have pulled up--had they not met with a sudden check by the pony putting his foot into a badger-hole. The result was frightful to witness, though trifling in result. The pony went heels over head upon the plain like a rolling wheel, and its rider shot into the air like a stone from a catapult. Describing a magnificent curve, and coming down head foremost, Tolly would then and there have ended his career if he had not fortunately dropped into a thick bush, which broke his fall instead of his neck, and saved him. Indeed, excepting several ugly scratches, he was none the worse for the misadventure. Poor horrified Betty attempted to pull up, but the obstinate horse had got the bit in his teeth and declined, so that when Tolly had scrambled out of the bush she was barely visible in the far distance, heading towards the blue hills. "Hallo!" was her protector's anxious remark as he gazed at the flying fair one. Then, without another word, he leaped on the pony and went after her at full speed, quite regardless of recent experience. The blue hills had become green hills, and the Long Gap was almost reached, before the obstinate horse suffered itself to be reined in-- probably because it was getting tired. Soon afterwards the pony came panting up. "You're not hurt, I hope?" said Betty, anxiously, as Tolly came alongside. "Oh no. All right," replied the boy; "but I say what a run you have given me! Why didn't you wait for me?" "Ask that of the horse, Tolly." "What! Did he bolt with you?" "Truly he did. I never before rode such a stubborn brute. My efforts to check it were useless, as it had the bit in its teeth, and I did my best, for I was terribly anxious about you, and cannot imagine how you escaped a broken neck after such a flight." "It was the bush that saved me, Betty. But, I say, we seem to be nearing a wildish sort of place." "Yes; this is the Long Gap," returned the girl, flinging back her curls and looking round. "It cuts right through the range here, and becomes much wilder and more difficult to traverse on horseback farther on." "And what d'ye mean to do, Betty?" inquired the boy as they rode at a foot-pace towards the opening, which seemed like a dark portal to the hills. "Suppose you discover that the Redskins _have_ carried Tom Brixton off in this direction, what then? You and I won't be able to rescue him, you know." "True, Tolly. If I find that they have taken him this way I will ride straight to father's encampment--he told me before starting where he intends to sleep to-night, so I shall easily find him--tell him what we have discovered and lead him back here." "And suppose you don't find that the Redskins have come this way," rejoined Tolly, after a doubtful shake of his head, "what then?" "Why, then, I shall return to our tent and leave father and Mr Westly to hunt them down." "And suppose," continued Tolly--but Tolly never finished the supposition, for at that moment two painted Indians sprang from the bushes on either side of the narrow track, and, almost before the riders could realise what had happened, the boy found himself on his back with a savage hand at his throat and the girl found herself on the ground with the hand of a grinning savage on her shoulder. Tolly Trevor struggled manfully, but alas! also boyishly, for though his spirit was strong his bodily strength was small--at least, as compared with that of the savage who held him. Yes, Tolly struggled like a hero. He beheld the Rose of Oregon taken captive, and his blood boiled! He bit, he kicked, he scratched, and he hissed with indignation--but it would not do. "Oh, if you'd only let me up and give me _one_ chance!" he gasped. But the red man did not consent--indeed, he did not understand. Nevertheless, it was obvious that the savage was not vindictive, for although Tolly's teeth and fists and toes and nails had wrought him some damage, he neither stabbed nor scalped the boy. He only choked him into a state of semi-unconsciousness, and then, turning him on his face, tied his hands behind his back with a deerskin thong. Meanwhile the other savage busied himself in examining the saddle-bags of the obstinate horse. He did not appear to think it worth while to tie the hands of Betty! During the short scuffle between his comrade and the boy he had held her fast, because she manifested an intention to run to the rescue. When that was ended he relieved her of the weapons she carried and let her go, satisfied, no doubt that, if she attempted to run away, he could easily overtake her, and if she were to attempt anything else he could restrain her. When, however, Betty saw that Tolly's antagonist meant no harm, she wisely attempted nothing, but sat down on a fallen tree to await the issue. The savages did not keep her long in suspense. Tolly's foe, having bound him, lifted him on the back of the pony, and then, taking the bridle, quietly led it away. At the same time the other savage assisted Betty to remount the horse, and, grasping the bridle of that obstinate creature, followed his comrade. The whole thing was so sudden, so violent, and the result so decisive, that the boy looked back at Betty and burst into a half-hysterical fit of laughter, but the girl did not respond. "It's a serious business, Tolly!" she said. "So it is, Betty," he replied. Then, pursing his little mouth, and gathering his eyebrows into a frown, he gave himself up to meditation, while the Indians conducted them into the dark recesses of the Long Gap. CHAPTER TWELVE. Now, the Indians, into whose hands the Rose of Oregon and our little hero had fallen, happened to be part of the tribe to which the three who had discovered Tom Brixton belonged, and although his friends little knew it, Tom himself was not more than a mile or so distant from them at the time, having been carried in the same direction, towards the main camp or headquarters of the tribe in the Sawback Hills. They had not met on the journey, because the two bands of the tribe were acting independently of each other. We will leave them at this point and ask the reader to return to another part of the plain over which Tolly and Betty had galloped so furiously. It is a small hollow, at the bottom of which a piece of marshy ground has encouraged the growth of a few willows. Paul Bevan had selected it as a suitable camping-ground for the night, and while Paddy Flinders busied himself with the kettle and frying-pan, he and Fred Westly went among the bushes to procure firewood. Fred soon returned with small twigs sufficient to kindle the fire; his companion went on further in search of larger boughs and logs. While Fred was busily engaged on hands and knees, blowing the fire into a flame, a sharp "hallo!" from his companion caused him to look up. "What is it?" he asked. "Goliath of Gath--or his brother!" said Paddy, pointing to a little eminence behind which the sun had but recently set. The horseman, who had come to a halt on the eminence and was quietly regarding them, did indeed look as if he might have claimed kinship with the giant of the Philistines, for he and his steed looked stupendous. No doubt the peculiarity of their position, with the bright sky as a glowing background, had something to do with the gigantic appearance of horse and man, for, as they slowly descended the slope towards the fire, both of them assumed a more natural size. The rider was a strange-looking as well as a large man, for he wore a loose shooting-coat, a tall wideawake with a broad brim, blue spectacles with side-pieces to them, and a pair of trousers which appeared to have been made for a smaller man, as, besides being too tight, they were much too short. Over his shoulder was slung a green tin botanical box. He carried no visible weapons save a small hatchet and a bowie-knife, though his capacious pockets might easily have concealed half a dozen revolvers. "Goot night, my frunds," said the stranger, in broken English, as he approached. "The same to yersilf, sor," returned Flinders. Anyone who had been closely watching the countenance of the stranger might have observed a sudden gleam of surprise on it when the Irishman spoke, but it passed instantly, and was replaced by a pleasant air of good fellowship as he dismounted and led his horse nearer the fire. "Good night, and welcome to our camp. You are a foreigner, I perceive," said Fred Westly in French, but the stranger shook his head. "I not un'erstan'." "Ah! a German, probably," returned Fred, trying him with the language of the Fatherland; but again the stranger shook his head. "You mus' spok English. I is a Swedish man; knows noting but a leetil English." "I'm sorry that I cannot speak Swedish," replied Fred, in English; "so we must converse in my native tongue. You are welcome to share our camp. Have you travelled far?" Fred cast a keen glance of suspicion at the stranger as he spoke, and, in spite of himself, there was a decided diminution in the heartiness of his tones, but the stranger did not appear to observe either the change of tone or the glance, for he replied, with increased urbanity and openness of manner, "Yis; I has roden far--very far--an' moche wants meat an' sleep." As he spoke Paul Bevan came staggering into camp under a heavy load of wood, and again it may be said that a close observer might have noticed on the stranger's face a gleam of surprise much more intense than the previous one when he saw Paul Bevan. But the gleam had utterly vanished when that worthy, having thrown down his load, looked up and bade him good evening. The urbanity of manner and blandness of expression increased as he returned the salutation. "T'anks, t'anks. I vill go for hubble--vat you call--hobble me horse," he said, taking the animal's bridle and leading it a short distance from the fire. "I don't like the look of him," whispered Fred to Paul when he was out of earshot. "Sure, an' I howld the same opinion," said Flinders. "Pooh! Never judge men by their looks," returned Bevan--"specially in the diggin's. They're all blackguards or fools, more or less. This one seems to be one o' the fools. I've seed sitch critters before. They keep fillin' their little boxes wi' grass an' stuff; an' never makes any use of it that I could see. But every man to his taste. I'll be bound he's a good enough feller when ye come to know him, an' git over yer contempt for his idle ways. Very likely he draws, too--an' plays the flute; most o' these furriners do. Come now, Flinders, look alive wi' the grub." When the stranger returned to the fire he spread his huge hands over it and rubbed them with apparent satisfaction. "Fat a goot t'ing is supper!" he remarked, with a benignant look all round; "the very smell of him be deliciowse!" "An' no mistake!" added Flinders. "Sure, the half the good o' victuals would be lost av they had no smell." "Where have you come from, stranger?" asked Bevan, as they were about to begin supper. "From de Sawbuk Hills," answered the botanist, filling his mouth with an enormous mass of dried meat. "Ay, indeed! That's just where _we_ are goin' to," returned Bevan. "An' vere may you be come from?" asked the stranger. "From Simpson's Gully," said Fred. "Ha! how cooriouse! Dat be joost vere I be go to." The conversation flagged a little at this point as they warmed to the work of feeding; but after a little it was resumed, and then their visitor gradually ingratiated himself with his new friends to such an extent that the suspicions of Fred and Flinders were somewhat, though not altogether, allayed. At last they became sufficiently confidential to inform the stranger of their object in going to the Sawback Hills. "Ha! Vat is dat you say?" he exclaimed, with well-feigned surprise; "von yoong man carried avay by Ridskins. I saw'd dem! Did pass dem not longe ago. T'ree mans carry von man. I t'ink him a sick comrade, but now I reklect hims face vas vhitish." "Could ye guide us to the place where ye met them?" asked Bevan, quickly. The botanist did not reply at once, but seemed to consider. "Vell, I has not moche time to spare; but come, I has pity for you, an' don't mind if I goes out of de vay to help you. I vill go back to the Sawbuk Hills so far as need be." "Thank 'ee kindly," returned Bevan, who possessed a grateful spirit; "I'll think better of yer grass-gatherin' after this, though it does puzzle me awful to make out what's the use ye put it to. If you kep' tame rabbits, now, I could understand it, but to carry it about in a green box an' go squeezin' it between the leaves o' books, as I've seed some of 'ee do, seems to me the most outrageous--" "Ha, ha!" interrupted the botanist, with a loud laugh; "you is not the first what t'ink hims nonsense. But you mus' know dere be moche sense in it,"--(he looked very grave and wise here)--"very moche. First, ye finds him; den ye squeezes an' dries him; den ye sticks him in von book, an' names him; den ye talks about him; oh! dere is moche use in him, very moche!" "Well, but arter you've found, an' squeezed, an' dried, an' stuck, an' named, an' talked about him," repeated Paul, with a slight look of contempt, "what the better are ye for it all?" "Vy, ve is moche de better," returned the botanist, "for den ve tries to find out all about him. Ve magnifies him, an' writes vat ve zee about him, an' compares him vid oders of de same family, an' boils, an' stews, an' fries, an' melts, an' dissolves, an' mixes him, till ve gits somet'ing out of him." "It's little I'd expect to git out of him after tratin' him so badly," remarked Flinders, whose hunger was gradually giving way before the influence of venison steaks. "True, me frund," returned the stranger, "it is ver' leetil ve gits; but den dat leetil is ver' goot--valooable you calls it." "Humph!" ejaculated Bevan, with an air that betokened doubt. Flinders and Fred said nothing, but the latter felt more than ever inclined to believe that their guest was a deceiver, and resolved to watch him narrowly. On his part, the stranger seemed to perceive that Fred suspected him, but he was not rendered less hearty or free-and-easy on that account. In the course of conversation Paul chanced to refer to Betty. "Ah! me frund," said the stranger, "has you brought you's vife to dis vile contry!" "No, I haven't," replied Paul, bluntly. "Oh, pardon. I did t'ink you spoke of Bettie; an surely dat is vooman's name?" "Ay, but Betty's my darter, not my wife," returned Paul, who resented this inquisition with regard to his private affairs. "Is you not 'fraid," said the botanist, quietly helping himself to a marrow-bone, "to leave you's darter at Simpson's Gully?" "Who told you I left her there?" asked Bevan, with increasing asperity. "Oh! I only t'ink so, as you's come from dere." "An' why should I be afraid?" "Because, me frund, de contry be full ob scoundrils." "Yes, an' you are one of the biggest of them," thought Fred Westly, but he kept his thoughts to himself, while Paul muttered something about being well protected, and having no occasion to be afraid. Perceiving the subject to be distasteful, the stranger quickly changed it. Soon afterwards each man, rolling himself in his blanket, went to sleep--or appeared to do so. In regard to Paddy Flinders, at least, there could be no doubt, for the trombone-tones of his nose were eloquent. Paul, too, lay on his back with eyes tight shut and mouth wide open, while the regular heaving of his broad chest told that his slumbers were deep. But more than once Fred Westly raised his head gently and looked suspiciously round. At last, in his case also, tired Nature asserted herself, and his deep regular breathing proved that the "sweet restorer" was at work, though an occasional movement showed that his sleep was not so profound as that of his comrades. The big botanist remained perfectly motionless from the time he lay down, as if the sleep of infancy had passed with him into the period of manhood. It was not till the fire had died completely down, and the moon had set, leaving only the stars to make darkness visible, that he moved. He did so, not as a sleeper awaking, but with the slow stealthy action of one who is already wide awake and has a purpose in view. Gradually his huge shoulders rose till he rested on his left elbow. A sense of danger, which had never left him even while he slept, aroused Fred, but he did not lose his self-possession. He carefully watched, from the other side of the extinct fire, the motions of the stranger, and lay perfectly still--only tightening his grasp on the knife-handle that he had been instinctively holding when he dropped asleep. The night was too dark for Fred to distinguish the man's features. He could only perceive the outline of his black figure, and that for some time he rested on his elbow without moving, as if he were contemplating the stars. Despite his efforts to keep awake, Fred felt that drowsiness was again slowly, but surely, overcoming him. Maintaining the struggle, however, he kept his dreamy eyes riveted on their guest until he seemed to swell into gigantic proportions. Presently Fred was again thoroughly aroused by observing that the right arm of the man moved slowly upwards, and something like a knife appeared in the hand; he even fancied he saw it gleam, though there was not light enough to render that possible. Feeling restrained, as if under the horrible influence of nightmare, Fred lay there spell-bound and quite unable to move, until he perceived the stranger's form bend over in the direction of Paul Bevan, who lay on the other side of him. Then, indeed, Fred's powers returned. Shouting, "look out, Paul!" he sprang up, drew his bowie-knife, and leaped over the blackened logs, but, to his surprise and confusion, found that the stranger lay extended on the ground as if sound asleep. He roused himself, however, and sat up, as did the others, on hearing Fred's shout. "Fat is wrong, yoong man?" he inquired, with a look of sleepy surprise. "Ye may well ax that, sor," said Flinders, staggering to his feet and seizing his axe, which always lay handy at his side. Paul had glanced round sharply, like a man inured to danger, but seeing nothing to alarm him, had remained in a sitting position. "Why, Westly, you've been dreaming," he said with a broad grin. "So I must have been," returned the youth, looking very much ashamed, "but you've no notion what a horrible dream I had. It seemed so real, too, that I could not help jumping up and shouting. Pardon me, comrades, and, as bad boys say when caught in mischief, `I won't do it again!'" "Ve pardon you, by all means," said the botanist stretching himself and yawning, "and ve do so vid de more pleasure for you has rouse us in time for start on de joorney." "You're about right. It's time we was off," said Paul, rising slowly to his feet and looking round the horizon and up at the sky, while he proceeded to fill a beloved little black pipe, which invariably constituted his preliminary little breakfast. Pat Flinders busied himself in blowing up the embers of the fire. A slight and rapidly eaten meal sufficed to prepare these hardy backwoodsmen for their journey, and, long before daybreak illumined the plains, they were far on their way towards the Sawback mountain range. During the journey of two days, which this trip involved, the botanist seemed to change his character to some extent. He became silent--almost morose; did not encourage the various efforts made by his companions to draw him into conversation, and frequently rode alone in advance of the party, or occasionally fell behind them. The day after the stranger had joined them, as they were trotting slowly over the plains that lay between the Rangers Hill and the Sawbacks, Fred rode close up to Bevan, and said in a low voice, glancing at the botanist, who was in advance-- "I am convinced, Paul, that he is a scoundrel." "That may be so, Mr Fred, but what then?" "Why, then I conclude that he is deceiving us for some purpose of his own." "Nonsense," replied Bevan, who was apt to express himself bluntly, "what purpose can he serve in deceiving strangers like us! We carry no gold-dust and have nothing worth robbing us of, even if he were fool enough to think of attemptin' such a thing. Then, he can scarcely be deceivin' us in sayin' that he met three Redskins carryin' off a white man--an' what good could it do him if he is? Besides, he is goin' out of his way to sarve us." "It is impossible for me to answer your question, Paul, but I understand enough of both French and German to know that his broken English is a mere sham--a mixture, and a bad one too, of what no German or Frenchman would use--so it's not likely to be the sort of bad English that a Swede would speak. Moreover, I have caught him once or twice using English words correctly at one time and wrongly at another. No, you may depend on it that, whatever his object may be, he is deceiving us." "It's mesilf as agrees wid ye, sor," said Flinders, who had been listening attentively to the conversation. "The man's no more a Swede than an Irishman, but what can we do wid oursilves! True or false, he's ladin' us in the diriction we want to go, an' it would do no good to say to him, `Ye spalpeen, yer decavin' of us,' for he'd only say he wasn't; or may be he'd cut up rough an' lave us--but after all, it might be the best way to push him up to that." "I think not" said Bevan. "Doesn't English law say that a man should be held innocent till he's proved guilty?" "It's little I know or care about English law," answered Flinders, "but I'm sure enough that Irish law howlds a bad man to be guilty till he's proved innocent--at laste av it dosn't it should." "You'd better go an' pump him a bit, Mr Fred," said Bevan; "we're close up to the Sawback range; another hour an' we'll be among the mountains." They were turning round the spur of a little hillock as he spoke. Before Fred could reply a small deer sprang from its lair, cast on the intruders one startled gaze, and then bounded gracefully into the bush, too late, however, to escape from Bevan's deadly rifle. It had barely gone ten yards when a sharp crack was heard; the animal sprang high into the air, and fell dead upon the ground. "Bad luck to ye, Bevan!" exclaimed Flinders, who had also taken aim at it, but not with sufficient speed, "isn't that always the way ye do?-- plucks the baste out o' me very hand. Sure I had me sights lined on it as straight as could be; wan second more an' I'd have sent a bullet right into its brain, when _crack_! ye go before me. Och! it's onkind, to say the laste of it. Why cudn't ye gi' me a chance?" "I'm sorry, Flinders, but I couldn't well help it. The critter rose right in front o' me." "Vat a goot shote you is!" exclaimed the botanist riding back to them and surveying the prostrate deer through his blue spectacles. "Ay, and it's a lucky shot too," said Fred, "for our provisions are running low. But perchance we shan't want much more food before reaching the Indian camp. You said, I think, that you have a good guess where the camp lies, Mister--what shall we call you?" "Call me vat you please," returned the stranger, with a peculiar smile; "I is not partickler. Some of me frunds calls me Mr Botaniste." "Well, Mr Botanist, the camp cannot be far off now, an' it seems to me that we should have overtaken men travelling on foot by this time." "Ye vill surely come on de tracks dis naight or de morrow," replied the botanist, riding forward, after Bevan had secured the carcass of the deer to his saddle-bow, "bot ye must have patience, yoong blood be always too hote. All in goot time." With this reply Fred was fain to content himself, for no amount of pressure availed to draw anything more satisfactory out of their strange guide. Before sunset they had penetrated some distance into the Sawback range, and then proceeded to make their encampment for the night under the spreading branches of a lordly pine! CHAPTER THIRTEEN. Tables are frequently turned in this world in more senses than one. As was said in the last chapter, the romantic pair who were in search of the Indians did not find those for whom they sought but as fickle fortune willed it, those for whom they sought found _them_. It happened thus. Soon after the Rose of Oregon and her young champion, with their captors, had passed through the Long Gap, crossed the plain, and entered the Sawback Hills, they fell in with a band of twenty Indians, who from their appearance and costume evidently belonged to the same tribe as their captors. From the manner in which they met also, it seemed that they had been in search of each other, and had something interesting to communicate, for they gesticulated much, pointed frequently to the sky, and to various directions of the compass, chattered excitedly, showed their brilliant teeth in fitful gleams, and glittered quite awfully about the eyes. They paid little attention at first to their prisoners, who remained sitting on their steeds looking on with interest and some anxiety. "O Betty, what would I not give to have my arms free just now! What a chance it would be for a bold dash and a glorious run!" "You'd make little of it on such rough ground, Tolly." "Pooh! I'd try it on any ground. Just fancy, I'd begin with a clear leap over that chief's head--the one there wi' the feathers an' the long nose that's makin' such hideous faces--then away up the glen, over the stones, down the hollows, shoutin' like mad, an' clearin' the brooks and precipices with a band o' yellin' Redskins at my tail! Isn't it enough to drive a fellow wild to be on the brink of such a chance an' miss it? I say, haven't you got a penknife in your pocket--no? Not even a pair o' scissors? Why, I thought you women never travelled without scissors!" "Alas! Tolly, I have not even scissors; besides, if I had, it would take me at least two minutes with all the strength of my fingers to cut the thongs that bind you with scissors, and I don't think the Redskins would stand quietly by and look on while I did it. But what say you to _me_ trying it by myself?" "Quite useless," returned Tolly. "You'd be caught at once--or break your neck. And you'd never get on, you know, without me. No, no, we've got fairly into a fix, an' I don't see my way out of it. If my hands were free we might attempt anything, but what can a fellow do when tied up in this fashion?" "He can submit, Tolly, and wait patiently." Tolly did not feel inclined to submit, and was not possessed of much patience, but he was too fond of Betty to answer flippantly. He therefore let his feelings escape through the safety-valve of a great sigh, and relapsed into pensive silence. Meanwhile the attention of the band of savages was attracted to another small band of natives which approached them from the eastward. That these were also friends was evident from the fact that the larger band made no hostile demonstration, but quietly awaited the coming up of the others. The newcomers were three in number, and two of them bore on their shoulders what appeared to be the body of a man wrapped up in a blanket. "They've got a wounded comrade with them, I think," said little Trevor. "So it would seem," replied Betty, with a dash of pity in her tone, for she was powerfully sympathetic. The savages laid the form in the blanket on the ground, and began to talk earnestly with their comrades. "It's not dead yet anyhow," remarked Tolly, "for I see it move. I wonder whether it is a man or a woman. Mayhap it's their old grandmother they're giving a little exercise to. I've heard that some o' the Redskins are affectionate sort o' fellows, though most of 'em are hard enough on the old folk." As he spoke he looked up in Betty's face. Just as he did so a startling change came over that face. It suddenly became ashy pale, the large eyes dilated to their utmost extent, and the mouth opened with a short gasp. In great alarm the boy turned his eyes in the direction in which the girl gazed so fixedly, and then his own visage assumed a somewhat similar appearance as he beheld the pale, thin, cadaverous countenance of his friend Tom Brixton, from off which a corner of the blanket had just slipped. But for the slight motion above referred to Tom might have been mistaken for a dead man, for his eyes were closed and his lips bloodless. Uttering a sudden shout Tolly Trevor flung himself headlong off the pony and tried to get on his feet but failed, owing to his hands being tied behind him. Betty also leaped to the ground, and, running to where Tom lay, went down on her knees and raised his head in her hands. The poor youth, being roused, opened his eyes. They were terribly sunken and large, but when they met those of Betty they enlarged to an extent that seemed positively awful, and a faint tinge of colour came to his hollow cheeks. "Betty!" he whispered; "can--can it be possible?" "Yes, it is I! Surely God must have sent me to save your life!" "I fear not, dear--" He stopped abruptly and shut his eyes. For a few moments it seemed as if he were dead, but presently he opened them again, and said, faintly, "It is too late, I fear. You are very kind, but I--I feel so terribly weak that I think I am dying." By this time Tolly, having managed to get on his feet stood beside his friend, on whom he gazed with intense anxiety. Even the Indians were solemnised by what appeared to be a death-scene. "Have you been wounded!" asked the girl, quickly. "No; _only_ starved!" returned Tom, a slight smile of humour flickering for a second on his pale face even in that hour of his extremity. "Have the Indians given you anything to eat since they found you?" "They have tried to, but what they offered me was dry and tough; I could not get it down." The girl rose promptly. "Tolly, fetch me some water and make a fire. Quick!" she said, and going up to an Indian, coolly drew from its sheath his scalping-knife, with which she cut Tolly's bonds. The savage evidently believed that such a creature could not possibly do evil, for he made no motion whatever to check her. Then, without a word more, she went to the saddle-bags on the obstinate horse, and, opening one of them, took out some soft sugar. The savage who held the horse made no objection. Indeed, from that moment the whole band stood silently by, observing the pretty maiden and the active boy as they moved about, regardless of everything but the work in hand. The Rose of Oregon constituted herself a sick-nurse on that occasion with marvellous facility. True, she knew nothing whatever about the duties of a sick-nurse or a doctor, for her father was one of those fortunate men who are never ill, but her native tact and energy sufficed. It was not her nature to stand by inactive when anything urgent had to be done. If she knew not what to do, and no one else did, she was sure to attempt something. Whether sugar-and-water was the best food for a starving man she knew not, but she did know--at least she thought--that the starvation ought to be checked without delay. "Here, Mr Brixton, sip a little of this," she said, going down on her knees, and putting a tin mug to the patient's mouth. Poor Tom would have sipped prussic acid cheerfully from _her_ hand! He obeyed, and seemed to like it. "Now, a little more." "God bless you, dear girl!" murmured Tom, as he sipped a little more. "There, that will do you good till I can prepare something better." She rose and ran to the fire which Tolly had already blown up almost to furnace heat. "I filled the kettle, for I knew you'd want it," said the boy, turning up his fiery-red visage for a moment, "It can't be long o' boiling with such a blaze below it." He stooped again and continued to blow while Betty cut some dried meat into small pieces. Soon these were boiled, and the resulting soup was devoured by the starving man with a zest that he had never before experienced. "Nectar!" he exclaimed faintly, smiling as he raised his eyes to Betty's face. "But you must not take too much at a time," she said, gently drawing away the mug. Tom submitted patiently. He would have submitted to anything patiently just then! During these proceedings the Indians, who seemed to be amiably disposed, looked on with solemn interest and then, coming apparently to the conclusion that they might as well accommodate themselves to circumstances, they quietly made use of Tolly's fire to cook a meal for themselves. This done, one of them--a noble-looking savage, who, to judge from his bearing and behaviour, was evidently their chief--went up to Betty, and, with a stately bend of the head, said, in broken English, "White woman git on horse!" "And what are you going to do with this man?" asked Betty, pointing to the prostrate form of Tom. "Unaco will him take care," briefly replied the chief (meaning himself), while with a wave of his hand he turned away, and went to Tolly, whom he ordered to mount the pony, which he styled the "littil horse." The boy was not slow to obey, for he was by that time quite convinced that his only chance of being allowed to have his hands left free lay in prompt submission. Any lurking thought that might have remained of making a grand dash for liberty was effectually quelled by a big savage, who quietly took hold of the pony's rein and led it away. Another Indian led Betty's horse. Then the original three who had found Tom took him up quite gently and carried him off, while the remainder of the band followed in single file. Unaco led the way, striding over the ground at a rate which almost forced the pony to trot, and glancing from side to side with a keen look of inquiry that seemed to intimate an expectation of attack from an enemy in ambush. But if any such enemy existed he was careful not to show himself, and the Indian band passed through the defiles and fastnesses of the Sawback Hills unmolested until the shades of evening began to descend. Then, on turning round a jutting rock that obstructed the view up a mountain gorge, Unaco stopped abruptly and held up his hand. This brought the band to a sudden halt and the chief, apparently sinking on his knees, seemed to melt into the bushes. In a few minutes he returned with a look of stern resolve on his well-formed countenance. "He has discovered something o' some sort, I--" Tolly's remark to his fair companion was cut short by the point of a keen knife touching his side, which caused him to end with "hallo!" The savage who held his bridle gave him a significant look that said, "Silence!" After holding a brief whispered conversation with several of his braves, the chief advanced to Betty and said-- "White man's in the bush. Does white woman know why?" Betty at once thought of her father and his companions, and said-- "I have not seen the white men. How can I tell why they are here? Let me ride forward and look at them--then I shall be able to speak." A very slight smile of contempt curled the chiefs lip for an instant as he replied-- "No. The white woman see them when they be trapped. Unaco knows one. He is black--a devil with two face--many face, but Unaco's eyes be sharp. They see far." So saying, he turned and gave some directions to his warriors, who at once scattered themselves among the underwood and disappeared. Ordering the Indians who carried Tom Brixton to follow him, and the riders to bring up the rear, he continued to advance up the gorge. "A devil with two faces!" muttered Tolly; "that must be a queer sort o' beast! I _have_ heard of a critter called a Tasmanian devil, but never before heard of an Oregon one with two faces." An expressive glance from the Indian who guarded him induced the lad to continue his speculations in silence. On passing round the jutting rock, where Unaco had been checked in his advance, the party at once beheld the cause of anxiety. Close to the track they were following were seen four men busily engaged in making arrangements to encamp for the night. It need scarcely be said that these were our friends Paul Bevan, Fred Westly, Flinders, and the botanist. The moment that these caught sight of the approaching party they sprang to their arms, which of course lay handy, for in those regions, at the time we write of, the law of might was in the ascendant. The appearance and conduct of Unaco, however, deceived them, for that wily savage advanced towards them with an air of confidence and candour which went far to remove suspicion, and when, on drawing nearer, he threw down his knife and tomahawk, and held up his empty hands, their suspicions were entirely dispelled. "They're not likely to be onfriendly," observed Flinders, "for there's only five o' them altogither, an' wan o' them's only a bit of a boy an' another looks uncommon like a wo--" He had got thus far when he was checked by Paul Bevan's exclaiming, with a look of intense surprise, "Why, that's Betty!--or her ghost!" Flinders's astonishment was too profound to escape in many words. He only gave vent to, "Musha! there's Tolly!" and let his lower jaw drop. "Yes, it's me an' the Beautiful Nugget" cried Tolly, jumping off the pony and running to assist the Nugget to dismount, while the bearers of Tom Brixton laid him on the ground, removed the blanket, and revealed his face. The exclamations of surprise would no doubt have been redoubled at this sight if the power of exclamation had not been for the time destroyed. The sham botanist in particular was considerably puzzled, for he at once recognised Tom and also Betty, whom he had previously known. Of course he did not know Tolly Trevor; still less did he know that Tolly knew _him_. Unaco himself was somewhat surprised at the mutual recognitions, though his habitual self-restraint enabled him to conceal every trace of emotion. Moreover, he was well aware that he could not afford to lose time in the development of his little plot. Taking advantage, therefore, of the surprise which had rendered every one for the moment more or less confused, he gave a sharp signal which was well understood by his friends in the bush. Instantly, and before Tolly or Betty could warn their friends of what was coming, the surrounding foliage parted, as if by magic, and a circle of yelling and painted Redskins sprang upon the white men. Resistance was utterly out of the question. They were overwhelmed as if by a cataract and, almost before they could realise what had happened, the arms of all the men were pinioned behind them. At that trying hour little Tolly Trevor proved himself to be more of a man than most of his friends had hitherto given him credit for. The savages, regarding him as a weak little boy, had paid no attention to him, but confined their efforts to the overcoming of the powerful and by no means submissive men with whom they had to deal. Tolly's first impulse was to rush to the rescue of Paul Bevan; but he was remarkably quick-witted, and, when on the point of springing, observed that no tomahawk was wielded or knife drawn. Suddenly grasping the wrist of Betty, who had also naturally felt the impulse to succour her father, he exclaimed-- "Stop! Betty. They don't mean murder. You an' I can do nothing against so many. Keep quiet; p'r'aps they'll leave us alone." As he spoke a still deeper idea flashed into his little brain. To the surprise of Betty, he suddenly threw his arms round her waist and clung to her as if for protection with a look of fear in his face, and when the work of binding the captives was completed the Indians found him still labouring to all appearance under great alarm. Unaco cast on him one look of supreme scorn, and then, leaving him, like Betty, unbound, turned towards Paul Bevan. "The white man is one of wicked band?" he said, in his broken English. "I don't know what ye mean, Redskin," replied Paul; "but speak your own tongue, I understand it well enough to talk with ye." The Indian repeated the question in his native language, and Paul, replying in the same, said-- "No, Redskin, I belong to no band, either wicked or good." "How come you, then, to be in company with this man?" demanded the Indian. In reply Paul gave a correct account of the cause and object of his being there, explained that the starving man before them was the friend for whom he sought, that Betty was his daughter, though how she came to be there beat his comprehension entirely, and that the botanist was a stranger, whose name even he did not yet know. "It is false," returned the chief. "The white man speaks with a forked tongue. He is one of the murderers who have slain my wife and my child." A dark fierce frown passed over the chief's countenance as he spoke, but it was quickly replaced by the habitual look of calm gravity. "What can stop me," he said, reverting again to English as he turned and addressed Betty, "from killing you as my wife was killed by white man?" "My God can stop you," answered the girl, in a steady voice, though her heart beat fast and her face was very pale. "Your God!" exclaimed the savage. "Will your God defend the wicked?" "No, but He will pardon the wicked who come to Him in the name of Jesus, and He will defend the innocent." "Innocent!" repeated Unaco, vehemently, as he turned and pointed to the botanist. "Does you call _this_ man innocent?" "I know nothing about that man," returned the girl, earnestly; "but I do know that my father and I, and all the rest of us, are innocent of any crime against you." For a few seconds the savage chief gazed steadily at Betty, then turning towards the botanist he took a step towards the spot where he sat and looked keenly into his face. The botanist returned the gaze with equal steadiness through his blue spectacles. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. "The big man with the blue glass eyes is a villain," said the Indian chief, after a long scrutiny of the botanist's countenance. "So some of my mistaken friends have thought," returned the man, speaking for the first time in his natural voice, which caused a thrill to pass through Paul Bevan's frame. "He is a thief," continued the chief, still gazing steadily at the blue glasses, "and a murderer!" "He's all that, and liar and deceiver into the bargain," thought Tolly Trevor, but Tolly did not speak; he only vented his feelings in a low chuckle, for he saw, or thought he saw, that the robber's career was about to receive a check. As the thought passed through his brain, however, he observed from the position in which he stood that Stalker-- for, as the reader has doubtless perceived, it was he--was working his hands about in a very soft slow, mysterious, and scarcely observable manner. "Oho!" thought Tolly, "is that your little game? Ha! I'll spoil it for you!" He quietly took up a piece of firewood and began, as it were, to amuse himself therewith. "You has many faces, many colours," continued Unaco, "and too many eyes." At the last word he plucked the blue glasses off the botanist's nose and flung them into the fire. "My enemy!" gasped Paul Bevan, turning first very pale and then very red, as he glared like a chained tiger at his foe. "You knows him _now_?" said Unaco, turning abruptly to Paul. "Yes; _I_ knows him!" "The white man with the forked tongue say jus' now he _not_ knows him." "Ay, Redskin, an' I said the truth, for he's a rare deceiver--always has been--an' can pass himself off for a'most anything. I knows him as my mortal foe. Cast my hands loose an' give me a knife an' you shall see." "O father! your promise--remember!" exclaimed Betty. "True, dear lass, true; I forgot," returned Paul, with a humbled look; "yet it _is_ hard for a man to see him there, grinning like a big baboon, an' keep his hands off him." During this dialogue the Indians looked from one speaker to another with keen interest, although none but their chief understood a word of what was said; and Stalker took advantage of their attention being turned for the moment from himself to carry out what Tolly had styled his "little game," all unaware that the boy was watching him like a lynx. Among other shifts and devices with which the robber chief had become familiar, he had learned the conjuror's method of so arranging his limbs while being bound, that he could untie his bonds in a marvellous manner. On the present occasion, however, he had been tied by men who were expert in the use of deerskin thongs, and he found some difficulty in loosening them without attracting attention, but he succeeded at last. He had been secured only by the wrists and forearms, and remained sitting still a few seconds after he was absolutely free; then, seizing what he believed to be his opportunity, he leapt up, dashed the Indian nearest him to the earth, and sprang like a deer towards the bushes. But Tolly Trevor was ready for him. That daring youth plunged right in front of the big botanist and stooped. Stalker tripped over him and came violently to the ground on his forehead and nose. Before he could rise Tolly had jumped up, and swinging his billet of wood once in the air, brought it down with all his little might on the robber's crown. It sufficed to stupefy him, and when he recovered he found himself in the close embrace of three muscular Redskins. "Well done, Tolly Trevor!" shouted Paul Bevan, enthusiastically. Even Tom Brixton, who had been looking on in a state of inexpressible surprise, managed to utter a feeble cheer. But the resources of the robber were not yet exhausted. Finding himself in the grasp of overwhelming numbers, he put forth all his strength, as if to make a final effort, and then, suddenly collapsing, dropped limp and helpless to the ground, as a man does when he is stabbed to the heart. The savages knew the symptoms well--too well! They rose, breathless, and each looked inquiringly at the other, as though to say, "Who did the deed?" Before they discovered that the deed had not been done at all, Stalker sprang up, knocked down two of them, overturned the third, and, bounding into the bushes, was out of sight in a few seconds. The whole band, of course, went yelling after him, except their chief, who stood with an angry scowl upon his visage, and awaited the return of his braves. One by one they came back panting and discomfited, for the white robber had outrun them all and got clear away. "Well, now, it was cliverly done," remarked Paddy Flinders, finding his tongue at last; "an' I raly can't but feel that he desarves to git off this time. All the same I hope he'll be nabbed at last an' recaive his due--bad luck to him!" "Now, Redskin--" began Bevan. "My name is Unaco," interrupted the chief, with a look of dignity. "Well, then, Unaco," continued Bevan, "since ye must see that we have nothing whatever to do wi' the blackguard that's just given ye the slip, I hope you'll see your way to untie our hands an' let us go." "You may not belong to that man's band," answered the chief, in his own tongue, "but you are a white man, and by white men I have been robbed of my wife and child. Your lives are forfeited. You shall be slaves to those whom you call Redskins, and this girl with the sunny hair shall replace the lost one in my wigwam." Without deigning to listen to a reply, Unaco turned and gave orders to his men, who at once brought up the horse and pony, set Betty and Tolly thereon, lifted Tom Brixton on their shoulders as before, and resumed their march deeper into the fastnesses of the Sawback Hills. It was growing rapidly dark as they advanced, but the chief who led the party was intimately acquainted with every foot of the way, and as the moon rose before daylight had quite disappeared, they were enabled to continue their journey by night. "No doubt" remarked Fred Westly to Paul, who was permitted to walk beside him, though Flinders was obliged to walk behind--"no doubt the chief fears that Stalker will pursue him when he is rejoined by his robber band, and wants to get well out of his way." "Very likely," returned Bevan; "an' it's my opinion that he'll find some more of his tribe hereabouts, in which case Master Stalker and his blackguards will have pretty stiff work cut out for them." "What think you of the threat of the chief to take Betty to be one of his wives?" asked Fred. "Well, I don't think he'll do it." "Why not?" "Because I've got a hold over him that he's not aware of just yet." "What is that, and why did you not make use of it just now to prevent our being needlessly led farther into these mountains?" asked Fred, in surprise. "What the hold is," returned Bevan, "you shall know at supper-time. The reason why I didn't make use of it sooner is that on the whole, I think it better to stick by the Redskins yet awhile--first, because if Stalker should look for us, as he's sartin sure to do, we would not be strong enough to fight him in the open; and, secondly, because poor Tom Brixton needs rest, and he has more chance o' that in the circumstances, wi' the Redskins than he could have with us while being hunted by robbers; and, lastly, because Betty would come to grief if she fell into that villain Stalker's hands just now." While Paul and Fred were thus conversing, the Rose of Oregon and her little protector rode silently beside each other, buried, apparently, in profound thought. At last Tolly raised his head and voice. "Betty," said he, "what a lucky thing it was that we fell in wi' Tom Brixton, and that you were able to give him somethin' to eat." "Yes, thank God," replied the girl, fervently. "He'd have died but for you," said the boy. "And you, Tolly," added Betty. "Well, yes, I did have a finger in the pie," returned the boy, with a self-satisfied air; "but I say, Betty," he added, becoming suddenly serious, "what d'ye think o' what that rascally chief said about takin' you to his wigwam? You know that means he intends to make you his wife." "Yes, I know; but God will deliver me," answered the girl. "How d'ye know that?" "Because I put my trust in Him." "Oh! but," returned the boy, with a slight look of surprise, "unless God works a miracle I don't see how He can deliver us from the Redskins, and you know He doesn't work miracles nowadays." "I'm not so sure of that," replied the girl. "More than once I have seen a man who had been nearly all his life given to drinking, fighting, thieving, and swearing, and every sort of wickedness, surrender himself body and soul to Jesus Christ, so that he afterwards gave up all his evil ways, and led a pure and peaceable life, trying not only to serve God himself, but doing his best to bring his old companions to the same state of mind. What would you call that, Tolly?" "I'm bound to say it's as near a miracle as can be, if not one altogether. But in what way do you think God will deliver you just now?" "That I cannot tell; but I know this, it is written in His Word that those who put their trust in Him shall never be confounded, and I have put my trust in Him. He will never forsake me." "I wish I had as strong faith as you, Betty," said the boy, with a grave look. "You may have it--and stronger than I have, for faith is the gift of God, and we shall get it not in proportion to our trying to get it or to our trying to rouse it, or to our working for it, but according as we _ask_ for it. The Holy Spirit can work anything in us and by us, and _He_ is promised to those who merely ask in the name of Jesus. Ah! Tolly, have I not often told you this, that in God's Word it is written, `Ye have not because ye ask not?'" While these two were yet speaking, the chief called a halt, and, after a brief consultation with some of his braves, ordered the band to encamp for the night. Soon the camp fires were lighted under the spreading trees, and their bright blaze and myriad sparks converted the gloomy forest into a brilliant banqueting hall, in which, unlike civilised halls, the decorations were fresh and natural, and the atmosphere was pure. There were at least six camp-fires, each with its circle of grave red warriors, its roasting steaks and its bubbling kettle, in which latter was boiled a rich mixture of dried meat and flour. Some of the Indians stood conversing in low tones, their faces ruddy with the brilliant blaze and their backs as black as the surrounding background. Others lay at length on the ground or squatted thereon, placidly smoking their calumets, or the little iron pipes which formed part of the heads of their tomahawks, or tending the steaks and kettles. To an observer outside the circle of light the whole scene was intensely vivid and picturesque, for the groups, being at different distances, were varied in size, and the intense light that shone on those nearest the fires shed a softer glow on those who were more distant, while on the few Indians who moved about in search of firewood it cast a pale light which barely sufficed to distinguish them from surrounding darkness. Paul Bevan and his friends occupied a fire by themselves, the only native who stood beside them being Unaco. It is probable that the savage chief constituted himself their guard in order to make quite sure of them, for the escape of Stalker weighed heavily on his mind. To secure this end more effectively, and at the same time enable the captives to feed themselves, the right arm of each was freed, while the left was tied firmly to his body. Of course, Betty and Tom Brixton were left altogether unbound. "I feel uncommon lopsided goin' about in this one-armed fashion," remarked Paul, as he turned the stick on which his supper was roasting. "Couldn't ye make up yer mind to trust us, Unaco? I'd promise for myself an' friends that we wouldn't attempt to cut away like that big thief Stalker." The chief, who sat a little apart near the farther end of the blazing pile of logs, smoking his pipe in motionless gravity, took not the slightest notice. "Arrah! howld yer tongue, Paul," said Flinders, who made so much use of his one arm, in stirring the kettle, turning a roasting venison rib, and arranging the fire, that it seemed as if he were in full possession of two; "why d'ye disturb his majesty? Don't ye see that he's meditatin', or suthin' o' that sort--maybe about his forefathers?" "Well, well, I hope his after mothers won't have many sulky ones like him," returned Paul, rather crossly. "It's quite impossible to cut up a steak wi' one hand, so here goes i' the next best fashion." He took up the steak in his fingers, and was about to tear off a mouthful with his teeth, when Betty came to the rescue. "Stay, father; I'll cut it into little bits for you if Unaco will kindly lend me his scalping-knife." Without a word or look the chief quietly drew the glittering weapon from its sheath and handed it to Betty, who at once, using a piece of sharpened stick as a fork, cut her father's portion into manageable lumps. "That's not a bad notion," said Fred. "Perhaps you'll do the same for me, Betty." "With pleasure, Mr Westly." "Ah, now, av it wouldn't be axin' too much, might I make so bowld--" Flinders did not finish the sentence, but laid his pewter plate before the Rose of Oregon with a significant smile. "I'm glad to be so unexpectedly useful," said Betty, with a laugh. When she had thus aided her half-helpless companions, Betty returned the knife to its owner, who received it with a dignified inclination of the head. She then filled a mug with soup, and went to Tom, who lay on a deerskin robe, gazing at her in rapt admiration, and wondering when he was going to awake out of this most singular dream, for, in his weak condition, he had taken to disbelieving all that he saw. "And yet it can't well be a dream," he murmured, with a faint smile, as the girl knelt by his side, "for I never dreamed anything half so real. What is this--soup?" "Yes; try to take a little. It will do you good, with God's blessing." "Ah, yes, with God's blessing," repeated the poor youth, earnestly. "You know what that means, Betty, and--and--I _think_ I am beginning to understand it." Betty made no reply, but a feeling of profound gladness crept into her heart. When she returned to the side of her father she found that he had finished supper, and was just beginning to use his pipe. "When are you going to tell me, Paul, about the--the--subject we were talking of on our way here?" asked Fred, who was still devoting much of his attention to a deer's rib. "I'll tell ye now," answered Paul, with a short glance at the Indian chief, who still sat, profoundly grave, in the dreamland of smoke. "There's no time like after supper for a good pipe an' a good story--not that what I'm goin' to tell ye is much of a story either, but it's true, if that adds vally to it, an' it'll be short. It's about a brave young Indian I once had the luck to meet with. His name was Oswego." At the sound of the name Unaco cast a sharp glance at Bevan. It was so swift that no one present observed it save Bevan himself, who had expected it. But Paul pretended not to notice it, and turning himself rather more towards Fred, addressed himself pointedly to him. "This young Indian," said Paul, "was a fine specimen of his race, tall and well made, with a handsome countenance, in which truth was as plain as the sun in the summer sky. I was out after grizzly b'ars at the time, but hadn't had much luck, an' was comin' back to camp one evenin' in somethin' of a sulky humour, when I fell upon a trail which I knowed was the trail of a Redskin. The Redskins was friendly at that time wi' the whites, and as I was out alone, an' am somethin' of a sociable critter, I thought I'd follow him up an' take him to my camp wi' me, if he was willin', an' give him some grub an' baccy. Well, I hadn't gone far when I came to a precipiece. The trail followed the edge of it for some distance, an' I went along all right till I come to a bit where the trail seemed to go right over it. My heart gave a jump, for I seed at a glance that a bit o' the cliff had given way there, an' as there was no sign o' the trail farther on, of course I knowed that the Injin, whoever he was, must have gone down with it. "I tried to look over, but it was too steep an' dangerous, so I sought for a place where I could clamber down. Sure enough, when I reached the bottom, there lay the poor Redskin. I thought he was dead, for he'd tumbled from a most awful height, but a tree had broke his fall to some extent, and when I went up to him I saw by his eyes that he was alive, though he could neither speak nor move. "I soon found that the poor lad was damaged past recovery; so, after tryin' in vain to get him to speak to me, I took him in my arms as tenderly as I could and carried him to my camp. It was five miles off, and the road was rough, and although neither groan nor complaint escaped him, I knew that poor Oswego suffered much by the great drops o' perspiration that rolled from his brow; so, you see, I had to carry him carefully. When I'd gone about four miles I met a small Injin boy who said he was Oswego's brother, had seen him fall, an', not bein' able to lift him, had gone to seek for help, but had failed to find it. "That night I nursed the lad as I best could, gave him some warm tea, and did my best to arrange him comfortably. The poor fellow tried to speak his gratitude, but couldn't; yet I could see it in his looks. He died next day, and I buried him under a pine-tree. The poor heart-broken little brother said he knew the way back to the wigwams of his tribe, so I gave him the most of the provisions I had, told him my name, and sent him away." At this point in the story Unaco rose abruptly, and said to Bevan-- "The white man will follow me." Paul rose, and the chief led him into the forest a short way, when he turned abruptly, and, with signs of emotion unusual in an Indian, said-- "Your name is Paul Bevan?" "It is." "I am the father of Oswego," said the chief, grasping Paul by the hand and shaking it vigorously in the white man's fashion. "I know it, Unaco, and I know you by report, though we've never met before, and I told that story in your ear to convince ye that my tongue is _not_ `forked.'" When Paul Bevan returned to the camp fire, soon afterwards, he came alone, and both his arms were free. In a few seconds he had the satisfaction of undoing the bonds of his companions, and relating to them the brief but interesting conversation which had just passed between him and the Indian chief. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. At the edge of a small plain, or bit of prairie land, that shone like a jewel in a setting of bush-clad hills, dwelt the tribe of natives who owned Unaco as their chief. It was a lovely spot, in one of the most secluded portions of the Sawback range, far removed at that time from the evil presence of the gold-diggers, though now and then an adventurous "prospector" would make his way to these remote solitudes in quest of the precious metal. Up to that time those prospectors had met with nothing to reward them for their pains, save the gratification to be derived from fresh mountain air and beautiful scenery. It required three days of steady travelling to enable the chief and his party to reach the wigwams of the tribe. The sun was just setting, on the evening of the third day, when they passed out of a narrow defile and came in sight of the Indian village. "It seems to me, Paul," remarked Fred Westly, as they halted to take a brief survey of the scene, "that these Indians have found an admirable spot on which to lead a peaceful life, for the region is too high and difficult of access to tempt many gold-hunters, and the approaches to it could be easily defended by a handful of resolute men." "That is true," replied Bevan, as they continued on their way. "Nevertheless, it would not be very difficult for a few resolute men to surprise and capture the place." "Perchance Stalker and his villains may attempt to prove the truth of what you say," suggested Fred. "They will certainly attempt it" returned Paul, "but they are not what I call resolute men. Scoundrels are seldom blessed wi' much resolution, an' they're never heartily united." "What makes you feel so sure that they will follow us up, Paul?" "The fact that my enemy has followed me like a bloodhound for six years," answered Bevan, with a frown. "Is it touching too much on private matters to ask why he is your enemy, and why so vindictive?" "The reason Is simple enough. Buxley hates me, and would kill me if he could. Indeed I'm half afraid that he will manage it at last, for I've promised my little gal that I won't kill _him_ 'cept in self-defence, an' of course if I don't kill him he's pretty sure to kill me." "Does Betty know why this man persecutes you so?" "No--she don't." As it was evident, both from his replies and manner, that Bevan did not mean to be communicative on the subject, Fred forbore to ask more questions about it. "So you think Unaco may be depended on?" he asked, by way of changing the subject. "Ay, surely. You may depend on it that the Almighty made all men pretty much alike as regards their feelin's. The civilised people an' the Redskins ain't so different as some folk seem to think. They can both of 'em love an' hate pretty stiffly, an' they are both able to feel an' show gratitude as well as the reverse--also, they're pretty equal in the matter of revenge." "But don't we find," said Fred, "that among Christians revenge is pretty much held in check?" "Among Christians--ay," replied Bevan; "but white men ain't always Christians, any more than red men are always devils. Seems to me it's six o' one an' half a dozen o' the other. Moreover, when the missionaries git among the Redskins, some of 'em turns Christians an' some hypocrites--just the same as white men. What Unaco is, in the matter o' Christianity, is not for me to say, for I don't know; but from what I do know, from hearsay, of his character, I'm sartin sure that he's a good man and true, an' for that little bit of sarvice I did to his poor boy, he'd give me his life if need be." "Nevertheless, I can't help thinking that we might have returned to Simpson's Gully, and taken the risk of meeting with Stalker," said Fred. "Ha! that's because you don't know him," returned Bevan. "If he had met with his blackguards soon after leaving us, he'd have overtook us by this time. Anyway, he's sure to send scouts all round, and follow up the trail as soon as he can." "But think what a trial this rough journey has been to poor Tom Brixton," said Fred. "No doubt," returned Paul; "but haven't we got him on Tolly's pony to-day? and isn't that a sign he's better? An' would you have me risk Betty fallin' Into the hands o' Buxley?" Paul looked at his companion as if this were an unanswerable argument and Fred admitted that it was. "Besides," he went on, "it will be a pleasant little visit this, to a friendly tribe o' Injins, an' we may chance to fall in wi' gold, who knows? An' when the ugly thieves do succeed in findin' us, we shall have the help o' the Redskins, who are not bad fighters when their cause is a good 'un an' their wigwams are in danger." "It may be so, Paul. However, right or wrong, here we are, and a most charming spot it is, the nearer we draw towards it." As Fred spoke, Betty Bevan, who rode in advance, reined in her horse,-- which, by the way, had become much more docile in her hands,--and waited till her father overtook her. "Is it not like paradise, father?" "Not havin' been to paradise, dear, I can't exactly say," returned her matter-of-fact sire. "Oh, I say, ain't it splendatious!" said Tolly Trevor, coming up at the moment, and expressing Betty's idea in somewhat different phraseology; "just look at the lake--like a lookin'-glass, with every wigwam pictur'd upside down, so clear that a feller can't well say which is which. An' the canoes in the same way, bottom to bottom, Redskins above and Redskins below. Hallo! I say, what's that?" The excited lad pointed, as he spoke, to the bushes, where a violent motion and crashing sound told of some animal disturbed in its lair. Next moment a beautiful little antelope bounded into an open space, and stopped to cast a bewildered gaze for one moment on the intruders. That pause proved fatal. A concealed hunter seized his opportunity; a sharp crack was heard, and the animal fell dead where it stood, shot through the head. "Poor, poor creature!" exclaimed the tender-hearted Betty. "Not a bad supper for somebody," remarked her practical father. As he spoke the bushes parted at the other side of the open space, and the man who had fired the shot appeared. He was a tall and spare, but evidently powerful fellow. As he advanced towards our travellers they could see that he was not a son of the soil, but a white man--at least as regards blood, though his face, hands, neck, and bared bosom had been tanned by exposure to as red a brown as that of any Indian. "He's a trapper," exclaimed Tolly, as the man drew nearer, enabling them to perceive that he was middle-aged and of rather slow and deliberate temperament with a sedate expression on his rugged countenance. "Ay, he looks like one o' these wanderin' chaps," said Bevan, "that seem to be fond of a life o' solitude in the wilderness. I've knowed a few of 'em. Queer customers some, that stick at nothin' when their blood's up; though I have met wi' one or two that desarved an easier life, an' more o' this world's goods. But most of 'em prefer to hunt for their daily victuals, an' on'y come down to the settlements when they run out o' powder an' lead, or want to sell their furs. Hallo! Why, Tolly, boy, it is--yes! I do believe it's Mahoghany Drake himself!" Tolly did not reply, for he had run eagerly forward to meet the trapper, having already recognised him. "His name is a strange one," remarked Fred Westly, gazing steadily at the man as he approached. "Drake is his right name," explained Bevan, "an' Mahoghany is a handle some fellers gave him 'cause he's so much tanned wi' the sun. He's one o' the right sort, let me tell ye. None o' your boastin', bustin' critters, like Gashford, but a quiet, thinkin' man, as is ready to tackle any subject a'most in the univarse, but can let his tongue lie till it's time to speak. He can hold his own, too wi' man or beast. Ain't he friendly wi' little Tolly Trevor? He'll shake his arm out o' the socket if he don't take care. I'll have to go to the rescue." In a few seconds Paul Bevan was having his own arm almost dislocated by the friendly shake of the trapper's hand, for, although fond of solitude, Mahoghany Drake was also fond of human beings, and especially of old friends. "Glad to see you, gentlemen," he said, in a low, soft voice, when introduced by Paul to the travellers. At the same time he gave a friendly little nod to Unaco, thus indicating that with the Indian chief he was already acquainted. "Well, Drake," said Bevan, after the first greetings were over, "all right at the camp down there?" "All well," he replied, "and the Leaping Buck quite recovered." He cast a quiet glance at the Indian chief as he spoke, for the Leaping Buck was Unaco's little son, who had been ailing when his father left his village a few weeks before. "No sign o' gold-seekers yet?" asked Paul. "None--'cept one lot that ranged about the hills for a few days, but they seemed to know nothin'. Sartinly they found nothin', an' went away disgusted." The trapper indulged in a quiet chuckle as he said this. "What are ye larfin' at?" asked Paul. "At the gold-seekers," replied Drake. "What was the matter wi' 'em," asked Tolly. "Not much, lad, only they was blind, and also ill of a strong appetite." "Ye was always fond o' speakin' in riddles," said Paul. "What d'ye mean, Mahoghany!" "I mean that though there ain't much gold in these hills, maybe, what little there is the seekers couldn't see, though they was walkin' over it, an' they was so blind they couldn't hit what they fired at, so their appetites was stronger than was comfortable. I do believe they'd have starved if I hadn't killed a buck for them." During this conversation Paddy Flinders had been listening attentively and in silence. He now sidled up to Tom Brixton, who, although bestriding Tolly's pony, seemed ill able to travel. "D'ye hear what the trapper says, Muster Brixton?" "Yes, Paddy, what then?" "Och! I only thought to cheer you up a bit by p'intin' out that he says there's goold hereabouts." "I'm glad for your sake and Fred's," returned Tom, with a faint smile, "but it matters little to me; I feel that my days are numbered." "Ah then, sor, don't spake like that," returned Flinders, with a woebegone expression on his countenance. "Sure, it's in the dumps ye are, an' no occasion for that same. Isn't Miss--" The Irishman paused. He had it in his heart to say, "Isn't Miss Betty smilin' on ye like one o'clock?" but, never yet having ventured even a hint on that subject to Tom, an innate feeling of delicacy restrained him. As the chief who led the party gave the signal to move on at that moment it was unnecessary for him to finish the sentence. The Indian village, which was merely a cluster of tents made of deerskins stretched on poles, was now plainly visible from the commanding ridge along which the party travelled. It occupied a piece of green level land on the margin of the lake before referred to, and, with its background of crag and woodland and its distance of jagged purple hills, formed as lovely a prospect as the eye of man could dwell upon. The distance of the party from it rendered every sound that floated towards them soft and musical. Even the barking of the dogs and the shouting of the little Redskins at play came up to them in a mellow, almost peaceful, tone. To the right of the village lay a swamp, from out of which arose the sweet and plaintive cries of innumerable gulls, plovers, and other wild-fowl, mingled with the trumpeting of geese and the quacking of ducks, many of which were flying to and fro over the glassy lake, while others were indulging in aquatic gambols among the reeds and sedges. After they had descended the hill-side by a zigzag path, and reached the plain below, they obtained a nearer view of the eminently joyful scene, the sound of the wild-fowl became more shrill, and the laughter of the children more boisterous. A number of the latter who had observed the approaching party were seen hurrying towards them with eager haste, led by a little lad, who bounded and leaped as if wild with excitement. This was Unaco's little son, Leaping Buck, who had recognised the well-known figure of his sire a long way off, and ran to meet him. On reaching him the boy sprang like an antelope into his father's arms and seized him round the neck, while others crowded round the gaunt trapper and grasped his hands and legs affectionately. A few of the older boys and girls stood still somewhat shyly, and gazed in silence at the strangers, especially at Betty, whom they evidently regarded as a superior order of being--perhaps an angel--in which opinion they were undoubtedly backed by Tom Buxton. After embracing his father, Leaping Buck recognised Paul Bevan as the man who had been so kind to him and his brother Oswego at the time when the latter got his death-fall over the precipice. With a shout of joyful surprise he ran to him, and, we need scarcely add, was warmly received by the kindly backwoodsman. "I cannot help thinking," remarked Betty to Tom, as they gazed on the pleasant meeting, "that God must have some way of revealing the Spirit of Jesus to these Indians that we Christians know not of." "It is strange," replied Tom, "that the same thought has occurred to me more than once of late, when observing the character and listening to the sentiments of Unaco. And I have also been puzzled with this thought--if God has some method of revealing Christ to the heathen that we know not of, why are Christians so anxious to send the Gospel to the heathen?" "That thought has never occurred to me," replied Betty, "because our reason for going forth to preach the Gospel to the heathen is the simple one that God commands us to do so. Yet it seems to me quite consistent with that command that God may have other ways and methods of making His truth known to men, but this being a mere speculation does not free us from our simple duty." "You are right. Perhaps I am too fond of reasoning and speculating," answered Tom. "Nay, that you are not" rejoined the girl, quickly; "it seems to me that to reason and speculate is an important part of the duty of man, and cannot but be right, so long as it does not lead to disobedience. `Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind,' is our title from God to _think_ fully and freely; but `Go ye into all the world and preach the Gospel to every creature,' is a command so plain and peremptory that it does not admit of speculative objection." "Why, Betty, I had no idea you were such a reasoner!" said Tom, with a look of surprise. "Surely it is not your father who has taught you to think thus?" "I have had no teacher, at least of late years, but the Bible," replied the girl, blushing deeply at having been led to speak so freely on a subject about which she was usually reticent. "But see," she added hastily, giving a shake to the reins of her horse, "we have been left behind. The chief has already reached his village. Let us push on." The obstinate horse went off at an accommodating amble under the sweet sway of gentleness, while the obedient pony followed at a brisk trot which nearly shook all the little strength that Tom Brixton possessed out of his wasted frame. The manner in which Unaco was received by the people of his tribe, young and old, showed clearly that he was well beloved by them; and the hospitality with which the visitors were welcomed was intensified when it was made known that Paul Bevan was the man who had shown kindness to their chief's son Oswego in his last hours. Indeed, the influence which an Indian chief can have on the manners and habits of his people was well exemplified by this small and isolated tribe, for there was among them a pervading tone of contentment and goodwill, which was one of Unaco's most obvious characteristics. Truthfulness, also, and justice were more or less manifested by them. Even the children seemed to be free from disputation; for, although there were of course differences of opinion during games, these differences were usually settled without quarrelling, and the noise, of which there was abundance, was the result of gleeful shouts or merry laughter. They seemed, in short, to be a happy community, the various members of which had leaned--to a large extent from their chief--"how good a thing it is for brethren to dwell together in unity." A tent was provided for Bevan, Flinders, and Tolly Trevor near to the wigwam of Unaco, with a separate little one for the special use of the Rose of Oregon. Not far from these another tent was erected for Fred and his invalid friend Tom Brixton. As for Mahoghany Drake, that lanky, lantern-jawed individual encamped under a neighbouring pine-tree in quiet contempt of any more luxurious covering. But, although the solitary wanderer of the western wilderness thus elected to encamp by himself, he was by no means permitted to enjoy privacy, for during the whole evening and greater part of that night his campfire was surrounded by an admiring crowd of boys, and not a few girls, who listened in open-eyed-and-mouthed attention to his thrilling tales of adventure, giving vent now and then to a "waugh!" or a "ho!" of surprise at some telling point in the narrative, or letting fly sudden volleys of laughter at some humorous incident, to the amazement, no doubt of the neighbouring bucks and bears and wild-fowl. "Tom," said Fred that night, as he sat by the couch of his friend, "we shall have to stay here some weeks, I suspect until you get strong enough to travel, and, to say truth, the prospect is a pleasant as well as an unexpected one, for we have fallen amongst amiable natives." "True, Fred. Nevertheless I shall leave the moment my strength permits--that is, if health be restored to me--and I shall go off by myself." "Why, Tom, what do you mean?" "I mean exactly what I say. Dear Fred," answered the sick man, feebly grasping his friend's hand, "I feel that it is my duty to get away from all who have ever known me, and begin a new career of honesty, God permitting. I will not remain with the character of a thief stamped upon me, to be a drag round your neck, and I have made up my mind no longer to persecute dear Betty Bevan with the offer of a dishonest and dishonoured hand. In my insolent folly I had once thought her somewhat below me in station. I now know that she is far, far above me in every way, and also beyond me." "Tom, my dear boy," returned Fred, earnestly, "you are getting weak. It is evident that they have delayed supper too long. Try to sleep now, and I'll go and see why Tolly has not brought it." So saying, Fred Westly left the tent and went off in quest of his little friend. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. Little Tolly Trevor and Leaping Buck--being about the same age, and having similar tastes and propensities, though very unlike each other in temperament--soon became fast friends, and they both regarded Mahoghany Drake, the trapper, with almost idolatrous affection. "Would you care to come wi' me to-day, Tolly? I'm goin' to look for some meat on the heights." It was thus that Drake announced his intention to go a-hunting one fine morning after he had disposed of a breakfast that might have sustained an ordinary man for several days. "Care to go with ye!" echoed Tolly, "I just think I should. But, look here, Mahoghany," continued the boy, with a troubled expression, "I've promised to go out on the lake to-day wi' Leaping Buck, an' I _must_ keep my promise. You know you told us only last night in that story about the Chinaman and the grizzly that no true man ever breaks his promise." "Right, lad, right" returned the trapper, "but you can go an' ask the little Buck to jine us, an' if he's inclined you can both come--only you must agree to leave yer tongues behind ye if ye do, for it behoves hunters to be silent, and from my experience of you I raither think yer too fond o' chatterin'." Before Drake had quite concluded his remark Tolly was off in search of his red-skinned bosom friend. The manner in which the friendship between the red boy and the white was instituted and kept up was somewhat peculiar and almost incomprehensible, for neither spoke the language of the other except to a very slight extent. Leaping Buck's father had, indeed, picked up a pretty fair smattering of English during his frequent expeditions into the gold-fields, which, at the period we write of, were being rapidly developed. Paul Bevan, too, during occasional hunting expeditions among the red men, had acquired a considerable knowledge of the dialect spoken in that part of the country, but Leaping Buck had not visited the diggings with his father, so that his knowledge of English was confined to the smattering which he had picked up from Paul and his father. In like manner Tolly Trevor's acquaintance with the native tongue consisted of the little that had been imparted to him by his friend Paul Bevan. Mahoghany Drake, on the contrary, spoke Indian fluently, and it must be understood that in the discourses which he delivered to the two boys he mixed up English and Indian in an amazing compound which served to render him intelligible to both, but which, for the reader's sake, we feel constrained to give in the trapper's ordinary English. "It was in a place just like this," said Drake, stopping with his two little friends on reaching a height, and turning round to survey the scene behind him, "that a queer splinter of a man who was fond o' callin' himself an ornithologist shot a grizzly b'ar wi' a mere popgun that was only fit for a squawkin' babby's plaything." "Oh! do sit down, Mahoghany," cried little Trevor, in a voice of entreaty; "I'm so fond of hearin' about grizzlies, an' I'd give all the world to meet one myself, so would Buckie here, wouldn't you?" The Indian boy, whose name Tolly had thus modified, tried to assent to this proposal by bending his little head in a stately manner, in imitation of his dignified father. "Well, I don't mind if I do," replied the trapper, with a twinkle of his eyes. Mahoghany Drake was blessed with that rare gift, the power to invest with interest almost any subject, no matter how trivial or commonplace, on which he chose to speak. Whether it was the charm of a musical voice, or the serious tone and manner of an earnest man, we cannot tell, but certain it is, that whenever or wherever he began to talk, men stopped to listen, and were held enchained until he had finished. On the present occasion the trapper seated himself on a green bank that lay close to the edge of a steep precipice, and laid his rifle across his knees, while the boys sat down one on each side of him. The view from the elevated spot on which they sat was most exquisite, embracing the entire length of the valley at the other end of which the Indian village lay, its inhabitants reduced to mere specks and its wigwams to little cones, by distance. Owing also to the height of the spot, the view of surrounding mountains was extended, so that range upon range was seen in softened perspective, while a variety of lakelets, with their connecting watercourses, which were hidden by foliage in the lower grounds, were now opened up to view. Glowing sunshine glittered on the waters and bathed the hills and valleys, deepening the near shadows and intensifying the purple and blue of those more distant. "It often makes me wonder," said the trapper, in a reflective tone, as if speaking rather to himself than to his companions, "why the Almighty has made the world so beautiful an' parfect an' allowed mankind to grow so awful bad." The boys did not venture to reply, but as Drake sat gazing in dreamy silence at the far-off hills, little Trevor, who recalled some of his conversations with the Rose of Oregon, ventured to say, "P'r'aps we'll find out some day, though we don't understand it just now." "True, lad, true," returned Drake. "It would be well for us if we always looked at it in that light, instead o' findin' fault wi' things as they are, for it stands to reason that the Maker of all can fall into no mistakes." "But what about the ornithologist?" said Tolly, who had no desire that the conversation should drift into abstruse subjects. "Ay, ay, lad, I'm comin' to him," replied the trapper, with the humorous twinkle that seemed to hover always about the corners of his eyes, ready for instant development. "Well, you must know, this was the way of it-- and it do make me larf yet when I think o' the face o' that spider-legged critter goin' at the rate of twenty miles an hour or thereabouts wi' that most awful-lookin' grizzly b'ar peltin' after him.--Hist! Look there, Tolly. A chance for your popgun." The trapper pointed as he spoke to a flock of wild duck that was coming straight towards the spot on which they sat. The "popgun" to which he referred was one of the smooth-bore flint-lock single-barrelled fowling-pieces which traders were in the habit of supplying to the natives at that time, and which Unaco had lent to the boy for the day, with his powder-horn and ornamented shot-pouch. For the three hunters to drop behind the bank on which they had been sitting was the work of a moment. Young though he was, Tolly had already become a fair and ready shot. He selected the largest bird in the flock, covered it with a deadly aim, and pulled the trigger. But the click of the lock was not followed by an explosion as the birds whirred swiftly on. "Ah! my boy," observed the trapper, taking the gun quietly from the boy's hand and proceeding to chip the edge of the flint, "you should never go a-huntin' without seein' that your flint is properly fixed." "But I did see to it," replied Tolly, in a disappointed tone, "and it struck fire splendidly when I tried it before startin'." "True, boy, but the thing is worn too short, an' though its edge is pretty well, you didn't screw it firm enough, so it got drove back a bit and the hammer-head, as well as the flint, strikes the steel, d'ye see? There now, prime it again, an' be sure ye wipe the pan before puttin' in the powder. It's not worth while to be disap'inted about so small a matter. You'll git plenty more chances. See, there's another flock comin'. Don't hurry, lad. If ye want to be a good hunter always keep cool, an' take time. Better lose a chance than hurry. A chance lost you see, is only a chance lost, but blazin' in a hurry is a bad lesson that ye've got to unlarn." The trapper's advice was cut short by the report of Tolly's gun, and next moment a fat duck, striking the ground in front of them, rolled fluttering to their feet. "Not badly done, Tolly," said the trapper, with a nod, as he reseated himself on the bank, while Leaping Buck picked up the bird, which was by that time dead, and the young sportsman recharged his gun; "just a leetle too hurried. If you had taken only half a second more time to put the gun to your shoulder, you'd have brought the bird to the ground dead; and you boys can't larn too soon that you should never give needless pain to critters that you've got to kill. You must shoot, of course, or you'd starve; but always make sure of killin' at once, an' the only way to do that is to keep cool an' take time. You see, it ain't the aim you take that matters so much, as the coolness an' steadiness with which ye put the gun to your shoulder. If you only do that steadily an' without hurry, the gun is sure to p'int straight for'ard an' the aim'll look arter itself. Nevertheless, it was smartly done, lad, for it's a difficult shot when a wild duck comes straight for your head like a cannon-ball." "But what about the ornithologist;" said Tolly, who, albeit well pleased at the trapper's complimentary remarks, did not quite relish his criticism. "Yes, yes; I'm comin' to that. Well, as I was sayin', it makes me larf yet, when I thinks on it. How he did run, to be sure! Greased lightnin' could scarce have kep' up wi' him." "But where was he a-runnin' to, an' why?" asked little Trevor, impatiently. "Now, you leetle boy," said Drake, with a look of grave remonstrance, "don't you go an' git impatient. Patience is one o' the backwoods vartues, without which you'll never git on at all. If you don't cultivate patience you may as well go an' live in the settlements or the big cities--where it don't much matter what a man is--but it'll be no use to stop in the wilderness. There's Leapin' Buck, now, a-sittin' as quiet as a Redskin warrior on guard! Take a lesson from him, lad, an' restrain yourself. Well, as I was goin' to say, I was out settin' my traps somewheres about the head-waters o' the Yellowstone river at the time when I fell in wi' the critter. I couldn't rightly make out what he was, for, though I've seed mostly all sorts o' men in my day, I'd never met in wi' one o' this sort before. It wasn't his bodily shape that puzzled me, though that was queer enough, but his occupation that staggered me. He was a long, thin, spider-shaped article that seemed to have run to seed--all stalk with a frowsy top, for his hair was long an' dry an' fly-about. I'm six-futt one myself, but my step was a mere joke to his stride! He seemed split up to the neck, like a pair o' human compasses, an' his clo's fitted so tight that he might have passed for a livin' skeleton! "Well, it was close upon sundown, an' I was joggin' along to my tent in the bush when I came to an openin' where I saw the critter down on one knee an' his gun up takin' aim at somethin'. I stopped to let him have his shot, for I count it a mortal sin to spoil a man's sport, an' I looked hard to see what it was he was goin' to let drive at, but never a thing could I see, far or near, except a small bit of a bird about the size of a big bee, sittin' on a branch not far from his nose an' cockin' its eye at him as much as to say, `Well, you air a queer 'un!' `Surely,' thought I, `he ain't a-goin' to blaze at _that_!' But I'd scarce thought it when he did blaze at it an' down it came flop on its back, as dead as mutton! "`Well, stranger,' says I, goin' for'ard, `you do seem to be hard up for victuals when you'd shoot a small thing like that!' `Not at all, my good man,' says he--an' the critter had a kindly smile an' a sensible face enough--`you must know that I am shootin' birds for scientific purposes. I am an ornithologist.' "`Oh!' say I, for I didn't rightly know what else to say to that. "`Yes,' says he; `an' see here.' "Wi' that he opens a bag he had on his back an' showed me a lot o' birds, big an' small, that he'd been shootin'; an' then he pulls out a small book, in which he'd been makin' picturs of 'em--an' r'ally I was raither took wi' that for the critter had got 'em down there almost as good as natur'. They actooally looked as if they was alive! "`Shut the book, sir,' says I, `or they'll all escape!' "It was only a small joke I meant, but the critter took it for a big 'un an' larfed at it till he made me half ashamed. "`D'ye know any of these birds?' he axed, arter we'd looked at a lot of 'em. "`Know 'em?' says I; `I should think I does! Why, I've lived among 'em ever since I was a babby!' "`Indeed!' says he, an' he got quite excited, `how interestin'! An' do you know anythin' about their habits?' "`If you mean by that their ways o' goin' on,' says I, `there's hardly a thing about 'em that I don't know, except what they _think_, an' sometimes I've a sort o' notion I could make a pretty fair guess at that too.' "`Will you come to my camp and spend the night with me?' he asked, gettin' more an' more excited. "`No, stranger, I won't,' says I; `but if you'll come to mine I'll feed you an' make you heartily welcome,' for somehow I'd took quite a fancy to the critter. "`I'll go,' says he, an' he went an' we had such a night of it! He didn't let me have a wink o' sleep till pretty nigh daylight the next mornin', an' axed me more questions about birds an' beasts an' fishes than I was iver axed before in the whole course o' my life--an' it warn't yesterday I was born. I began to feel quite like a settlement boy at school. An' he set it all down, too, as fast as I could speak, in the queerest hand-writin' you ever did see. At last I couldn't stand it no longer. "`Mister Ornithologist' says I. "`Well,' says he. "`There's a pecooliar beast in them parts,' says I, `'as has got some pretty stiff an' settled habits.' "`Is there?' says he, wakin' up again quite fresh, though he had been growin' sleepy. "`Yes,' says I, `an' it's a obstinate sort o' brute that won't change its habits for nobody. One o' these habits is that it turns in of a night quite reg'lar an' has a good snooze before goin' to work next day. Its name is Mahoghany Drake, an' that's me, so I'll bid you good-night, stranger.' "Wi' that I knocked the ashes out o' my pipe, stretched myself out wi' my feet to the fire, an' rolled my blanket round me. The critter larfed again at this as if it was a great joke, but he shut up his book, put it and the bag o' leetle birds under his head for a pillow, spread himself out over the camp like a great spider that was awk'ard in the use o' its limbs, an' went off to sleep even before I did--an' that was sharp practice, let me tell you. "Well," continued the trapper, clasping his great bony hands over one of his knees, and allowing the lines of humour to play on his visage, while the boys drew nearer in open-eyed expectancy, "we slep' about three hours, an' then had a bit o' breakfast, after which we parted, for he said he knew his way back to the camp, where he left his friends; but the poor critter didn't know nothin'--'cept ornithology. He lost himself an took to wanderin' in a circle arter I left him. I came to know it 'cause I struck his trail the same arternoon, an' there could be no mistakin' it, the length o' stride bein' somethin' awful! So I followed it up. "I hadn't gone far when I came to a place pretty much like this, as I said before, and when I was lookin' at the view--for I'm fond of a fine view, it takes a man's mind off trappin' an' victuals somehow--I heerd a most awful screech, an' then another. A moment later an' the ornithologist busted out o' the bushes with his long legs goin' like the legs of a big water-wagtail. He was too fur off to see the look of his face, but his hair was tremendous to behold. When he saw the precipice before him he gave a most horrible yell, for he knew that he couldn't escape that way from whatever was chasin' him. I couldn't well help him, for there was a wide gully between him an' me, an' it was too fur off for a fair shot. Howsever, I stood ready. Suddenly I seed the critter face right about an' down on one knee like a pair o' broken compasses; up went the shot-gun, an' at the same moment out busted a great old grizzly b'ar from the bushes. Crack! went my rifle at once, but I could see that the ball didn't hurt him much, although it hit him fair on the head. Loadin' in hot haste, I obsarved that the ornithologist sat like a post till that b'ar was within six foot of him, when he let drive both barrels of his popgun straight into its face. Then he jumped a one side with a spurt like a grasshopper, an' the b'ar tumbled heels over head and got up with an angry growl to rub its face, then it made a savage rush for'ard and fell over a low bank, jumped up again, an' went slap agin a face of rock. I seed at once that it was blind. The small shot used by the critter for his leetle birds had put out both its eyes, an' it went blunderin' about while the ornithologist kep' well out of its way. I knew he was safe, so waited to see what he'd do, an' what d'ye think he did?" "Shoved his knife into him," suggested Tolly Trevor, in eager anxiety. "What! shove his knife into a healthy old b'ar with nothin' gone but his sight? No, lad, he did do nothing so mad as that, but he ran coolly up to it an' screeched in its face. Of course the b'ar went straight at the sound, helter-skelter, and the ornithologist turned an' ran to the edge o' the precipice, screechin' as he went. When he got there he pulled up an' darted a one side, but the b'ar went slap over, an' I believe I'm well within the mark when I say that that b'ar turned five complete somersaults before it got to the bottom, where it came to the ground with a whack that would have busted an elephant. I don't think we found a whole bone in its carcass when the ornithologist helped me to cut it up that night in camp." "Well done!" exclaimed little Trevor, with enthusiasm, "an' what came o' the orny-what-d'ye-callum?" "That's more than I can tell, lad. He went off wi' the b'ar's claws to show to his friends, an' I never saw him again. But look there, boys," continued the trapper in a suddenly lowered tone of voice, while he threw forward and cocked his rifle, "d'ye see our supper?" "What? Where?" exclaimed Tolly, in a soft whisper, straining his eyes in the direction indicated. The sharp crack of the trapper's rifle immediately followed, and a fine buck lay prone upon the ground. "'Twas an easy shot," said Drake, recharging his weapon, "only a man needs a leetle experience before he can fire down a precipice correctly. Come along, boys." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. Nothing further worth mentioning occurred to the hunters that day, save that little Tolly Trevor was amazed--we might almost say petrified--by the splendour and precision of the trapper's shooting, besides which he was deeply impressed with the undercurrent of what we may style grave fun, coupled with calm enthusiasm, which characterised the man, and the utter absence of self-assertion or boastfulness. But if the remainder of the day was uneventful, the stories round the camp-fire more than compensated him and his friend Leaping Buck. The latter was intimately acquainted with the trapper, and seemed to derive more pleasure from watching the effect of his anecdotes on his new friend than in listening to them himself. Probably this was in part owing to the fact that he had heard them all before more than once. The spot they had selected for their encampment was the summit of a projecting crag, which was crowned with a little thicket, and surrounded on three sides by sheer precipices. The neck of rock by which it was reached was free from shrubs, besides being split across by a deep chasm of several feet in width, so that it formed a natural fortress, and the marks of old encampments seemed to indicate that it had been used as a camping-place by the red man long before his white brother--too often his white foe--had appeared in that western wilderness to disturb him. The Indians had no special name for the spot, but the roving trappers who first came to it had named it the Outlook, because from its summit a magnificent view of nearly the whole region could be obtained. The great chasm or fissure already mentioned descended sheer down, like the neighbouring precipices, to an immense depth, so that the Outlook, being a species of aerial island, was usually reached by a narrow plank which bridged the chasm. It had stood many a siege in times past, and when used as a fortress, whether by white hunters or savages, the plank bridge was withdrawn, and the place rendered--at least esteemed-- impregnable. When Mahoghany Drake and his young friends came up to the chasm a little before sunset Leaping Buck took a short run and bounded clear over it. "Ha! I knowed he couldn't resist the temptation," said Mahoghany, with a quiet chuckle, "an' it's not many boys--no, nor yet men--who could jump that. I wouldn't try it myself for a noo rifle--no, though ye was to throw in a silver-mounted powder-horn to the bargain." "But you _have_ jumped it?" cried the Indian boy, turning round with a gleeful face. "Ay, lad, long ago, and then I was forced to, when runnin' for my life. A man'll do many a deed when so sitooate that he couldn't do in cold blood. Come, come, young feller," he added, suddenly laying his heavy hand on little Trevor's collar and arresting him, "you wasn't thinkin' o' tryin' it was ye?" "Indeed I was, and I _think_ I could manage it," said the foolishly ambitious Tolly. "Thinkin' is not enough, boy," returned the trapper, with a grave shake of the head. "You should always make _sure_. Suppose you was wrong in your thinkin', now, who d'ee think would go down there to pick up the bits of 'ee an' carry them home to your mother." "But I haven't got a mother," said Tolly. "Well, your father, then." "But I haven't got a father." "So much the more reason," returned the trapper, in a softened tone, "that you should take care o' yourself, lest you should turn out to be the last o' your race. Come, help me to carry this plank. After we're over I'll see you jump on safe ground, and if you can clear enough, mayhap I'll let 'ee try the gap. Have you a steady head?" "Ay, like a rock," returned Tolly, with a grin. "See that you're _sure_, lad, for if you ain't I'll carry you over." In reply to this Tolly ran nimbly over the plank bridge like a tight-rope dancer. Drake followed, and they were all soon busily engaged clearing a space on which to encamp, and collecting firewood. "Tell me about your adventure at the time you jumped the gap, Mahoghany," begged little Trevor, when the first volume of smoke arose from their fire and went straight up like a pillar into the calm air. "Not now, lad. Work first, talk afterwards. That's my motto." "But work is over now--the fire lighted and the kettle on," objected Tolly. "Nay, lad, when you come to be an old hunter you'll look on supper as about the most serious work o' the day. When that's over, an' the pipe a-goin', an' maybe a little stick-whittlin' for variety, a man may let his tongue wag to some extent." Our small hero was fain to content himself with this reply, and for the next half-hour or more the trio gave their undivided attention to steaks from the loin of the fat buck and slices from the breast of the wild duck which had fallen to Tolly's gun. When the pipe-and-stick-whittling period arrived, however, the trapper disposed his bulky length in front of the fire, while his young admirers lay down beside him. The stick-whittling, it may be remarked, devolved upon the boys, while the smoking was confined to the man. "I can't see why it is," observed Tolly, when the first whiffs curled from Mahoghany Drake's lips, "that you men are so strong in discouragin' us boys from smokin'. You keep it all selfishly to yourselves, though Buckie an' I would give anythin' to be allowed to try a whiff now an' then. Paul Bevan's just like you--won't hear o' _me_ touchin' a pipe, though he smokes himself like a wigwam wi' a greenwood fire!" Drake pondered a little before replying. "It would never do, you know," he said, at length, "for you boys to do 'zackly as we men does." "Why not?" demanded Tolly, developing an early bud of independent thought. "Why, 'cause it wouldn't" replied Drake. Then, feeling that his answer was not a very convincing argument he added, "You see, boys ain't men, no more than men are boys, an' what's good for the one ain't good for the tother." "I don't see that" returned the radical-hearted Tolly. "Isn't eatin', an' drinkin', an' sleepin', an' walkin', an' runnin', an' talkin', an' thinkin', an' huntin', equally good for boys and men? If all these things is good for us both, why not smokin'?" "That's more than I can tell 'ee, lad," answered the honest trapper, with a somewhat puzzled look. If Mahoghany Drake had thought the matter out a little more closely he might perhaps have seen that smoking _is_ as good for boys as for men-- or, what comes to much the same thing, is equally bad for both of them! But the sturdy trapper liked smoking; hence, like many wiser men, he did not care to think the matter out. On the contrary, he changed the subject, and, as the change was very much for the better in the estimation of his companions, Tolly did not object. "Well now, about that jump," he began, emitting a prolonged and delicate whiff. "Ah, yes! How did you manage to do it?" asked little Trevor, eagerly. "Oh, for the matter o' that it's easy to explain; but it wasn't _my_ jump I was goin' to tell about; it was the jump o' a poor critter--a sort o' ne'er-do-well who jined a band o' us trappers the day before we arrived at this place, on our way through the mountains on a huntin' expedition. He was a miserable specimen o' human natur'--all the worse that he had a pretty stout body o' his own, an' might have made a fairish man if he'd had the spirit even of a cross-grained rabbit. His name was Miffy, an' it sounded nat'ral to him, for there was no go in him whatever. I often wonder what sitch men was made for. They're o' no use to anybody, an' a nuisance to themselves." "P'r'aps they wasn't made for any use at all," suggested Tolly, who, having whittled a small piece of stick down to nothing, commenced another piece with renewed interest. "No, lad," returned the trapper, with a look of deeper gravity. "Even poor, foolish man does not construct anything without some sort o' purpose in view. It's an outrage on common sense to think the Almighty could do so. Mayhap sitch critters was meant to act as warnin's to other men. He told us that he'd runned away from home when he was a boy 'cause he didn't like school. Then he engaged as a cabin-boy aboard a ship tradin' to some place in South America, an' runned away from his ship the first port they touched at 'cause he didn't like the sea. Then he came well-nigh to the starvin' p'int an' took work on a farm as a labourer, but left that 'cause it was too hard, after which he got a berth as watchman at a warehouse, or some place o' the sort but left that, for it was too easy. Then he tried gold-diggin', but could make nothin' of it; engaged in a fur company, but soon left it; an' then tried his hand at trappin' on his own account but gave it up 'cause he could catch nothin'. When he fell in with our band he was redooced to two rabbits an' a prairie hen, wi' only three charges o' powder in his horn, an' not a drop o' lead. "Well, we tuck pity on the miserable critter, an' let him come along wi' us. There was ten of us altogether, an' he made eleven. At first we thought he'd be of some use to us, but we soon found he was fit for nothin'. However, we couldn't cast him adrift in the wilderness, for he'd have bin sure to come to damage somehow, so we let him go on with us. When we came to this neighbourhood we made up our minds to trap in the valley, and as the Injins were wild at that time, owin' to some rascally white men who had treated them badly and killed a few, we thought it advisable to pitch our camp on the Outlook here. It was a well-known spot to most o' my comrades, tho' I hadn't seen it myself at that time. "When we came to the gap, one of the young fellows named Bounce gave a shout, took a run, and went clear over it just as Leapin' Buck did. He was fond o' showin' off, you know! He turned about with a laugh, and asked us to follow. We declined, and felled a small tree to bridge it. Next day we cut the tree down to a plank, as bein' more handy to shove across in a hurry if need be. "Well, we had good sport--plenty of b'ar and moose steaks, no end of fresh eggs of all sorts, and enough o' pelts to make it pay. You see we didn't know there was gold here in those days, so we didn't look for it, an' wouldn't ha' knowed it if we'd seen it. But I never myself cared to look for gold. It's dirty work, grubbin' among mud and water like a beaver. It's hard work, too, an' I've obsarved that the men who get most gold at the diggin's are not the diggers but the storekeepers, an' a bad lot they are, many of 'em, though I'm bound to say that I've knowed a few as was real honest men, who kep' no false weights or measures, an' had some sort of respec' for their Maker. "However," continued the trapper, filling a fresh pipe, while Tolly and his little red friend, whittling their sticks less vigorously as the story went on and at length dropping them altogether, kept their bright eyes riveted on Drake's face. "However, that's not what I've got to tell 'ee about. You must know that one evening, close upon sundown, we was all returnin' from our traps more or less loaded wi' skins an' meat, all except Miffy, who had gone, as he said, a huntin'. Bin truer if he'd said he meant to go around scarin' the animals. Well, just as we got within a mile o' this place we was set upon by a band o' Redskins. There must have bin a hundred of 'em at least. I've lived a longish time now in the wilderness, but I never, before or since, heard sitch a yellin' as the painted critters set up in the woods all around when they came at us, sendin' a shower o' arrows in advance to tickle us up; but they was bad shots, for only one took effect, an' that shaft just grazed the point o' young Bounce's nose as neat as if it was only meant to make him sneeze. It made him jump, I tell 'ee, higher than I ever seed him jump before. Of course fightin' was out o' the question. "Ten trappers under cover might hold their own easy enough agin a hundred Redskins, but not in the open. We all knew that, an' had no need to call a council o' war. Every man let his pack fall, an' away we went for the Outlook, followed by the yellin' critters closer to our heels than we quite liked. But they couldn't shoot runnin', so we got to the gap. The plank was there all right. Over we went, faced about, and while one o' us hauled it over, the rest gave the savages a volley that sent them back faster than they came. "`Miffy's lost!' obsarved one o' my comrades as we got in among the bushes here an' prepared to fight it out. "`No great loss,' remarked another. "`No fear o' Miffy,' said Bounce, feelin' his nose tenderly, `he's a bad shillin', and bad shillin's always turn up, they say.' "Bounce had barely finished when we heard another most awesome burst o' yellin' in the woods, followed by a deep roar. "`That's Miffy,' says I, feelin' quite excited, for I'd got to have a sneakin' sort o' pity for the miserable critter. `It's a twin roar to the one he gave that day when he mistook Hairy Sam for a grizzly b'ar, an' went up a spruce-fir like a squirrel.' Sure enough, in another moment Miffy burst out o' the woods an' came tearin' across the open space straight for the gap, followed by a dozen or more savages. "`Run, Bounce--the plank!' says I, jumpin' up. `We'll drive the reptiles back!' "While I was speakin' we were all runnin' full split to meet the poor critter, Bounce far in advance. Whether it was over-haste, or the pain of his nose, I never could make out, but somehow, in tryin' to shove the plank over, Bounce let it slip. Down it went an' split to splinters on the rock's a hundred feet below! Miffy was close up at the time. His cheeks was yaller an' his eyes starin' as he came on, but his face turned green and his eyes took to glarin' when he saw what had happened. I saw a kind o' hesitation in his look as he came to the unbridged gulf. The savages, thinkin' no doubt it was all up with him, gave a fiendish yell o' delight. That yell saved the poor ne'er-do-well. It was as good as a Spanish spur to a wild horse. Over he came with legs an' arms out like a flyin' squirrel, and down he fell flat on his stummick at our feet wi' the nearest thing to a fair bu'st that I ever saw, or raither heard, for I was busy sightin' a Redskin at the time an' didn't actually see it. When the savages saw what he'd done they turned tail an' scattered back into the woods, so we only gave them a loose volley, for we didn't want to kill the critters. I just took the bark off the thigh of one to prevent his forgettin' me. We held the place here for three days, an' then findin' they could make nothin' of us, or havin' other work on hand, they went away an' left us in peace." "An' what became o' poor Miffy?" asked little Trevor, earnestly. "We took him down with us to a new settlement that had been started in the prairie-land west o' the Blue Mountains, an' there he got a sitooation in a store, but I s'pose he didn't stick to it long. Anyhow that was the last I ever saw of him. Now, boys, it's time to turn in." That night when the moon had gone down and the stars shed a feeble light on the camp of those who slumbered on the Outlook rock, two figures, like darker shades among the surrounding shadows, glided from the woods, and, approaching the edge of the gap, gazed down into the black abyss. "I told you, redskin, that the plank would be sure to be drawn over," said one of the figures, in a low but gruff whisper. "When the tomahawk is red men do not usually sleep unguarded," replied the other, in the Indian tongue. "Speak English, Maqua, I don't know enough o' your gibberish to make out what you mean. Do you think, now, that the villain Paul Bevan is in the camp?" "Maqua is not a god, that he should be able to tell what he does not know." "No, but he could guess," retorted Stalker--for it was the robber-chief. "My scouts said they thought it was his figure they saw. However, it matters not. If you are to earn the reward I have offered, you must creep into the camp, put your knife in Bevan's heart, and bring me his scalp. I would do it myself, redskin, and be indebted to nobody, but I can't creep as you and your kindred can." "I'd be sure to make row enough to start them in time for self-defence. As to the scalp, I don't want it--only want to make certain that you've done the deed. You may keep it to ornament your dress or to boast about to your squaw. If you should take a fancy to do a little murder on your own account do so. It matters nothin' to me. I'll be ready to back you up if they give chase." While the robber-chief was speaking he searched about for a suitable piece of wood to span the chasm. He soon found what he wanted, for there was much felled timber lying about the work of previous visitors to the Outlook. In a few minutes Maqua had crossed, and glided in a stealthy, stooping position towards the camp, seeming more like a moving shadow than a real man. When pretty close he went down on hands and knees and crept forward, with his scalping-knife between his teeth. It would have been an interesting study to watch the savage, had his object been a good one--the patience; the slow, gliding movements; the careful avoidance of growing branches, and the gentle removal of dead ones from his path, for well did Maqua know that a snapping twig would betray him if the camp contained any of the Indian warriors of the Far West. At last he drew so near that by stretching his neck he could see over the intervening shrubs and observe the sleepers. Just then Drake chanced to waken. Perhaps it was a presentiment of danger that roused him, for the Indian had, up to that moment, made not the slightest sound. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, the trapper looked cautiously round; then he lay down and turned over on his other side to continue his slumbers. Like the tree-stems around him, Maqua remained absolutely motionless until he thought the trapper was again sleeping. Then he retired, as he had come, to his anxiously-awaiting comrade. "Bevan not there," he said briefly, when they had retired to a safe distance; "only Mahoghany Drake an' two boy." "Well, why didn't ye scalp them!" asked Stalker, savagely, for he was greatly disappointed to find that his enemy was not in the camp. "You said that all white men were your enemies." "No, not all," replied the savage. "Drake have the blood of white mans, but the heart of red mans. He have be good to Injins." "Well, well; it makes no odds to me," returned Stalker, "Come along, an' walk before me, for I won't trust ye behind. As for slippery Paul, I'll find him yet; you shall see. When a man fails in one attempt, all he's got to do is to make another. Now then, redskin, move on!" CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. As widely different as night is from day, summer from winter, heat from cold, are some members of the human family; yet God made them all, and has a purpose of love and mercy towards each! Common sense says this; the general opinion of mankind holds this; highest of all, the Word clearly states this: "God willeth not the death of a sinner, but rather that he should turn from his wickedness and live;" and, "He maketh His sun to shine upon the just and on the unjust." Nevertheless, it seemed difficult to believe that the same God formed and spared and guarded and fed the fierce, lawless man Stalker, and the loving, gentle delicate Rose of Oregon. About the same hour that the former was endeavouring to compass the destruction of Paul Bevan, Betty was on her knees in her little tented room, recalling the deeds, the omissions, and the shortcomings of the past day, interceding alike for friends and foes--if we may venture to assume that a rose without a thorn could have foes! Even the robber-chief was remembered among the rest, and you may be very sure that Tom Brixton was not forgotten. Having slept the sleep of innocence and purity, Betty rose refreshed on the following day, and, before the Indian village was astir, went out to ramble along a favourite walk in a thicket on the mountain-side. It so fell out that Tom had selected the same thicket for his morning ramble. But poor Tom did not look like one who hoped to meet with his lady-love that morning. He had, under good nursing, recovered some of his former strength and vigour of body with wonderful rapidity, but his face was still haggard and careworn in an unusual degree for one so young. When the two met Tom did not pretend to be surprised. On the contrary, he said:-- "I expected to meet you here, Betty, because I have perceived that you are fond of the place, and, believe me, I would not have presumed to intrude, were it not that I wish to ask one or two questions, the answers to which may affect my future movements." He paused, and Betty's heart fluttered, for she could not help remembering former meetings when Tom had tried to win her affections, and when she had felt it her duty to discourage him. She made no reply to this rather serious beginning to the interview, but dropped her eyes on the turf, for she saw that the youth was gazing at her with a very mingled and peculiar expression. "Tell me," he resumed, after a few moments' thought, "do you feel quite safe with these Indians?" "Quite," replied the girl with a slight elevation of the eyebrows; "they are unusually gentle and good-natured people. Besides, their chief would lay down his life for my father--he is so grateful. Oh yes, I feel perfectly safe here." "But what does your father think. He is always so fearless--I might say reckless--that I don't feel certain as to his real opinion. Have you heard him speaking about the chance of that rascal Stalker following him up?" "Yes; he has spoken freely about that. He fully expects that Stalker will search for us, but considers that he will not dare to attack us while we live with so strong a band of Indians, and, as Stalker's followers won't hang about here very long for the mere purpose of pleasing their chief, especially when nothing is to be gained by it, father thinks that his enemy will be forced to go away. Besides, he has made up his mind to remain here for a long time--many months, it may be." "That will do," returned Tom, with a sigh of relief; "then there will be no need for me to--" "To what?" asked Betty, seeing that the youth paused. "Forgive me if I do not say what I meant to. I have reasons for--" (he paused again)--"Then you are pleased with the way the people treat you?" "Of course I am. They could not be kinder if I were one of themselves. And some of the women are so intelligent, too! You know I have picked up a good deal of the Indian language, and understand them pretty well, though I can't speak much, and you've no idea what deep thinkers some of them are! There is Unaco's mother, who looks so old and dried up and stupid--she is one of the dearest old things I ever knew. Why," continued the girl, with increasing animation, as she warmed with her subject, "that old creature led me, the other night, into quite an earnest conversation about religion, and asked me ever so many questions about the ways of God with man--speculative, difficult questions too, that almost puzzled me to answer. You may be sure I took the opportunity to explain to her God's great love to man in and through Jesus, and--" She stopped abruptly, for Tom Brixton was at that moment regarding her with a steady and earnest gaze. "Yes," he said, slowly, almost dreamily, "I can well believe you took your opportunity to commend Jesus to her. You did so once to me, and--" Tom checked himself, as if with a great effort. The girl longed to hear more, but he did not finish the sentence. "Well," he said, with a forced air of gaiety, "I have sought you here to tell you that I am going off on--on--a long hunting expedition. Going at once--but I would not leave without bidding you good-bye." "Going away, Mr Brixton!" exclaimed Betty, in genuine surprise. "Yes. As you see, I am ready for the field, with rifle and wallet, firebag and blanket." "But you are not yet strong enough," said Betty. "Oh! yes, I am--stronger than I look. Besides, that will mend every day. I don't intend to say goodbye to Westly or any one, because I hate to have people try to dissuade me from a thing when my mind is made up. I only came to say good-bye to you, because I wish you to tell Fred and your father that I am grateful for all their kindness to me, and that it will be useless to follow me. Perhaps we may meet again, Betty," he added, still in the forced tone of lightness, while he gently took the girl's hand in his and shook it; "but the dangers of the wilderness are numerous, and, as you have once or twice told me, we `know not what a day or an hour may bring forth.'" (His tone had deepened suddenly to that of intense earnestness)--"God bless you, Betty; farewell." He dropped her hand, turned sharply on his heel, and walked swiftly away, never once casting a look behind. Poor Tom! It was a severe wrench, but he had fought the battle manfully and gained the victory. In his new-born sense of personal unworthiness and strict Justice, he had come to the conclusion that he had forfeited the right to offer heart or hand to the Rose of Oregon. Whether he was right or wrong in his opinion we do not pretend to judge, but this does not alter the fact that a hard battle with self had been fought by him, and a great victory won. But Tom neither felt nor looked very much like a conqueror. His heart seemed to be made of lead, and the strength of which he had so recently boasted seemed to have deserted him altogether after he had walked a few miles, insomuch that he was obliged to sit down on a bank to rest. Fear lest Fred or Paul should follow up his trail, however, infused new strength into his limbs, and he rose and pushed steadily on, for he was deeply impressed with the duty that lay upon him--namely, to get quickly, and as far as possible, away from the girl whom he could no longer hope to wed. Thus, advancing at times with great animation, sitting down occasionally for short rests, and then resuming the march with renewed vigour, he travelled over the mountains without any definite end in view, beyond that to which we have already referred. For some time after he was gone Betty stood gazing at the place in the thicket where he had disappeared, as if she half expected to see him return; then, heaving a deep sigh, and with a mingled expression of surprise, disappointment, and anxiety on her fair face, she hurried away to search for her father. She found him returning to their tent with a load of firewood, and at once told him what had occurred. "He'll soon come back, Betty," said Paul, with a significant smile. "When a young feller is fond of a lass, he's as sure to return to her as water is sure to find its way as fast as it can to the bottom of a hill." Fred Westly thought the same, when Paul afterwards told him about the meeting, though he did not feel quite so sure about the return being immediate; but Mahoghany Drake differed from them entirely. "Depend on't," he said to his friend Paul, when, in the privacy of a retired spot on the mountain-side, they discussed the matter--"depend on't, that young feller ain't made o' butter. What he says he will do he'll stick to, if I'm any judge o' human natur. Of course it ain't for me to guess why he should fling off in this fashion. Are ye sure he's fond o' your lass?" "Sure? Ay, as sure as I am that yon is the sun an' not the moon a-shinin' in the sky." "H'm! that's strange. An' they've had no quarrel?" "None that I knows on. Moreover, they ain't bin used to quarrel. Betty's not one o' that sort--dear lass. She's always fair an' above board; honest an' straight for'ard. Says 'zactly what she means, an' means what she says. Mister Tom ain't given to shilly-shallyin', neither. No, I'm sure they've had no quarrel." "Well, it's the old story," said Drake, while a puzzled look flitted across his weather-beaten countenance, and the smoke issued more slowly from his unflagging pipe, "the conduct o' lovers is not to be accounted for. Howsever, there's one thing I'm quite sure of--that he must be looked after." "D'ye think so?" said Paul. "I'd have thought he was quite able to look arter himself." "Not just now," returned the trapper; "he's not yet got the better of his touch o' starvation, an' there's a chance o' your friend Stalker, or Buxley, which d'ye call him?" "Whichever you like; he answers to either, or neither, as the case may be. He's best known as Stalker in these parts, though Buxley is his real name." "Well, then," resumed Drake, "there's strong likelihood o' him prowlin' about here, and comin' across the tracks o' young Brixton; so, as I said before, he must be looked after, and I'll take upon myself to do it." "Well, I'll jine ye," said Paul, "for of course ye'll have to make up a party." "Not at all," returned the trapper, with decision. "I'll do it best alone; leastwise I'll take only little Tolly Trevor an' Leapin' Buck with me, for they're both smart an' safe lads, and are burnin' keen to learn somethin' o' woodcraft." In accordance with this determination, Mahoghany Drake, Leaping Buck, and little Trevor set off next day and followed Tom Brixton's trail into the mountains. It was a broad trail and very perceptible, at least to an Indian or a trapper, for Tom had a natural swagger, which he could not shake off, even in the hour of his humiliation, and, besides, he had never been an adept at treading the western wilderness with the care which the red man finds needful in order to escape from, or baffle, his foes. "'Tis as well marked, a'most" said Drake, pausing to survey the trail, "as if he'd bin draggin' a toboggan behind him." "Yet a settlement man wouldn't see much of it," remarked little Trevor; "eh! Buckie?" The Indian boy nodded gravely. He emulated his father in this respect, and would have been ashamed to have given way to childish levity on what he was pleased to consider the war-path, but he had enough of the humorous in his nature to render the struggle to keep grave in Tolly's presence a pretty severe one. Not that Tolly aimed at being either witty or funny, but he had a peculiarly droll expression of face, which added much point to whatever he said. "Ho!" exclaimed the trapper, after they had gone a little farther; "here's a trail that even a settlement man could hardly fail to see. There's bin fifty men or more. D'ye see it Tolly?" "See it? I should think so. D'you suppose I carry my eyes in my pocket?" "Come now, lad," said Drake, turning to Leaping Buck, "you want to walk in your father's tracks, no doubt. Read me this trail if ye can." The boy stepped forward with an air of dignity that Drake regarded as sublime and Tolly thought ludicrous, but the latter was too fond of his red friend to allow his feelings to betray themselves. "As the white trapper has truly said," he began, "fifty men or more have passed this way. They are most of them white men, but three or four are Indians." "Good!" said Drake, with an approving nod; "I thought ye'd notice that. Well, go on." "They were making straight for my father's camp," continued the lad, bending a stern look on the trail, "but they turned sharp round, like the swallow, on coming to the trail of the white man Brixton, and followed it." "How d'ye know that, lad?" asked the trapper. "Because I see it" returned the boy, promptly, pointing at the same time to a spot on the hill-side considerably above them, where the conformation of the land at a certain spot revealed enough of the trail of the "fifty men or more," to show the change of direction. "Good again, lad. A worthy son of your father. I didn't give 'e credit for sharpness enough to perceive that. Can you read anything more?" "One man was a horseman, but he left his horse behind on getting to the rough places of the hills and walked with the rest. He is Paul Bevan's enemy." "And how d'ye know all _that_?" said Drake, regarding the little fellow with a look of pride. "By the footprints," returned Leaping Buck. "He wears boots and spurs." "Just so," returned the trapper, "and we've bin told by Paul that Stalker was the only man of his band who wouldn't fall in wi' the ways o' the country, but sticks to the clumsy Jack-boots and spurs of old England. Yes, the scoundrel has followed you up, Tolly, as Paul Bevan said he would, and, havin' come across Brixton's track, has gone after him, from all which I now come to the conclusion that your friend Mister Tom is a prisoner, an' stands in need of our sarvices. What say you, Tolly?" "Go at 'em at once," replied the warlike Trevor, "an' set him free." "What! us three attack fifty men?" "Why not?" responded Tolly, "We're more than a match for 'em. Paul Bevan has told me oftentimes that honest men are, as a rule, ten times more plucky than dishonest ones. Well, you are one honest man, that's equal to ten; an' Buckie and I are two honest boys, equal, say, to five each, that's ten more, making twenty among three of us. Three times twenty's sixty, isn't it? so, surely that's more than enough to fight fifty." "Ah, boy," answered the trapper, with a slightly puzzled expression, "I never could make nothin' o' 'rithmetic, though my mother put me to school one winter with a sort o' half-mad parson that came to the head waters o' the Yellowstone river, an' took to teachin'--dear me, how long ago was it now? Well, I forget, but somehow you seem to add up the figgurs raither faster than I was made to do. Howsever, we'll go an' see what's to be done for Tom Brixton." The trapper, who had been leaning on his gun, looking down at his bold little comrades during the foregoing conversation, once more took the lead, and, closely following the trail of the robber-band, continued the ascent of the mountains. The Indian village was by that time far out of sight behind them, and the scenery in the midst of which they were travelling was marked by more than the average grandeur and ruggedness of the surrounding region. On their right arose frowning precipices which were fringed and crowned with forests of pine, intermingled with poplar, birch, maple, and other trees. On their left a series of smaller precipices, or terraces, descended to successive levels, like giant steps, till they reached the bottom of the valley up which our adventurers were moving, where a brawling river appeared in the distance like a silver thread. The view both behind and in advance was extremely wild, embracing almost every variety of hill scenery, and in each case was shut in by snow-capped mountains. These, however, were so distant and so soft in texture as to give the impression of clouds rather than solid earth. Standing on one of the many jutting crags from which could be had a wide view of the vale lying a thousand feet below, Tolly Trevor threw up his arms and waved them to and fro as if in an ecstasy, exclaiming--"Oh, if I had only wings, _what_ a swoop I'd make--down there!" "Ah, boy, you ain't the first that's wished for wings in the like circumstances. But we've bin denied these advantages. P'r'aps we'd have made a bad use of 'em. Sartinly we've made a bad use o' sich powers as we do possess. Just think, now, if men could go about through the air as easy as the crows, what a row they'd kick up all over the 'arth! As it is, when we want to fight we've got to crawl slowly from place to place, an' make roads for our wagins, an' big guns, an' supplies, to go along with us; but if we'd got wings--why, the first fire eatin' great man that could lead his fellows by the nose would only have to give the word, when up would start a whole army o' men, like some thousand Jack-in-the-boxes, an' away they'd go to some place they'd took a fancy to, an' down they'd come, all of a heap, quite onexpected-- take their enemy by surprise, sweep him off the face o' the 'arth, and enter into possession." "Well, it would be a blue lookout," remarked Tolly, "if that was to be the way of it. There wouldn't be many men left in the world before long." "That's true, lad, an' sitch as was left would be the worst o' the race. No, on the whole I think we're better without wings." While he was talking to little Trevor, the trapper had been watching the countenance of the Indian boy with unusual interest. At last he turned to him and asked-- "Has Leaping Buck nothin' to say?" "When the white trapper speaks, the Indian's tongue should be silent," replied the youth. "A good sentiment and does you credit, lad. But I am silent now. Has Leaping Buck no remark to make on what he sees?" "He sees the smoke of the robber's camp far up the heights," replied the boy, pointing as he spoke. "Clever lad!" exclaimed the trapper, "I know'd he was his father's son." "Where? I can see nothing," cried Tolly, who understood the Indian tongue sufficiently to make out the drift of the conversation. "Of course ye can't; the smoke is too far off an' too thin for eyes not well practised in the signs o' the wilderness. But come; we shall go and pay the robbers a visit; mayhap disturb their rest a little--who knows!" With a quiet laugh, Mahoghany Drake withdrew from the rocky ledge, and, followed by his eager satellites, continued to wend his way up the rugged mountain-sides, taking care, however, that he did not again expose himself to view, for well did he know that sharp eyes and ears would be on the _qui vive_ that night. CHAPTER NINETEEN. When Tom Brixton sternly set his face like a flint to what he believed to be his duty, he wandered, as we have said, into the mountains, with a heavy heart and without any definite intentions as to what he intended to do. If his thoughts had taken the form of words they would probably have run somewhat as follows:-- "Farewell for ever, sweet Rose of Oregon! Dear Betty! You have been the means, in God's hand, of saving at least one soul from death, and it would be requiting you ill indeed were I to persuade you to unite yourself to a man whose name is disgraced even among rough men, whose estimate of character is not very high. No! henceforth our lives diverge wider and wider apart. May God bless you and give you a good hus--give you happiness in His own way! And now I have the world before me where to choose. It is a wide world, and there is much work to be done. Surely I shall be led in the right way to fill the niche which has been set apart for me. I wonder what it is to be! Am I to hunt for gold, or to become a fur-trader, or go down to the plains and turn cattle-dealer, or to the coast and become a sailor, or try farming? One thing is certain, I must not be an idler; must not join the ranks of those who merely hunt that they may eat and sleep, and who eat and sleep that they may hunt. I have a work to do for Him who bought me with His precious blood, and my first step must be to commit my way to Him." Tom Brixton took that step at once. He knelt down on a mossy bank, and there, with the glorious prospect of the beautiful wilderness before him, and the setting sun irradiating his still haggard countenance, held communion with God. That night he made his lonely bivouac under a spreading pine, and that night while he was enjoying a profound and health-giving slumber, the robber-chief stepped into his encampment and laid his hand roughly on his shoulder. In his days of high health Tom would certainly have leaped up and given Stalker a considerable amount of trouble, but starvation and weakness, coupled with self-condemnation and sorrow, had subdued his nerves and abated his energies, so that, when he opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by as disagreeable a set of cut-throats as could well be brought together, he at once resigned himself to his fate, and said, without rising, and with one of his half-humorous smiles-- "Well, Mister Botanist, sorry I can't say it gives me pleasure to see you. I wonder you're not ashamed to return to the country of the great chief Unaco after running away from him as you did." "I'm in no humour for joking," answered Stalker, gruffly. "What has become of your friend Paul Bevan?" "I'm not aware that anything particular has become of him," replied Tom, sitting up with a look of affected surprise. "Come, you know what I mean. Where is he?" "When I last saw him he was in Oregon. Whether he has now gone to Europe or the moon or the sun I cannot tell, but I should think it unlikely." "If you don't give me a direct and civil answer I'll roast you alive, you young puppy!" growled Stalker. "If you roast me dead instead of alive you'll get no answer from me but such as I choose to give, you middle-aged villain!" retorted Tom, with a glare of his eyes which quite equalled that of the robber-chief in ferocity, for Tom's nature was what we may style volcanic, and he found it hard to restrain himself when roused to a certain point, so that he was prone to speak unadvisedly with his lips. A half-smothered laugh from some of the band who did not care much for their chief, rendered Stalker furious. He sprang forward with a savage oath, drew the small hatchet which he carried in his belt, and would certainly then and there have brained the rash youth with it, if his hand had not been unexpectedly arrested. The gleaming weapon was yet in the air when the loud report of a rifle close at hand burst from the bushes with a sheet of flame and smoke, and the robber's right arm fell powerless at his side, hit between the elbow and shoulder. It was the rifle of Mahoghany Drake that had spoken so opportunely. That stalwart backwoodsman had, as we have seen, followed up the trail of the robbers, and, with Tolly Trevor and his friend Leaping Buck, had lain for a considerable time safely ensconced in a moss-covered crevice of the cliff that overlooked the camping-place. There, quietly observing the robbers, and almost enjoying the little scene between Tom and the chief, they remained inactive until Stalker's hatchet gleamed in the air. The boys were almost petrified by the suddenness of the act. Not so the trapper, who with rapid aim saved Tom's life, as we have seen. Dropping his rifle, he seized the boys by the neck and thrust their faces down on the moss: not a moment too soon, for a withering volley was instantly sent by the bandits in the direction whence the shots had come. It passed harmlessly over their heads. "Now, home like two arrows, and rouse your father, Leaping Buck," whispered the trapper, "and keep well out o' sight." Next moment, picking up his empty rifle, he stalked from the fringe of bushes that partially screened the cliff, and gave himself up. "Ha! I know you--Mahoghany Drake! Is it not so?" cried Stalker, savagely. "Seize him, men. You shall swing for this, you rascal." Two or three of the robbers advanced, but Drake quietly held up his hand, and they stopped. "I'm in your power, you see," he said, laying his rifle on the ground. "Yes," he continued, drawing his tall figure up to its full height and crossing his arms on his breast, "my name is Drake. As to Mahoghany, I've no objection to it though it ain't complimentary. If, as you say, Mister Stalker, I'm to swing for this, of course I must swing. Yet it do seem raither hard that a man should swing for savin' his friend's life an' his enemy's at the same time." "How--what do you mean?" "I mean that Mister Brixton is my friend," answered the trapper, "and I've saved his life just now, for which I thank the Lord. At the same time, Stalker is my enemy--leastwise I fear he's no friend--an' didn't I save _his_ life too when I put a ball in his arm, that I could have as easily put into his head or his heart?" "Well," responded Stalker, with a fiendish grin, that the increasing pain of his wound did not improve, "at all events you have not saved your own life, Drake. As I said, you shall swing for it. But I'll give you one chance. If you choose to help me I will spare your life. Can you tell me where Paul Bevan and his daughter are?" "They are with Unaco and his tribe." "I could have guessed as much as that. I ask you _where_ they are!" "On the other side of yonder mountain range, where the chief's village lies." Somewhat surprised at the trapper's readiness to give the information required, and rendered a little suspicious, Stalker asked if he was ready and willing to guide him to the Indian village. "Surely. If that's the price I'm to pay for my life, it can be easily paid," replied the trapper. "Ay, but you shall march with your arms bound until we are there, and the fight wi' the redskins is over," said the robber-chief, "and if I find treachery in your acts or looks I'll blow your brains out on the spot. My left hand, you shall find, can work as well as the right wi' the revolver." "A beggar, they say, must not be a chooser," returned the trapper. "I accept your terms." "Good. Here, Goff," said Stalker, turning to his lieutenant, "bind his hands behind him after he's had some supper, and then come an' fix up this arm o' mine. I think the bone has escaped." "Hadn't we better start off at once," suggested Drake, "an' catch the redskins when they're asleep?" "Is it far off?" asked Stalker. "A goodish bit. But the night is young. We might git pretty near by midnight, and then encamp so as to git an hour's sleep before makin' the attack. You see, redskins sleep soundest just before daybreak." While he was speaking the trapper coughed a good deal, and sneezed once or twice, as if he had a bad cold. "Can't you keep your throat and nose quieter?" said the chief, sternly. "Well, p'r'aps I might," replied Drake, emitting a highly suppressed cough at the moment, "but I've got a queer throat just now. The least thing affects it." After consultation with the principal men of his band, Stalker determined to act on Drake's advice, and in a few minutes the trapper was guiding them over the hills in a state of supreme satisfaction, despite his bonds, for had he not obtained the power to make the robbers encamp on a spot which the Indians could not avoid passing on their way to the rescue, and had he not established a sort of right to emit sounds which would make his friends aware of his exact position, and thus bring both parties into collision before daybreak, which could not have been the case if the robbers had remained in the encampment where he found them? Turn we now to Leaping Buck and Tolly Trevor. Need it be said that these intelligent lads did not, as the saying is, allow grass to grow under their feet? The former went over the hills at a pace and in a manner that fully justified his title; and the latter followed with as much vigour and resolution, if not as much agility, as his friend. In a wonderfully short space of time, considering the distance, they burst upon the Indian village, and aroused it with the startling news. Warfare in those regions was not the cumbrous and slow affair that it is in civilised places. There was no commissariat, no ammunition wagons, no baggage, no camp-followers to hamper the line of march. In five or ten minutes after the alarm was given about two hundred Indian braves marched out from the camp in a column which may be described as one-deep--i.e. one following the other--and took their rapid way up the mountain sides, led by Unaco in person. Next to him marched Paul Bevan, who was followed in succession by Fred Westly, Paddy Flinders, Leaping Buck, and Tolly. For some time the long line could be seen by the Rose of Oregon passing swiftly up the mountain-side. Then, as distance united the individuals, as it were, to each other, it assumed the form of a mighty snake crawling _slowly_ along. By degrees it crawled over the nearest ridge and disappeared, after which Betty went to discuss the situation with Unaco's old mother. It was near midnight when the robber-band encamped in a wooded hollow which was backed on two sides by precipices and on the third by a deep ravine. "A good spot to set a host at defiance," remarked Stalker, glancing round with a look that would have expressed satisfaction if the wounded arm had allowed. "Yes," added the trapper, "and--" A violent fit of coughing prevented the completion of the sentence, which, however, when thought out in Drake's mind ran--"a good spot for hemming you and your scoundrels in, and starving you into submission!" A short time sufficed for a bite of cold supper and a little whiff, soon after which the robber camp, with the exception of the sentinels, was buried in repose. Tom Brixton was not allowed to have any intercourse whatever with his friend Drake. Both were bound and made to sleep in different parts of the camp. Nevertheless, during one brief moment, when they chanced to be near each other, Drake whispered, "Be ready!" and Tom heard him. Ere long no sound was heard in the camp save an occasional snore or sigh, and Drake's constant and hacking, but highly suppressed, cough. Poor fellow! He was obviously consumptive, and it was quite touching to note the careful way in which he tried to restrain himself, giving vent to as little sound as was consistent with his purpose. Turning a corner of jutting rock in the valley which led to the spot, Unaco's sharp and practised ear caught the sound. He stopped and stood like a bronze statue by Michael Angelo in the attitude of suddenly arrested motion. Upwards of two hundred bronze arrested statues instantly tailed away from him. Presently a smile, such as Michael Angelo probably never thought of reproducing, rippled on the usually grave visage of the chief. "M'ogany Drake!" he whispered, softly, in Paul Bevan's ear. "I didn't know Drake had sitch a horrid cold," whispered Bevan, in reply. Tolly Trevor clenched his teeth and screwed himself up internally to keep down the laughter that all but burst him, for he saw through the device at once. As for Leaping Buck, he did more than credit to his sire, because he kept as grave as Michael Angelo himself could have desired while chiselling his features. "Musha! but that is a quare sound," whispered Flinders to Westly. "Hush!" returned Westly. At a signal from their chief the whole band of Indians sank, as it seemed, into the ground, melted off the face of the earth, and only the white men and the chief remained. "I must go forward alone," whispered Unaco, turning to Paul. "White man knows not how to go on his belly like the serpent." "Mahoghany Drake would be inclined to dispute that p'int with 'ee," returned Bevan. "However, you know best, so we'll wait till you give us the signal to advance." Having directed his white friends to lie down, Unaco divested himself of all superfluous clothing, and glided swiftly but noiselessly towards the robber camp, with nothing but a tomahawk in his hand and a scalping-knife in his girdle. He soon reached the open side of the wooded hollow, guided thereto by Drake's persistent and evidently distressing cough. Here it became necessary to advance with the utmost caution. Fortunately for the success of his enterprise, all the sentinels that night had been chosen from among the white men. The consequence was that although they were wide awake and on the _qui vive_, their unpractised senses failed to detect the very slight sounds that Unaco made while gliding slowly--inch by inch, and with many an anxious pause--into the very midst of his foes. It was a trying situation, for instant death would have been the result of discovery. As if to make matters more difficult for him just then, Drake's hacking cough ceased, and the Indian could not make out where he lay. Either his malady was departing or he had fallen into a temporary slumber! That the latter was the case became apparent from his suddenly recommencing the cough. This, however, had the effect of exasperating one of the sentinels. "Can't you stop that noise?" he muttered, sternly. "I'm doin' my best to smother it," said Drake in a conciliatory tone. Apparently he had succeeded, for he coughed no more after that. But the fact was that a hand had been gently laid upon his arm. "So soon!" he thought. "Well done, boys!" But he said never a word, while a pair of lips touched his ear and said, in the Indian tongue-- "Where lies your friend?" Drake sighed sleepily, and gave a short and intensely subdued cough, as he turned his lips to a brown ear which seemed to rise out of the grass for the purpose, and spoke something that was inaudible to all save that ear. Instantly hand, lips, and ear withdrew, leaving the trapper in apparently deep repose. A sharp knife, however, had touched his bonds, and he knew that he was free. A few minutes later, and the same hand touched Tom Brixton's arm. He would probably have betrayed himself by an exclamation, but remembering Drake's "Be ready," he lay perfectly still while the hands, knife, and lips did their work. The latter merely said, in broken English, "Rise when me rise, an' run!" Next instant Unaco leaped to his feet and, with a terrific yell of defiance, bounded into the bushes. Tom Brixton followed him like an arrow, and so prompt was Mahoghany Drake to act that he and Tom came into violent collision as they cleared the circle of light thrown by the few sinking embers of the camp-fires. No damage, however, was done. At the same moment the band of Indians in ambush sprang up with their terrible war whoop, and rushed towards the camp. This effectually checked the pursuit which had been instantly begun by the surprised bandits, who at once retired to the shelter of the mingled rocks and shrubs in the centre of the hollow, from out of which position they fired several tremendous volleys. "That's right--waste yer ammunition," said Paul Bevan, with a short laugh, as he and the rest lay quickly down to let the leaden shower pass over. "It's always the way wi' men taken by surprise," said Drake, who, with Brixton and the chief, had stopped in their flight and turned with their friends. "They blaze away wildly for a bit, just to relieve their feelin's, I s'pose. But they'll soon stop." "An' what'll we do now?" inquired Flinders, "for it seems to me we've got all we want out o' them, an' it's no use fightin' them for mere fun--though it's mesilf that used to like fightin' for that same; but I think the air of Oregon has made me more peaceful inclined." "But the country has been kept for a long time in constant alarm and turmoil by these men," said Fred Westly, "and, although I like fighting as little as any man, I cannot help thinking that we owe it as a duty to society to capture as many of them as we can, especially now that we seem to have caught them in a sort of trap." "What says Mahoghany Drake on the subject!" asked Unaco. "I vote for fightin', 'cause there'll be no peace in the country till the band is broken up." "Might it not be better to hold them prisoners here?" suggested Paul Bevan. "They can't escape, you tell me, except by this side, and there's nothin' so good for tamin' men as hunger." "Ah!" said Tom Brixton, "you speak the truth, Bevan; I have tried it." "But what does Unaco himself think?" asked Westly. "We must fight 'em at once, an' root them out neck and crop!" These words were spoken, not by the Indian, but by a deep bass voice which sent a thrill of surprise, not unmingled with alarm, to more hearts than one; and no wonder, for it was the voice of Gashford, the big bully of Pine Tree Diggings! CHAPTER TWENTY. To account for the sudden appearance of Gashford, as told in our last chapter, it is necessary to explain that two marauding Indians chanced to pay Pine Tree Diggings a visit one night, almost immediately after the unsuccessful attack made by Stalker and his men. The savages were more successful than the white robbers had been. They managed to carry off a considerable quantity of gold without being discovered, and Gashford, erroneously attributing their depredations to a second visit from Stalker, was so enraged that he resolved to pursue and utterly root out the robber-band. Volunteers were not wanting. Fifty stout young fellows offered their services, and, at the head of these, Gashford set out for the Sawback Mountains, which were known to be the retreat of the bandits. An Indian, who knew the region well, and had once been ill-treated by Stalker, became a willing guide. He led the gold-diggers to the robbers' retreat, and there, learning from a brother savage that the robber-chief and his men had gone off to hunt up Paul Bevan in the region that belonged to Unaco, he led his party by a short cut over the mountains, and chanced to come on the scene of action at the critical moment, when Unaco and his party were about to attack the robbers. Ignorant of who the parties were that contended, yet feeling pretty sure that the men he sought for probably formed one of them, he formed the somewhat hazardous determination, personally and alone, to join the rush of the assailants, under cover of the darkness; telling his lieutenant, Crossby, to await his return, or to bring on his men at the run if they should hear his well-known signal. On joining the attacking party without having been observed--or, rather, having been taken for one of the band in the uncertain light--he recognised Westly's and Flinders's voices at once, and thus it was that he suddenly gave his unasked advice on the subject then under discussion. But Stalker's bold spirit settled the question for them in an unexpected manner. Perceiving at once that he had been led into a trap, he felt that his only chance lay in decisive and rapid action. "Men," he said to those who crowded round him in the centre of the thicket which formed their encampment, "we've bin caught. Our only chance lies in a bold rush and then scatter. Are you ready?" "Ready!" responded nearly every man. Those who might have been unwilling were silent, for they knew that objection would be useless. "Come on, then, an' give them a screech when ye burst out!" Like an avalanche of demons the robber band rushed down the slope and crashed into their foes, and a yell that might well have been born of the regions below rang from cliff to cliff, but the Indians were not daunted. Taken by surprise, however, many of them were overturned in the rush, when high above the din arose the bass roar of Gashford. Crossby heard the signal and led his men down to the scene of battle at a rapid run. But the robbers were too quick for them; most of them were already scattering far and wide through the wilderness. Only one group had been checked, and, strange to say, that was the party that happened to cluster round and rush with their chief. But the reason was clear enough, for that section of the foe had been met by Mahoghany Drake, Bevan, Westly, Brixton, Flinders, and the rest, while Gashford at last met his match, in the person of the gigantic Stalker. But they did not meet on equal terms, for the robber's wounded arm was almost useless. Still, with the other arm he fired a shot at the huge digger, missed, and, flinging the weapon at his head, grappled with him. There was a low precipice or rocky ledge, about fifteen feet high, close to them. Over this the two giants went after a brief but furious struggle, and here, after the short fight was over, they were found, grasping each other by their throats, and in a state of insensibility. Only two other prisoners were taken besides Stalker--one by Bevan, the other by Flinders. But these were known by Drake to be poor wretches who had only joined the band a few weeks before, and as they protested that they had been captured and forced to join, they were set free. "You see, it's of no manner o' use hangin' the wretched critters," observed Drake to Bevan, confidentially, when they were returning to the Indian village the following morning. "It would do them no good. All that we wanted was to break up the band and captur' the chief, which bein' done, it would be a shame to shed blood uselessly." "But we must hang Stalker," said little Tolly, who had taken part in the attack, and whose sense of justice, it seems, would have been violated if the leader of the band had been spared. "I'm inclined to think he won't want hangin', Tolly," replied Drake, gravely. "That tumble didn't improve his wounded arm, for Gashford fell atop of him." The trapper's fear was justified. When Stalker was carried into the Indian village and examined by Fred Westly, it was found that, besides other injuries, two of his ribs had been broken, and he was already in high fever. Betty Bevan, whose sympathy with all sufferers was strong, volunteered to nurse him, and, as she was unquestionably the best nurse in the place, her services were accepted. Thus it came about that the robber-chief and the Rose of Oregon were for a time brought into close companionship. On the morning after their return to the Indian village, Paul Bevan and Betty sauntered away towards the lake. The Rose had been with Stalker the latter part of the night, and after breakfast had said she would take a stroll to let the fresh air blow sleepiness away. Paul had offered to go with her. "Well, Betty, lass, what think ye of this robber-chief, now you've seen somethin' of him at close quarters?" asked Paul, as they reached the margin of the lake. "I have scarcely seen him in his right mind, father, for he has been wandering a little at times during the night; and, oh! you cannot think what terrible things he has been talking about." "Has he?" said Paul, glancing at Betty with sudden earnestness. "What did he speak about?" "I can scarcely tell you, for at times he mixed up his ideas so that I could not understand him, but I fear he has led a very bad life and done many wicked things. He brought in your name, too, pretty often, and seemed to confuse you with himself, putting on you the blame of deeds which just a minute before he had confessed he had himself done." "Ay, did he?" said Paul, with a peculiar expression and tone. "Well, he warn't far wrong, for I _have_ helped him sometimes." "Father!" exclaimed Betty, with a shocked look--"but you misunderstand. He spoke of such things as burglary and highway robbery, and you could never have helped him in deeds of that kind." "Oh! he spoke of such things as these, did he?" returned Paul. "Well, yes, he's bin up to a deal of mischief in his day. And what did you say to him, lass? Did you try to quiet him?" "What could I say, father, except tell him the old, old story of Jesus and His love; that He came to seek and to save the lost, even the chief of sinners?" "An' how did he take it?" inquired Paul, with a grave, almost an anxious look. "At first he would not listen, but when I began to read the Word to him, and then tried to explain what seemed suitable to him, he got up on his unhurt elbow and looked at me with such a peculiar and intense look that I felt almost alarmed, and was forced to stop. Then he seemed to wander again in his mind, for he said such a strange thing." "What was that, Betty?" "He said I was like his mother." "Well, lass, he wasn't far wrong, for you _are_ uncommon like her." "Did you know his mother, then?" "Ay, Betty, I knowed her well, an' a fine, good-lookin' woman she was, wi' a kindly, religious soul, just like yours. She was a'most heartbroken about her son, who was always wild, but she had a strong power over him, for he was very fond of her, and I've no doubt that your readin' the Bible an' telling him about Christ brought back old times to his mind." "But if his mother was so good and taught him so carefully, and, as I doubt not, prayed often and earnestly for him, how was it that he fell into such awful ways?" asked Betty. "It was the old, old story, lass, on the other side o' the question-- drink and bad companions--and--and _I_ was one of them." "You, father, the companion of a burglar and highway robber?" "Well, he wasn't just that at the time, though both him and me was bad enough. It was my refusin' to jine him in some of his jobs that made a coolness between us, an' when his mother died I gave him some trouble about money matters, which turned him into my bitterest foe. He vowed he would take my life, and as he was one o' those chaps that, when they say they'll do a thing, are sure to do it, I thought it best to bid adieu to old England, especially as I was wanted at the time by the police." Poor Rose of Oregon! The shock to her feelings was terrible, for, although she had always suspected from some traits in his character that her father had led a wild life, it had never entered her imagination that he was an outlaw. For some time she remained silent with her face in her hands, quite unable to collect her thoughts or decide what to say, for whatever her father might have been in the past he had been invariably kind to her, and, moreover, had given very earnest heed to the loving words which she often spoke when urging him to come to the Saviour. At last she looked up quickly. "Father," she said, "I will nurse this man with more anxious care and interest, for his mother's sake." "You may do it, dear lass, for his own sake," returned Paul, impressively, "for he is your own brother." "My brother?" gasped Betty. "Why, what do you mean, father? Surely you are jesting!" "Very far from jesting, lass. Stalker is your brother Edwin, whom you haven't seen since you was a small girl, and you thought was dead. But, come, as the cat's out o' the bag at last, I may as well make a clean breast of it. Sit down here on the bank, Betty, and listen." The poor girl obeyed almost mechanically, for she was well-nigh stunned by the unexpected news, which Paul had given her, and of which, from her knowledge of her father's character, she could not doubt the truth. "Then Stalker--Edwin--must be your own son!" she said, looking at Paul earnestly. "Nay, he's not my son, no more than you are my daughter. Forgive me, Betty. I've deceived you throughout, but I did it with a good intention. You see, if I hadn't passed myself off as your father, I'd never have bin able to git ye out o' the boardin'-school where ye was putt. But I did it for the best, Betty, I did it for the best; an' all to benefit your poor mother an' you. That is how it was." He paused, as if endeavouring to recall the past, and Betty sat with her hands clasped, gazing in Paul's face like a fascinated creature, unable to speak or move. "You see, Betty," he resumed, "your real father was a doctor in the army, an' I'm sorry to have to add, he was a bad man--so bad that he went and deserted your mother soon after you was born. I raither think that your brother Edwin must have got his wickedness from him, just as you got your goodness from your mother; but I've bin told that your father became a better man before he died, an' I can well believe it, wi' such a woman as your mother prayin' for him every day, as long as he lived. Well, when you was about six, your brother Edwin, who was then about twenty, had got so bad in his ways, an' used to kick up sitch shindies in the house, an' swore so terrible, that your mother made up her mind to send you to a boardin'-school, to keep you out o' harm's way, though it nigh broke her heart; for you seemed to be the only comfort she had in life. "About that time I was goin' a good deal about the house, bein', as I've said, a chum o' your brother. But he was goin' too fast for me, and that made me split with him. I tried at first to make him hold in a bit; but what was the use of a black sheep like me tryin' to make a white sheep o' _him_! The thing was so absurd that he laughed at it; indeed, we both laughed at it. Your mother was at that time very poorly off--made a miserable livin' by dressmakin'. Indeed, she'd have bin half starved if I hadn't given her a helpin' hand in a small way now an' then. She was very grateful, and very friendly wi' me, for I was very fond of her, and she know'd that, bad as I was, I tried to restrain her son to some extent. So she told me about her wish to git you well out o' the house, an' axed me if I'd go an' put you in a school down at Brighton, which she know'd was a good an' a cheap one. "Of course I said I would, for, you see, the poor thing was that hard worked that she couldn't git away from her stitch-stitchin', not even for an hour, much less a day. When I got down to the school, before goin' up to the door it came into my head that it would be better that the people should know you was well looked after, so says I to you, quite sudden, `Betty, remember you're to call me father when you speak about me.' You turned your great blue eyes to my face, dear lass, when I said that, with a puzzled look. "`Me sought mamma say father was far far away in other country,' says you. "`That's true,' says I, `but I've come home from the other country, you see, so don't you forget to call me father.' "`Vewy well, fadder,' says you, in your own sweet way, for you was always a biddable child, an' did what you was told without axin' questions. "Well, when I'd putt you in the school an' paid the first quarter in advance, an' told 'em that the correspondence would be done chiefly through your mother, I went back to London, puzzlin' my mind all the way what I'd say to your mother for what I'd done. Once it came into my head I would ax her to marry me--for she was a widow by that time--an' so make the deception true. But I quickly putt that notion a one side, for I know'd I might as well ax an angel to come down from heaven an dwell wi' me in a backwoods shanty--but, after all," said Paul, with a quiet laugh, "I did get an angel to dwell wi' me in a backwoods shanty when I got you, Betty! Howsever, as things turned out I was saved the trouble of explainin'. "When I got back I found your mother in a great state of excitement. She'd just got a letter from the West Indies, tellin' her that a distant relation had died an' left her a small fortin! People's notions about the size o' fortins differs. Enough an' to spare is ocean's wealth to some. Thousands o' pounds is poverty to others. She'd only just got the letter, an' was so taken up about it that she couldn't help showin' it to me. "`Now,' says I, `Mrs Buxley,'--that was her name, an' your real name too, Betty--says I, `make your will right off, an putt it away safe, leavin' every rap o' that fortin to Betty, for you may depend on't, if Edwin gits wind o' this, he'll worm it out o' you, by hook or by crook-- you know he will--and go straight to the dogs at full gallop.' "`What!' says she, `an' leave nothin' to my boy?--my poor boy, for whom I have never ceased to pray! He may repent, you know--he _will_ repent. I feel sure of it--and then he will find that his mother left him nothing, though God had sent her a fortune.' "`Oh! as to that,' says I, `make your mind easy. If Edwin does repent an' turn to honest ways, he's got talents and go enough in him to make his way in the world without help; but you can leave him what you like, you know, only make sure that you leave the bulk of it to Betty.' "This seemed to strike her as a plan that would do, for she was silent for some time, and then, suddenly makin' up her mind, she said, `I'll go and ask God's help in this matter, an' then see about gettin' a lawyer-- for I suppose a thing o' this sort can't be done without one.' "`No, mum,' says I, `it can't. You may, if you choose, make a muddle of it without a lawyer, but you can't do it right without one.' "`Can you recommend one to me?' says she. "I was greatly tickled at the notion o' the likes o' me bein' axed to recommend a lawyer. It was so like your mother's innocence and trustfulness. Howsever, she'd come to the right shop, as it happened, for I did know a honest lawyer! Yes, Betty, from the way the world speaks, an' what's often putt in books, you'd fancy there warn't such'n a thing to be found on 'arth. But that's all bam, Betty. Leastwise I know'd one honest firm. `Yes, Mrs Buxley,' says I, `there's a firm o' the name o' Truefoot, Tickle, and Badger in the City, who can do a'most anything that's possible to man. But you'll have to look sharp, for if Edwin comes home an' diskivers what's doin', it's all up with the fortin an' Betty.' "Well, to make a long story short, your mother went to the lawyer's, an' had her will made, leavin' a good lump of a sum to your brother, but the most of the fortin to you. By the advice o' Truefoot Tickle, and Badger, she made it so that you shouldn't touch the money till you come to be twenty-one, `for,' says she, `there's no sayin' what bad men will be runnin' after the poor thing an deceivin' her for the sake of her money before she is of an age to look after herself.' `Yes,' thought I, `an' there's no sayin' what bad men'll be runnin' after the poor thing an' deceivin' of her for the sake of her money _after_ she's of an age to look after herself,' but I didn't say that out, for your mother was excited enough and over-anxious about things, I could see that. "Well, when the will was made out all right, she took it out of her chest one night an' read it all over to me. I could see it was shipshape, though I couldn't read a word of its crabbed letters myself. "`Now Mrs Buxley,' says I, `where are you goin' to keep that dockiment?' "`In my chest,' says she. "`Won't be safe there,' says I, for I knowed her forgivin' and confidin' natur' too well, an' that she'd never be able to keep it from your brother; but, before I could say more, there was a tremendous knockin' wi' a stick at the front door. Your poor mother turned pale--she know'd the sound too well. `That's Edwin,' she says, jumpin' up an runnin' to open the door, forgetting all about the will, so I quietly folded it up an' shoved it in my pocket. "When Edwin was comin' up stairs I know'd he was very drunk and savage by the way he was goin' on, an' when he came into the room an' saw me he gave a yell of rage. `Didn't I tell you never to show your face here again?' says he. `Just so,' says I, `but not bein' subjec' to your orders, d'ye see, I _am_ here again.' "Wi' that he swore a terrible oath an' rushed at me, but he tripped over a footstool and fell flat on the floor. Before he could recover himself I made myself scarce an' went home. "Next mornin', when I'd just finished breakfast a thunderin' rap came to the door. I know'd it well enough. `Now look out for squalls,' said I to myself, as I went an' opened it. Edwin jumped in, banged the door to, an' locked it. "`You've no occasion to do that' says I, `for I don't expect no friends--not even bobbies.' "`You double-faced villain!' says he; `you've bin robbin' my mother!' "`Come, come,' says I, `civility, you know, between pals. What have I done to your mother?' "`You needn't try to deceive me, Paul,' says he, tryin' to keep his temper down. `Mother's bin took bad, wi' over-excitement, the doctor says, an' she's told me all about the fortin an' the will, an' where Betty is down at Brighton.' "`My Betty at Brighton!' says I--pretendin' great surprise, for I had a darter at that time whom I had called after your mother, for that was her name too--but she's dead, poor thing!--she was dyin' in hospital at the very time we was speakin', though I didn't know at the time that her end was so near--`my Betty at Brighton!' says I. `Why, she's in hospital. Bin there for some weeks.' "`I don't mean _your_ brat, but my sister,' says Edwin, quite fierce. `Where have you put her? What's the name of the school? What have you done wi' the will?' "`You'd better ax your mother,' says I. `It's likely that she knows the partiklers better nor me.' "He lost patience altogether at this, an' sprang at me like a tiger. But I was ready for him. We had a regular set-to then an' there. By good luck there was no weapons of any kind in the room, not even a table knife, for I'd had to pawn a'most everything to pay my rent, and the clasp-knife I'd eat my breakfast with was in my pocket. But we was both handy with our fists. We kep' at it for about half an hour. Smashed all the furniture, an' would have smashed the winders too, but there was only one, an' it was a skylight. In the middle of it the door was burst open, an' in rushed half a dozen bobbies, who put a stop to it at once. "`We're only havin' a friendly bout wi' the gloves,' says I, smilin' quite sweet. "`I don't see no gloves,' says the man as held me. "`That's true,' says I, lookin' at my hands. `They must have dropped off an' rolled up the chimbly.' "`Hallo! Edwin Buxley!' said the sargeant, lookin' earnestly at your brother; `why you've bin wanted for some time. Here, Joe! the bracelets.' "In half a minute he was marched off. `I'll have your blood, Paul, for this,' he said bitterly, looking back as he went out. "As _I_ wasn't `wanted' just then, I went straight off to see your mother, to find out how much she had told to Edwin, for, from what he had said, I feared she must have told all. I was anxious, also, to see if she'd bin really ill. When I got to the house I met a nurse who said she was dyin', an' would hardly let me in, till I got her persuaded I was an intimate friend. On reachin' the bedroom I saw by the looks o' two women who were standin' there that it was serious. And so it was, for there lay your poor mother, as pale as death; her eyes closed and her lips white; but there was a sweet, contented smile on her face, and her thin hands clasped her well-worn Bible to her breast." Paul Bevan stopped, for the poor girl had burst into tears. For a time he was silent and laid his heavy hand gently on her shoulder. "I did not ventur' to speak to her," he continued, "an' indeed it would have been of no use, for she was past hearin'. A few minutes later and her gentle spirit went up to God. "I had no time now to waste, for I knew that your brother would give information that might be bad for me, so I asked the nurse to write down, while I repeated it, the lawyer's address. "`Now,' says I, `go there an' tell 'em what's took place. It'll be the better for yourself if you do.' An' then I went straight off to Brighton." CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. "Well, you must know," said Paul Bevan, continuing his discourse to the Rose of Oregon, "when I got to Brighton I went to the school, told 'em that your mother was just dead, and brought you straight away. I wasn't an hour too soon, for, as I expected, your brother had given information, an' the p'lice were on my heels in a jiffy, but I was too sharp for 'em. I went into hidin' in London; an' you've no notion, Betty, what a rare place London is to hide in! A needle what takes to wanderin' in a haystack ain't safer than a feller is in London, if he only knows how to go about the business. "I lay there nigh three months, durin' which time my own poor child Betty continued hoverin' 'tween life an death. At last, one night when I was at the hospital sittin' beside her, she suddenly raised her sweet face, an fixin' her big eyes on me, said-- "`Father, I'm goin' home. Shall I tell mother that you're comin'?' "`What d'ye mean, my darlin'?' says I, while an awful thump came to my heart, for I saw a great change come over her. "`I'll be there soon, father,' she said, as her dear voice began to fail; `have you no message for mother?' "I was so crushed that I couldn't speak, so she went on-- "`You'll come--won't you, father? an' we'll be so glad to welcome you to heaven. An' so will Jesus. Remember, He is the only door, father, no name but that of Jesus--' She stopped all of a sudden, and I saw that she had gone home. "After that" continued Paul, hurrying on as if the memory of the event was too much for him, "havin' nothin' to keep me in England, I came off here to the gold-fields with you, an' brought the will with me, intendin', when you came of age, to tell you all about it, an' see justice done both to you an' to your brother, but--" "Fath--Paul," said Betty, checking herself, "that brown parcel you gave me long ago with such earnest directions to keep it safe, and only to open it if you were killed, is--" "That's the will, my dear." "And Edwin--does he think that I am your real daughter Betty?" "No doubt he does, for he never heard of her bein' dead, and he never saw you since you was quite a little thing, an' there's a great change on you since then--a wonderful change." "Yes, fath--Oh! it is so hard to lose my father," said Betty, almost breaking down, and letting her hands fall listlessly into her lap. "But why lose him, Betty? I did it all for the best," said Paul, gently taking hold of one of the poor girl's hands. She made a slight motion to withdraw it, but checked herself and let it rest in the man's rough but kindly grasp, while tears silently coursed down her rounded cheeks. Presently she looked up and said-- "How did Edwin find out where you had gone to?" "That's more than I can tell, Betty, unless it was through Truefoot, Tickle, and Badger. I wrote to them after gettin' here, tellin' them to look well after the property, and it would be claimed in good time, an' I raither fear that the postmark on the letter must have let the cat out o' the bag. Anyhow, not long after that Edwin found me out an' you know how he has persecuted me, though you little thought he was your own brother when you were beggin' of me not to kill him--no more did you guess that I was as little anxious to kill him as you were, though I did pretend I'd have to do it now an' then in self-defence. Sometimes, indeed, he riled me up to sitch an extent that there wasn't much pretence about it; but thank God! my hand has been held back." "Yes, thank God for that; and now I must go to him," said Betty, rising hastily and hurrying back to the Indian village. In a darkened tent, on a soft couch of deerskins, the dying form of Buxley, alias Stalker, lay extended. In the fierceness of his self-will he had neglected his wounds until too late to save his life. A look of stern resolution sat on his countenance--probably he had resolved to "die game," as hardened criminals express it. His determination, on whatever ground based, was evidently not shaken by the arguments of a man who sat by his couch. It was Tom Brixton. "What's the use o' preachin' to me, young fellow?" said the robber-chief, testily. "I dare say you are pretty nigh as great a scoundrel as I am." "Perhaps a greater," returned Tom. "I have no wish to enter into comparisons, but I'm quite prepared to admit that I am as bad." "Well, then, you've as much need as I have to seek salvation for yourself." "Indeed I have, and it is because I have sought it and obtained it," said Tom, earnestly, "that I am anxious to point out the way to you. I've come through much the same experiences, no doubt, as you have. I have been a scouter of my mother's teachings, a thief, and, in heart if not in act, a murderer. No one could be more urgently in need of salvation _from sin_ than I, and I used to think that I was so bad that my case was hopeless, until God opened my eyes to see that Jesus came to save His people _from their sins_. That is what you need, is it not?" "Ay, but it is too late," said Stalker, bitterly. "The crucified thief did not find it too late," returned Tom, "and it was the eleventh hour with him." Stalker made no reply, but the stern, hard expression of his face did not change one iota until he heard a female voice outside asking if he were asleep. Then the features relaxed; the frown passed like a summer cloud before the sun, and, with half-open lips and a look of glad, almost childish expectancy, he gazed at the curtain-door of the tent. "Mother's voice!" he murmured, apparently in utter forgetfulness of Tom Brixton's presence. Next moment the curtain was raised, and Betty, entering quickly, advanced to the side of the couch. Tom rose, as if about to leave. "Don't go, Mr Brixton," said the girl, "I wish you to hear us." "My brother!" she continued, turning to the invalid, and grasping his hand, for the first time, as she sat down beside him. "If you were not so young I'd swear you were my mother," exclaimed Stalker, with a slight look of surprise at the changed manner of his nurse. "Ha! I wish that I were indeed your brother." "But you _are_ my brother, Edwin Buxley," cried the girl with intense earnestness, "my dear and only brother, whom God will save through Jesus Christ?" "What do you mean, Betty?" asked Stalker, with an anxious and puzzled look. "I mean that I am _not_ Betty Bevan. Paul Bevan has told me so--told me that I am Betty Buxley, and your sister!" The dying man's chest heaved with labouring breath, for his wasted strength was scarcely sufficient to bear this shock of surprise. "I would not believe it," he said, with some difficulty, "even though Paul Bevan were to swear to it, were it not for the wonderful likeness both in look and tone." He pressed her hand fervently, and added, "Yes, dear Betty. I _do_ believe that you are my very sister." Tom Brixton, from an instinctive feeling of delicacy, left the tent, while the Rose of Oregon related to her brother the story of her life with Paul Bevan, and then followed it up with the story of God's love to man in Jesus Christ. Tom hurried to Bevan's tent to have the unexpected and surprising news confirmed, and Paul told him a good deal, but was very careful to make no allusion to Betty's "fortin." "Now, Mister Brixton," said Paul, somewhat sternly, when he had finished, "there must be no more shilly-shallyin' wi' Betty's feelin's. You're fond o' _her_, an' she's fond o' _you_. In them circumstances a man is bound to wed--all the more that the poor thing has lost her nat'ral protector, so to speak, for I'm afraid she'll no longer look upon me as a father." There was a touch of pathos in Paul's tone as he concluded, which checked the rising indignation in Brixton's breast. "But you forget, Paul, that Gashford and his men are here, and will probably endeavour to lay hold of me. I can scarce look on myself as other than an outlaw." "Pooh! lay hold of you!" exclaimed Paul, with contempt; "d'ye think Gashford or any one else will dare to touch you with Mahoghany Drake an' Mister Fred an' Flinders an' me, and Unaco with all his Injins at your back? Besides, let me tell you that Gashford seems a changed man. I've had a talk wi' him about you, an' he said he was done persecutin' of you--that you had made restitootion when you left all the goold on the river's bank for him to pick up, and that as nobody else in partikler wanted to hang you, you'd nothin' to fear." "Well, that does change the aspect of affairs," said Tom, "and it may be that you are right in your advice about Betty. I have twice tried to get away from her and have failed. Perhaps it may be right now to do as you suggest, though after all the time seems not very suitable; but, as you truly observe, she has lost her natural protector, for of course you cannot be a father to her any longer. Yes, I'll go and see Fred about it." Tom had considerable qualms of conscience as to the propriety of the step he meditated, and tried to argue with himself as he went in search of his friend. "You see," he soliloquised aloud, "her brother is dying; and then, though I am not a whit more worthy of her than I was, the case is nevertheless altered, for she has no father now. Then by marrying her I shall have a right to protect her--and she stands greatly in need of a protector in this wild country at this time, poor thing! and some one to work for her, seeing that she has no means whatever!" "Troth, an' that's just what she does need, sor!" said Paddy Flinders, stepping out of the bush at the moment. "Excuse me, sor, but I cudn't help hearin' ye, for ye was spakin' out loud. But I agree with ye intirely; an', if I may make so bowld, I'm glad to find ye in that state o' mind. Did ye hear the news, sor? They've found goold at the hid o' the valley here." "Indeed," said Tom, with a lack of interest that quite disgusted his volatile friend. "Yes, indade," said he. "Why, sor, they've found it in big nuggets in some places, an' Muster Gashford is off wid a party not half an hour past. I'm goin' mesilf, only I thought I'd see first if ye wouldn't jine me; but ye don't seem to care for goold no more nor if it was copper; an that's quare, too, whin it was the very objec' that brought ye here." "Ah, Flinders, I have gained more than my object in coming. I _have_ found gold--most fine gold, too, that I won't have to leave behind me when it pleases God to call me home. But never fear, I'll join you. I owe you and other friends a debt, and I must dig to pay that. Then, if I succeed in the little scheme which you overheard me planning, I shall need some gold to keep the pot boiling!" "Good luck to ye, sor! so ye will. But plaze don't mintion the little debt you say you owe me an' the other boys. Ye don't owe us nothin' o' the sort. But who comes here? Muster Fred it is--the very man I want to see." "Yes, and I want to see him too, Paddy, so let me speak first, for a brief space, in private, and you can have him as long as you like afterwards." Fred Westly's opinion on the point which his friend put before him entirely coincided with that of Paul Bevan. "I'm not surprised to learn that Paul is not her father," he said. "It was always a puzzle to me how she came to be so lady-like and refined in her feelings, with such a rough, though kindly, father. But I can easily understand it now that I hear who and what her mother was." But the principal person concerned in Tom Brixton's little scheme held an adverse opinion to his friends Paul and Fred and Flinders. Betty would by no means listen to Tom's proposals until, one day, her brother said that he would like to see her married to Tom Brixton before he died. Then the obdurate Rose of Oregon gave in! "But how is it to be managed without a clergyman?" asked Fred Westly one evening over the camp fire when supper was being prepared. "Ay, how indeed?" said Tom, with a perplexed look. "Oh, bother the clergy!" cried the irreverent Flinders. "That's just what I'd do if there was one here," responded Tom; "I'd bother him till he married us." "I say, what did Adam and Eve an' those sort o' people do?" asked Tolly Trevor, with the sudden animation resulting from the budding of a new idea; "there was no clergy in their day, I suppose?" "True for ye, boy," remarked Flinders, as he lifted a large pot of soup off the fire. "I know and care not, Tolly, what those sort o' people did," said Tom; "and as Betty and I are not Adam and Eve, and the nineteenth century is not the first, we need not inquire." "I'll tell 'ee what," said Mahoghany Drake, "it's just comed into my mind that there's a missionary goes up once a year to an outlyin' post o' the fur-traders, an' this is about the very time. What say ye to make an excursion there to get spliced, it's only about two hundred miles off? We could soon ride there an' back, for the country's all pretty flattish after passin' the Sawback range." "The very thing!" cried Tom; "only--perhaps Betty might object to go, her brother being so ill." "Not she," said Fred; "since the poor man found in her a sister as well as a nurse he seems to have got a new lease of life. I don't, indeed, think it possible that he can recover, but he may yet live a good while; and the mere fact that she has gone to get married will do him good." So it was finally arranged that they should all go, and, before three days had passed, they went, with a strong band of their Indian allies. They found the missionary as had been expected. The knot was tied, and Tom Brixton brought back the Rose of Oregon as a blooming bride to the Sawback range. From that date onward Tom toiled at the goldfields as if he had been a galley-slave, and scraped together every speck and nugget of gold he could find, and hoarded it up as if he had been a very miser, and, strange to say, Betty did not discourage him. One day he entered his tent with a large canvas bag in his hand quite full. "It's all here at last," he said, holding it up. "I've had it weighed, and I'm going to square up." "Go, dear Tom, and God speed you," said the Rose, giving him a kiss that could not have been purchased by all the gold in Oregon. Tom went off, and soon returned with the empty bag. "It was hard work, Betty, to get them to take it, but they agreed when I threatened to heave it all into the lake if they didn't! Then--I ventured," said Tom, looking down with something like a blush--"it does seem presumptuous in me, but I couldn't help it--I preached to them! I told them of my having been twice bought; of the gold that never perishes; and of the debt I owe, which I could never repay, like theirs, with interest, because it is incalculable. And now, dear Betty, we begin the world afresh from to-day." "Yes, and with clear consciences," returned Betty. "I like to re-commence life thus." "But with empty pockets," added Tom, with a peculiar twist of his mouth. "No, not quite empty," rejoined the young wife, drawing a very business-looking envelope from her pocket and handing it to her husband. "Read that, Tom." Need we say that Tom read it with mingled amusement and amazement; that he laughed at it, and did not believe it; that he became grave, and inquired into it; and that finally, when Paul Bevan detailed the whole affair, he was forced to believe it? "An estate in the West Indies," he murmured to himself in a condition of semi-bewilderment, "yielding over fifteen hundred a year!" "A tidy little fortin," remarked Paddy Flinders, who overheard him. "I hope, sor, ye won't forgit yer owld frinds in Oregon when ye go over to take possession." "I won't my boy--you may depend on that." And he did not! But Edwin Buxley did not live to enjoy his share of the fortune. Soon after the wedding he began to sink rapidly, and finally died while gazing earnestly in his sister's face, with the word "mother" trembling faintly on his lips. He was laid under a lordly tree not far from the Indian village in the Sawback range. It was six months afterwards that Betty became of age and was entitled to go home and claim her own. She and Tom went first to a small village in Kent, where dwelt an old lady who for some time past had had her heart full to the very brim with gratitude because of a long-lost prodigal son having been brought back to her--saved by the blood of the Lamb. When at last she set her longing eyes on Tom, and heard his well-remembered voice say, "Mother!" the full heart overflowed and rushed down the wrinkled cheeks in floods of inexpressible joy. And the floods were increased, and the joy intensified, when she turned at last to gaze on a little modest, tearful, sympathetic flower, whom Tom introduced to her as the Rose of Oregon! Thereafter Tom and the Rose paid a visit to London City and called upon Truefoot, Tickle, and Badger. Truefoot was the only partner in the office at the time, but he ably represented the firm, for he tickled them with information and badgered them with questions to such an extent that they left the place of business in a state of mental confusion, but on the whole, very well satisfied. The result of all these things was that Tom Brixton settled down near the village where his mother dwelt, and Fred Westly, after staying long enough among the Sawback Mountains to dig out of them a sufficiency, returned home and bought a small farm beside his old chum. And did Tom forget his old friends in Oregon? No! He became noted for the length and strength of his correspondence. He wrote to Flinders begging him to come home and help him with his property, and Flinders accepted. He wrote to Mahoghany Drake and sent him a splendid rifle, besides good advice and many other things, at different times, too numerous to mention. He wrote to little Tolly Trevor endeavouring to persuade him to come to England and be "made a man of", but Tolly politely declined, preferring to follow the fortunes of Mahoghany and be made a man of in the backwoods sense of the expression, in company with his fast friend the Leaping Buck. Tolly sent his special love to the Rose of Oregon, and said that she would be glad to hear that the old place in the Sawback range had become a little colony, and that a missionary had settled in it, and Gashford had held by his promise to her--not only giving up drink and gambling entirely, but had set up a temperance coffee-house and a store, both of which were in the full blast of prosperity. Tolly also said, in quite a poetical burst, that the fragrance of the Rose not only remained in the Colony, but was still felt as a blessed memory and a potent influence for good throughout all the land. Finally, Tom Brixton settled down to a life of usefulness beside his mother--who lived to a fabulous old age--and was never tired of telling, especially to his young friends, of his wonderful adventures in the Far West and how he had been twice bought--once with gold and once with blood. THE END. 
41169	----	THE SECRETS OF CHEATING [Illustration: THE DETECTION OF KEPPLINGER 'Then, suddenly and without a moment's warning, Kepplinger was seized, gagged, and held hard and fast.... The great master-cheat was searched, and upon him was discovered the most ingenious holdout ever devised.'--Chap. v. p. 99.] SHARPS AND FLATS A COMPLETE REVELATION OF The Secrets of Cheating AT GAMES OF CHANCE AND SKILL BY JOHN NEVIL MASKELYNE LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET 1894 _All rights reserved_ TO THE ATTENTION OF THAT MAJORITY SPOKEN OF BY CARLYLE AND WHICH MAY BE SAID TO INCLUDE ALL GAMBLERS THIS BOOK IS PARTICULARLY ADDRESSED BY THE AUTHOR PREFACE In presenting the following pages to the public, I have had in view a very serious purpose. Here and there may be found a few words spoken in jest; but throughout my aim has been particularly earnest. This book, in fact, tends to point a moral, and present a problem. The moral is obvious, the problem is ethical; which is, perhaps, only another way of saying something different. In the realm of Ethics, the two men who exert, probably, the greatest influence upon the mass of humanity are the philosopher and the politician. Yet, strange to say, there would appear to be little that can be considered as common knowledge in either politics or philosophy. Every politician and every philosopher holds opinions which are diametrically opposed to those of some other politician or philosopher; and there never yet existed, apparently, either politician or philosopher who would admit even that his opponents were acquainted with the fact of two and two making four. So much, then, for dogmatism. In the natural order of events, however, there must be things which even a politician can understand. Not many things, perhaps; but still some things. In like manner, there must be things which even a philosopher can _not_ understand--and a great many things. As an illustration, let us take the case of 'sharping.' Politician and philosopher alike are interested in the origin of crime, its development, and the means of its prevention. Now, even a politician can understand that a man, having in view the acquisition of unearned increment, may take to cheating as being a ready means of possessing himself of the property of others, with but little effort upon his own part. At the same time, I will venture to say that not even a philosopher can render any adequate reason for the fact that some men will devote an amount of energy, labour, perseverance and ingenuity to the gaining of a precarious living in the paths of chicanery, one-half of which, if directed into legitimate channels, would serve to place them in a position commanding both affluence and respect. To my mind, the only hypothesis which in any way covers the facts of the case is that some men are _born_ to crime. It is their destiny, and they are bound to fulfil it. Whether this hypothesis represents the solution of the problem or not is a bone of contention over which I am content to allow others to quarrel, without joining in the fray. I am only concerned with the facts as we know them--the plain and unmistakable facts that cheating, upon a gigantic scale, _does_ exist; that the resources available for its advancement become every day more numerous, whilst the means of its prevention become more and more inadequate. A goodly portion of my life has been spent in battling with superstition, credulity and chicanery in every form. It has been a labour of love with me. At times I have, so to speak, cried from the house-top truths so obvious that there hardly seemed any necessity for calling attention to them, and yet have found some who could not believe them. Again and again, Time, the prover of all things, has without exception borne out my statements to the very letter; yet even now there are some who will prefer to rely upon the word of a charlatan--an impostor--rather than accept a plain statement of palpable facts at my hands. It is curious, but nevertheless it is true. It is magnificent, but it is not common sense. Fortunately, however, there are not many such, though some there are. Experience has demonstrated that the ignorance of the public with regard to the capabilities of trickery is the principal factor in all problems connected with every kind of deception. If the public only knew a little more in this respect, the thousand-and-one quackeries which flourish in our midst could not exist. My self-imposed task, then, has ever been to endeavour to educate the public, just a little, and to enlighten those who really seek for truth amid the noxious and perennial weeds of humbug and pretence. In this, I am happy to say, I have to some extent succeeded; but there is still much to be done. This book, then, is but another stone, as it were, in an edifice raised for the purpose of showing to the world the real nature of those things which are not really what they appear to be, and practices with the very existence of which the average man is unacquainted. Although the immediate practical outcome of this book may be _nil_, I shall not be depressed upon that account. If it only has the effect of opening the eyes of the authorities to some extent, and of hinting a caution to gamblers generally, I shall be content; and, commending it to the public with this reflection, and with the hope that this much, at least, may be accomplished, I leave it to its fate. J. N. MASKELYNE. EGYPTIAN HALL, LONDON, W. _February 1894._ CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. INTRODUCTORY 1 II. COMMON SHARPERS AND THEIR TRICKS 10 III. MARKED CARDS AND THE MANNER OF THEIR EMPLOYMENT 26 IV. REFLECTORS 60 V. HOLDOUTS 73 VI. MANIPULATION 112 VII. COLLUSION AND CONSPIRACY 159 VIII. THE GAME OF FARO 184 IX. PREPARED CARDS 215 X. DICE 229 XI. HIGH BALL POKER 261 XII. ROULETTE AND ALLIED GAMES 267 XIII. SPORTING-HOUSES 285 XIV. SHARPS AND FLATS 312 POSTSCRIPT 331 LIST OF PLATES FIGURE THE DETECTION OF KEPPLINGER _Frontispiece_ 12 'FALLEN ANGELS' _to face p._ 46 15 SCROLL-WORK " 50 22 PIPE-REFLECTOR IN SITU " 66 SHARPS AND FLATS CHAPTER I _INTRODUCTORY_ That 'it requires all kinds of men to make a world,' is an aphorism which may or may not be gainsaid, according to the aspect in which it is regarded. For whilst, on the one hand, we are painfully cognisant of the fact that this world, as we find it, is composed of 'all sorts and conditions of men,' and among them not a few sorts with which we could very readily dispense, still, on the other hand, the idea of a world with some of the existing components omitted is by no means inconceivable. Do we not, in fact, every day of our lives, meet with schemes, philanthropic and otherwise, formulated expressly for the regeneration of man? Yes, we know them of old; those schemes which, according to their gifted authors, are to elevate mankind to one universal level of goodness and purity. Sad to say, however, in spite of these well-meant efforts, continued from time immemorial, mankind would appear to be in about the same unregenerate condition as ever. The 'kinds of men' seem to multiply rather than to diminish, and the long-deferred millennium looms as far off in the dim and distant future as at any period of the world's history. Accepting, then, this many-sided world of ours as an established fact, impossible of modification, it is obvious that, to quote another time-honoured proverb, and say that 'one half the world does not know how the other half lives,' is to convey but a very feeble and inadequate idea of the real facts of the case. All things considered, it may be safely said that the majority know far too little of the means of subsistence employed by their fellows, and, in consequence, often suffer for that lack of knowledge. The fact is, too many of us possess the gentleness of the dove (more or less) without the qualifying and ever-necessary wisdom of the serpent. Among the bye-paths of existence, among the various underhand methods of obtaining a living--sweet little conceptions evolved, presumably, from the primordial basis of original sin--probably there is none so little understood by the community at large as the art and practice of 'sharping.' At the same time, it is not too much to say that there is no subject more worthy of serious consideration, when regarded in the relation it holds to the moral well-being of mankind in general. It is, of course, common knowledge that there are in existence individuals who live by cheating at games of chance and skill, but few persons have any idea of the extent to which the practice obtains, or of the number of the professors of this particular branch of swindling. Possibly, of the work-a-day inhabitants of this planet, nine persons out of ten of the majority who are 'indifferent honest,' will be inclined to a belief that sharping, at the worst, can form but a very insignificant factor in the social problems of modern times. A glance at the contents of this book, however, will serve to remove that very erroneous impression. The author is not raising a 'bogey' for the purpose of pretending to demolish it. The spectre is a very substantial one indeed, and the task of 'laying' it is far beyond the power of any one man to accomplish. The system, in fact, is a gigantic one, and its professors are legion. It is as thriving an industry (save the mark) as any in the world. It is as perfectly organised in every department as any legitimate business. Its markets are regulated by the same inexorable laws of supply and demand, competition and coöperation, which govern the development of every branch of commerce. It has its manufacturers, its wholesale houses, its canvassers and retail dealers, all in regular form. Its price-lists, descriptive pamphlets, circulars and advertisements are issued as methodically as those of _bonâ fide_ merchants and traders. Its ramifications extend to every quarter of the globe. This book will show that not only is a thriving trade in cheating utensils carried on openly and unblushingly, but also that there must be an enormous number of swindlers at large, who live by means of unfair practices in connection with all forms of gambling; sharps who are still undetected, and, notwithstanding the vigilance of the authorities, are still pursuing their calling under the very eyes of Justice. Startling as these statements may appear to the uninitiated, of their absolute truth there cannot exist the slightest doubt in the mind of anyone who will take the trouble to glance through these pages. This book, in fact, may be regarded as 'The Sharp's Vade Mecum, or a Theoretical and Practical Treatise on the Art and Practice of Cheating.' No pains have been spared to make it as complete as possible, and, if advantage be taken of the instructions it contains, and any person of dishonest tendencies utilises the same for the purpose of swindling his fellow-men, it will be entirely the fault of those who have not profited by the information which the author has given. That the condition of affairs herein revealed should be found to exist in the midst of our boasted civilisation is a fact which is, to say the least, deplorable. Further, it is a fact which urgently demands that every possible effort should be made towards its mitigation by those who may find themselves in a position to obtain information respecting these nefarious practices, and to throw light into the recesses of this obscure phase of human nature. By far the major portion of the details given in these pages have never before been made public. Even among exponents of legitimate legerdemain, there are very few who have any cognisance of them whatever. It is obvious that a professional illusionist having a reputation for 'squareness' is at a decided disadvantage in seeking for information of this kind. The author, for instance, being so well known to the swindling fraternity as an exposer of frauds, could not possibly have acquired without assistance the countless minutiæ which have come into his possession. The very suspicion that he was engaged in such an investigation would be sufficient to dry up all sources of information, and to remove all possibility of arriving at anything of moment. He has therefore to acknowledge his indebtedness for much that is valuable to a friend who desires to be nameless. In the assumed guise of an English 'sharp,' this gentleman has pursued his investigations to such good purpose that he has gained a fund of information relative to 'sharps and sharping,' which may be fairly said to include all the most important methods employed at the present day. The information so obtained has been freely drawn upon in the production of this book. The head-quarters of this abominable system of wholesale robbery are to be sought for in the land which has bestowed upon civilisation so many blessings of a similar character. From the spirit-medium to the wooden nutmeg, they all hail from that most 'go-ahead,' and yet most easily hoodwinked country, America. True, there are so many dunderheads of all nationalities who can never realise the truth of that simple maxim which teaches that 'honesty is the best policy,' and such a very large proportion of these have turned their steps to America, that it is, perhaps, hardly fair to regard them as an integral part of the American nation. Still there they are, and it behoves America to grasp the situation with a much firmer hand than heretofore, with a view to the suppression of these pernicious creatures, and of attaining a reputation more in accord with her honourable traditions--more worthy of the great names associated with her history. There is every reason for believing that at the present moment England is the happy hunting-ground of the swindling fraternity, and for this reason. In America many of the older frauds are tolerably well-known to those who are addicted to gambling, but over here most of these things are absolutely unknown. Even the English sharp himself is in a condition of unsophisticated innocence compared with his American rival. It is certain that our ocean steamboats are infested with gangs of men, provided with these means of relieving their fellow-passengers of superfluous cash. And in all probability, every one of our 'swellest' clubs possesses at least one member who makes a good living by the use of methods and contrivances never dreamt of by his dupes. It is true, the 'Dudley Smooths' of to-day are no longer cold-blooded duellists who can over-awe their victims with the dread of sword and pistol, but they are quite as keen as they ever were, and their resources are infinitely greater than formerly. Of course there is not the slightest necessity for anyone, however foolish, to fall a victim to the wiles of the sharper in any game either of skill or chance. There is no reason why the greatest simpleton alive should ever be cheated of his money. There is one golden rule, the observance of which must utterly checkmate the most cunning swindler. It is a rule by which the author has always been guided, and one which, were it universally adopted, would banish the cheat and his paraphernalia from the face of the earth. It is a system which is easily learned and which requires no skill in execution. It is simply to abstain from every form of gambling whatever. Make up your mind that 'you want no man's money, and that no man shall have yours,'[1] and you cannot come to much harm in this direction. It would seem, however, that there is a kind of fatal fascination in gambling which some persons appear to be wholly unable to resist. It is therefore quite as well that those who _will_ indulge in such an expensive propensity should do so, at least, with their eyes open. On this account, if for no other reason, the publication of this book is fully justified, and any apology for its appearance would be superfluous. No attempt has been made to deal with the subject historically. Quite sufficient scope is afforded for a work of this kind in the undertaking to set forth an account of such frauds as are practised at the present day. Our attention therefore will be chiefly directed towards devices which are of recent invention, together with those that have survived in practice from former times. The originals of the various circulars &c., reprints of which are given in the following pages, are in the author's possession. The names and addresses of the firms from which they emanate are, however, for very obvious reasons, omitted from these reprints, though all else is given verbatim. The illustrations are all taken from actual articles, purchased for the avowed purpose of cheating by their means. The reader will thus be enabled to gather some idea as to the amount of misplaced ingenuity which has been brought to bear upon the production of these _fin-de-siècle_ appliances for robbing the unwary. This much, then, having been said by way of introduction, we may at once proceed to consider systematically the methods of the modern 'sharp;' and to describe, for the first time in any language, the various mechanical and other devices he uses, and the manner in which they are employed. FOOTNOTE: [1] Quotation from the late Earl Fitz-Hardinge, a most ardent sportsman. CHAPTER II _COMMON SHARPERS AND THEIR TRICKS_ In dealing with a subject of so wide a character as that upon which we are engaged, the difficulty of beginning at the beginning is greater than may appear to a casual reader. There are so many points from which it may be attacked. As to treating of all that is known in reference to it, or tracing it back to the earliest records, that, of course, is out of the question in the limited space at our disposal. Even were one historically inclined, who can say where the beginning begins. Doubtless, one would have to search the geological formations at great depth in order to discover remains of that man who first conceived the idea of correcting fickle fortune at the expense of his fellows. If science ever achieves this discovery, we shall certainly have reasonable grounds for believing that we have found a very near relative of Adam. Although the general public have so little acquaintance with the higher developments of cheating, still, a great deal has been written concerning some of the more elementary methods. This being so, the question of what ought to be left out--at what point we ought to take up the thread of our discourse--becomes of paramount importance. Obviously, it is useless to repeat what is well-known. Many of these primitive methods, however, are still so frequently practised, that this book would be incomplete without some reference at least being made to the more important among them. Therefore, with a view to clearing the ground for what is to follow, and for the benefit of the general reader, this chapter will be devoted to the more familiar systems of 'sharping.' There is, perhaps, no field of operation so prolific in specimens of the genus 'sharp' as a race-course and its approaches upon the occasion of a popular race-meeting. For our present purpose, therefore, we cannot do better than to imagine, for the moment, that we are on our way to some such gathering. Arriving at the London terminus, in good time for our train, we take our seats in a second-class smoking compartment. Possibly the only other occupants of the carriage at first are two or three holiday makers, on pleasure bent. Not really sporting men, but average citizens, looking forward to the excitement of the race, and also possibly to the pleasurable anxiety of a little 'flutter,' at long odds or otherwise. It is not long before the other seats are all occupied. A man of decidedly 'sporting' appearance, with a field-glass slung over his shoulder, and carrying a thick travelling rug, strolls leisurely by the door, merely glancing in as he passes. In a few moments, however, he returns, and takes a middle seat in the compartment. Then follow two or three others, averaging in appearance something between sporting characters and second-rate commercial travellers. These take whatever seats may happen to be vacant, and either become absorbed in their newspapers or enter into conversation with their neighbours, as the case may be. The experienced reader will have no need to be told that we are associating with a gang working the 'three-card trick.' The man in sporting attire is the 'sharp,' and those who accidentally (?) dropped in after him are his confederates. No sooner is the train well on its way, than our friend of the field-glasses takes down his rug from the rack, folds it across his knees, and producing a pack of cards, selects three--generally a king and two others--which he throws, face upward, upon the rug. 'Now, gentlemen,' he says, 'I think we'll have a little game, just to pass the time. Anyhow, if it amuses me, it won't hurt you.' With these or some such words by way of preface, he takes up the three cards, and throws them, one at a time, face downward, upon the rug. Then, with much rapidity, he transposes the positions of the cards several times, and observes, 'Now, tell me which is the king, and stake your money.' Having thus attracted attention, he commences again. At this point, one of the confederates looks calmly up from his paper, and murmurs something to his neighbour about 'making one's expenses.' Probably, also, he will produce a couple of sovereigns. 'Now, gentlemen,' continues the sharp, 'there are two cards for you,'--taking them up--'and one card for me. The king is mine,'--taking it up--'the ace and the seven are yours.' Then, with everyone in the carriage following his movements, he again throws the cards down and manipulates them as before. 'Now, tell me which is my card,' he says. Nobody responds, however; and the sharp picks up the king, which proves to be in the position where one would expect to find it. Indeed, the on-looker who could not follow the king through its various evolutions would be dull of perception. Again and again the performance is repeated, and every time the on-lookers can follow the movements of the king with the utmost ease. At length, in response to an appeal from the operator 'not to be backward, gentlemen,' the confederate who produced the sovereigns a little while ago suddenly dashes one down on the card which all believe to be the king. The card is turned up, and proves to be the right one, consequently he receives the amount of his stake. At the next turn another confederate stakes a sovereign, and wins. The same thing follows with a third. Then, perhaps, the first stakes two sovereigns, and again wins. Not only so, but taking advantage of the obviously unsuspicious nature of the operator, he picks up the card himself, and in so doing accidentally bends one corner up slightly. Now everyone has heard of the three-card trick, though not one in a thousand knows how it is worked. Consequently, the uninitiated among our associates, finding that they are able to trace the king unerringly, begin to think that, either this operator is a duffer, or that they are particularly sharp fellows. Besides, there is the king, going about with a turned-up corner, and losing money for the performer at every turn. Small wonder, then, that their cupidity is aroused, and at length one of them stakes a sovereign on the card with the turned-up corner. And he wins? Oh, dear no! By some, unaccountable mischance, the king has become straightened in the course of manipulation, and a corner of one of the other cards has been turned up. Singular, is it not? Of course the loser cannot complain, or he would have to admit that he had been trying to take an unfair advantage of his opponent. Therefore he resolves to trust entirely to his judgment in the future. Then, for the first time, apparently, the operator notices the defective corner and straightens it. Again the cards are thrown down, and the last player, thinking to retrieve his loss, stakes another sovereign. He has kept his eyes intently upon the king, as it passed from side to side and back to the centre. He feels confident of success this time; but there is a mistake somewhere, for again he loses. And so the game goes on, with unvarying result. Whenever one of the first two or three players--the confederates--stakes his money, he always wins. Everyone else always loses. Eventually, the game is discontinued; either owing to the fact that no more stakes are to be had, or that we are approaching our destination. Upon leaving the train, if we are curious, we may easily discover which of our late companions are the confederates. They leave the carriage to all appearance perfect strangers to one another; but follow one of them at a distance, and it will be found that they are fairly well-acquainted when not professionally employed. This trick is an extremely simple one; and is accomplished as follows. [Illustration: FIG. 1.--Three-card Trick.] When the cards are taken up, preparatory to manipulation, they are held as indicated in fig. 1. First, the two indifferent cards are taken, one in each hand, and next, the king in the right hand. Card No. 2 in the illustration, therefore, is the king. In throwing down the cards at the outset No. 1 card is placed in position 1; No. 2 card in position 2; and No. 3 in position 3. Thus, the king occupies a position between the two other cards. So far, all is plain sailing, and it is by no means difficult to trace the movements of the card we are following up, however deftly it may be manipulated. There is a saying that 'the quickness of the hand deceives the eye.' That is nonsense. No hand, however expert, can produce a movement so quick that the eye cannot detect it. What really deceives the eye in sleight of hand is that some of the movements are not exactly what they appear to be, their real nature is skilfully disguised. Of this the three card trick is a good example. When the sharp observes his pigeon getting ready to be plucked, he changes his tactics slightly from the straightforward course he has hitherto pursued. The cards appear to be thrown down in the same manner as before, but it is not so. In this case, No. 1 card is thrown down in No. 1 position, as at the outset; but, instead of throwing down No. 2--the king--in No. 2 position, it is card No. 3 which is allowed to fall, and the king goes finally into position 3. Thus the uninitiated, instead of following up the king, as they fondly believe, are really on the trail of card No. 3. It will be readily understood that the turned-up corner can present no difficulty to a sharp who has devoted a little practice to its rectification. The act of throwing down the cards is quite sufficient to cover all the movement which is necessary. Instead of ear-marking the card by turning up a corner, the confederate will sometimes tear off a very minute scrap from his newspaper, and, wetting it, will attach it to a corner of the card as he turns it up. When this is done, the operator of course contrives to slip the moistened fragment from one card to another. Leaving our three-card acquaintances to their own devices--though, perhaps, our duty would be to give them into the hands of the police--we will proceed to the race-course. Space will not permit us here to consider the numerous evil devices for acquiring the root of all evil indulged in by race-course sharps. In fact, these scarcely form part of our subject. Some of them, such as 'telling the tale,' and so on, are more or less ingenious; but at best they are merely vulgar swindles which involve no skill beyond the exercise of that tact and plausibility which are common to sharps and swindlers of every kind. Pursuing our investigations, then, let us suppose that we now approach one of the spots where winners and losers, sharps and flats, meet on the common ground of applying meat and drink to the refreshment of body and soul. Here, if we are favoured, we may chance to meet with a little entertainment--intellectual and instructive--provided by the spectacle of three persons who are engaged in the scientific recreation of spinning coins upon some convenient corner of table or buffet. Needless to say, they are two 'sharps' and a 'flat,' and their little game is 'odd man.' The game is simple, but financially there is a good deal in it. It is played in this way. Three coins being spun on edge upon a table, it is obvious that either all three will fall with the same side up--in which case the spin must be repeated--or, two will fall one way and one the other. The owner of the latter coin is the 'odd man.' There are two systems of playing. Either the odd man is out--that is to say, he stands aside, whilst the other two spin for 'head' or 'woman'--or the odd man pays. In either case, the loser pays the other two. If fairly played, of course the chances are equal for all three players. But, alas! even this apparently innocent game is capable of sophistication. The method of cheating will be seen at a glance on referring to fig. 2. [Illustration: FIG. 2.--Bevelled Coins.] A coin which has been slightly bevelled to one side will bear a superficial examination without creating suspicion as to its genuineness. If it has a milled edge, it must necessarily be re-milled. Such a coin, when spun on edge, will always tend to fall in one direction. The bevelling, as shown in the figure, is exaggerated, for distinctness' sake; in practice, the angle is very slight. Two 'sportsmen,' each provided with coins of this description, meet with a 'mug' and propose spinning for liquid refreshment. If they are pretty sure of their man they may possibly allow him to win. Afterwards, however, they lead him on to spin for higher stakes, and then he invariably loses. If the game is 'odd man pays,' they spin with coins which will fall alike; simultaneously changing their coins from time to time, so that they do not always bring them same side up. This being so, all three coins must either fall alike, or else the dupe will be the odd man. Then he pays each of his companions the amount of the stakes. Thus, the chances are dead against the dupe, for his opponents cannot possibly lose. When the game is 'odd man out,' the winnings are not made so rapidly; but at the same time they are quite as certain, and the proceedings are not so liable to create suspicion. In this case, the sharps spin with coins which will fall in different directions, and consequently the dupe is never the odd man. His coin is bound to fall the same way as one of the others; so he has to spin again with one or other of the 'rooks.' If the second spin is 'head wins,' the sharp will use a coin which falls 'head.' Here, again, the coins must either fall alike, and the spin be repeated, or the dupe must lose. To disarm suspicion, however, the second spin may occasionally be a fair one; his opponent using a 'square' coin. Even then, the chances are two to one against him. Supposing the stakes are a sovereign, the loser has to pay the two winners a sovereign each; and therefore if the dupe loses he has to pay two sovereigns, whilst, if he wins, he receives only one. So much, then, for 'odd man.' If we search the purlieus of the race-course, we are sure to find the 'purse trick' well in evidence. A good many people seem to get a living at it, yet there is not much mystery connected with it. Its accomplishment rests purely on sleight of hand. We are all familiar with the purse purporting to contain a half-crown and a shilling which the salesman offers to dispose of for the modest amount of sixpence or so. It is extraordinary, however, how few know wherein the trick lies. For the benefit of those who are unacquainted with it, the following short description is given. The man throws a half-crown and a shilling into a two-penny purse, and the price demanded for the whole may vary from sixpence to eighteenpence, according to circumstances. Sometimes the purse, when purchased, is found to contain the actual amount ostensibly put into it. 'Springes to catch woodcocks!' The purchaser is a confederate. In the event of a stranger buying it, the contents will prove to be a penny and a halfpenny. The operator really throws the half-crown and shilling into the purse several times; turning them out again into his hand, to show the genuineness of the transaction. Or, he may spin them in the air, and catch them in the purse by way of variety. But when the time for selling arrives, although he does not appear to have changed his tactics in the least, the transmutation of metals becomes an accomplished fact, silver is converted to bronze. The man has a money-bag slung in front of him, into which he is continually dipping his hand, for the purpose of taking out or returning the coins. This bag seems to contain only silver, but there is a vein of baser metal underlying the nobler. Therefore, in taking out a half-crown, nothing is easier than for the man to palm a penny at the same time. This being done, it is the penny which goes into the purse, and the half-crown is transferred, for the moment, to his palm; but only for the moment. It is dropped, immediately, into the bag; so that, by the time that his hand has fallen to his side, it is empty. That is one dodge. Another is to take the half-crown and penny together in the fingers, the penny underlying the half-crown, concealed from view. Then the penny is dropped and the half-crown palmed as before. Again, the half-crown and shilling being really in the purse, the man will take them out with his fingers, apparently for the purpose of showing them to the multitude, at the same time introducing into the purse three halfpence which he has held concealed. Then he appears to throw the silver coins quickly into the purse, but in reality he palms them, the sound made by the coins in falling being counterfeited by chinking the coppers which the purse already contains. A variation upon this trick is sometimes performed with a piece of paper in which is screwed up some article of cheap jewellery, and into which the coins are supposed to be thrown, as in the purse trick. These men adopt various methods of explaining their reasons for selling so much money at so cheap a rate, one of the most common being that someone has laid a wager that the public are too sceptical to buy money offered in that manner. Well, such a wager would be a tolerably safe one; for, as a rule, the public are only sceptical concerning those things which are genuine. It is probably because the purse-trick is not genuine that the tricksters find purchasers. It is always the swindle which takes best with the public. Certainly, anyone who is taken in over this trick deserves to be. On our way home in the train we may, perhaps, encounter a party playing 'Nap.' It may be a friendly game, fairly played--or it may not. If it is not, we shall undoubtedly find that one of the players loses heavily. It is only penny Nap, he is told. Yes, but one can lose a good deal, in a small way, even at penny Nap. Especially if the other players know the best and quickest way of winning. The most ordinary way of cheating at this game consists of 'putting up' hands for the dupe and one of the other players. The methods of accomplishing this manoeuvre will be fully detailed in the chapter on 'Manipulation.' For the present, it is sufficient to say that the cards are so manipulated that the dupe has always a good hand. So far, this looks as though matters should prove very favourable to the dupe; therefore, he frequently goes 'Nap.' It always happens, however, that one of the other players holds a hand which is slightly better. The dupe may even hold the ace, king, queen, and knave of one suit, and the ace of another. By every law of the game he is bound to go 'Nap,' and win. So he makes his long suit trumps, feeling that he has a 'certainty.' But when the cards are played, it turns out that one of his opponents holds five small trumps against his four big ones, and he loses on the last round. An incident of this kind is reported, where the dupe, in a two-handed game, being rendered suspicious by the eagerness of those about him to wager that he would not make his Nap, instead of leading out his long suit, made his odd ace the trump, and thereby won. In a game of more than two players, this could be prevented by one of the others holding two cards of the same suit as the ace. Moral--Don't gamble with strangers. It is never safe; particularly in a railway train. The foregoing being sufficient to give the reader a general idea of the common sharp and his methods, no more need be said with regard to this elementary branch of our subject. It will be sufficient to point out that the sharp usually devotes his entire energies to perfecting himself in some particular game. Having found his victim, he feigns indifferent play, and encourages the dupe to 'take him on.' No matter how skilful he may be, he never allows any evidence of the fact to escape him. One does not find a card-sharper, for instance, entertaining his chance acquaintances with card-tricks--at least, not to their knowledge. To use the language which he would probably adopt, such a proceeding would be 'giving himself away with a pound of tea.' The sharp's motto is, 'Art is to conceal art;' and his success in life depends very greatly upon the strict observation of this maxim. Skill, however, is not the only qualification necessary to the successful sharp. He must have unbounded self-confidence if his wiles are to be of any avail. In addition, he must also possess tact and address, for upon these two qualities will depend the grade of society into which he will be enabled to carry his operations. Given a liberal endowment of these two attributes, there is no circle, however high or however select, into which the sharp will not ultimately penetrate. The public have occasionally an opportunity of peeping behind the scenes, but the cases of cheating which come to light bear a very small proportion to those which are condoned or hushed up, and the number of these again is nothing when compared with the infinity of cases which are never discovered. All the comparatively insignificant matters dealt with so far are of course common knowledge to many. As before mentioned, however, the general public know very little of them, otherwise the numbers who gain a living by such means could not exist. It is for this reason only that they have been even referred to here. Other and far more ingenious trickeries call for our attention, and to these we will now pass on. CHAPTER III _MARKED CARDS AND THE MANNER OF THEIR EMPLOYMENT_ Probably it was at no very recent date in the history of card-playing that some genius first recognised the advantage which would accrue to a player who could devise some means of placing a distinctive mark on the back of each card, imperceptible to all but himself, to indicate its suit and value. Every card-player must at some time or other have exclaimed mentally, 'Oh, if I only knew what cards my opponents hold!' There one has, then, the origin of marked cards. The sharp, above all others, desires to know his opponent's cards. It is almost a necessity of his existence; and in his case it is certainly true that 'necessity is the mother of invention,' and 'knows no law.' Whatever the sharp may find necessary he is sure to acquire, and will not be scrupulous as to the manner of its acquisition. The systems of card-marking are as numerous as they are ingenious. They vary from a mark which covers the greater portion of the back of the card to a mark which is invisible. This latter may not appear to be of much utility, but it must be borne in mind the sharp is not restricted to the use of the sense of sight only. Sometimes, indeed, it is necessary for him to know the cards without looking at them, and then a visible mark would be of no possible use to him. So numerous, indeed, are the systems of marking--almost every card-sharper, worthy of the name, having a system peculiar to himself--that it is impossible to give a tenth part of them. To attempt to do so would be to weary the reader, and, further, it is unnecessary. All these various systems are capable of general classification, and a few leading instances will suffice to give the key to the whole. For brevity and convenience, then, we will consider the subject under the following heads:-- A--General principles of marking. B--The marking of unprinted backs. C--Marking by dot and puncture. D--Cards marked in manufacture. E--Shading and tint-marking. F--Line and scroll work. G--Cards marked whilst in play. § A--_General principles of marking._--Whatever method of marking may be adopted in the preparation of 'faked' cards or 'readers,' however recondite that method may be, it is referable to one or other of two general principles. That is to say, either the cards have each a distinctive mark placed in some convenient position, or the mark is similar in every case, the indication being given by the position which it occupies. Some systems are based upon a combination of the two principles; but all are developments of either one or the other. When the mark, whatever it may be, is placed at one end of the card, it is of course necessary to mark both ends. The chief desideratum in marking, of course, is to produce work which is easily decipherable to the trained eye of the expert, but which nevertheless is invisible to others. How well this has been accomplished will be seen from the examples which follow. Many of the specimens given herein have been submitted to experts who have been allowed to retain them as long as they pleased, and have been returned with the statement that to all appearance the cards have not been tampered with, no mark being discoverable. This being the case, what chance has a player of detecting the falsification, in the very cursory examination which is possible during play? As the reader will perceive, there is no difficulty in marking cards in such a manner as will arouse no suspicion. Anyone could invent a system which no one but himself could decipher, and which would defy detection. The only difficulty is to read the marks with speed and accuracy. In many games it is only necessary to know which are high cards and which are low; then the matter is considerably simplified. In some games it is not even necessary to know the suit of the cards, and thus the case is simplified still further. It is rarely, indeed, that the sharp requires to know all the cards. Generally speaking, if all the picture-cards and the aces are marked, that will give him all the advantage he needs. The rest may be left to chance and good play. In fact, the sharp uses trickery as little as possible; he never overdoes the thing. Whilst he is winning, he is, as a rule, content to win fairly, for the most part. His subtle methods are reserved--or should be, if he knows his business--for occasions when chance is against him. The fewer are the cards which are marked, the less the chance of detection, and the less the marks are resorted to the better. Obviously, the man who has it in his power to stock his hand with high cards at will, need never be in a hurry to win. The game is in his hands. The sharp who uses marked cards will always contrive to 'work in' those he has prepared when possible, but failing this, he is generally in a position to mark all the cards he wishes to know during the course of the game, as we shall see further on. § B--_The marking of unprinted backs._--It might very naturally be supposed, that the application of any system of marking to the backs of those cards which are of an even tint, without pattern, would be a very difficult operation. Such, however, is by no means the case. One might think that any mark, however slight, placed upon the plain white back of a 'club-card,' must inevitably be discovered sooner or later. Such an idea, nevertheless, would indicate a very scant acquaintance with the resources which are available to the card-sharper. One of the earliest methods of marking of which there is any record was used in connection with this class of card. The incident is related by Houdin, whose account of the matter is to the following effect. A card-sharper having been detected in cheating, a great quantity of cards were found in his possession. The authorities, thinking that there might possibly be some preparation or falsification of them, sent them to Houdin for examination. To all appearance, however, the cards were perfectly genuine. He could detect nothing amiss with them. But notwithstanding the negative result of his investigation, he felt morally certain that they must have been tampered with in some way. He therefore persevered in his efforts to solve the problem, but several weeks elapsed, and still he found himself exactly in the position from which he started. At length, disgusted by such prolonged and repeated failure, he flung a pack of the cards carelessly across the table at which he was sitting. Then, in an instant, the long-sought revelation was presented to his view. The cards were marked, and in a manner sufficiently ingenious to arouse the investigator's enthusiasm at the time, although the method employed might not be thought so very high class nowadays. We have advanced since then. The cards in question were of the ordinary glazed kind, and lying at some little distance upon the table the light from the window was reflected from their backs. This circumstance disclosed the fact that each one had a small unglazed spot upon it, placed in such a position as to indicate the suit and value. Fig. 4 will explain the system at a glance. The glaze is removed by the simple expedient of putting a drop of water upon the required spot, and blotting it off after a few seconds. Such a mark is quite invisible under ordinary circumstances, but when the cards are held at a suitable angle to the light, the unglazed spot is readily apparent. This, of course, is not the only method of producing the desired effect. Sometimes the glaze is removed by means of a sharp knife. Another plan is to produce a shallow concavity at the proper position by laying the card upon its face and pressing upon it with the rounded end of a penholder or some similar and convenient instrument. In fact, anything which will cause a little variation in the reflection of the light from the back of the card will suffice. The cards above referred to were merely 'picquet' packs. Therefore there was nothing lower than the 'seven.' If it is necessary to mark a full pack, the lower cards may be marked with two dots, as shown in fig. 4. When unglazed, or 'steam-boat' cards were in general use, a very efficient mode of marking was devised. It was done by ruling lines on the backs with a piece of paraffin wax. Fig. 3 shows the arrangement. This method is of course the converse of the foregoing, the object of using the wax being to impart a glaze where none previously existed. As before, these marks are only decipherable when the cards are held at a proper angle. [Illustration: FIG. 3.--Unglazed Cards.] Cards marked as in fig. 3 would answer perfectly for a game such as 'poker,' where the suit is of no consequence. If it is required to give both suit and value, another mark--a dot for example--could be added, the position of which would give the necessary indication. The ace, it will be observed, is not marked. In most systems, either the ace or the two is indicated by the absence of marking. The same thing applies to the suits, it is only required to mark three out of the four. § C--_Marking by dot and puncture._--The main outlines of this method will be understood from what has already been said. If the unglazed spots are represented by minute dots, the principle is practically the same. The only difference is in connection with marking by puncture. In this case the mark is made by pricking the card with a very fine needle upon its face. This raises a minute point or 'burr' upon the back, which can be detected by passing the thumb across the back of the card whilst dealing. [Illustration: FIG. 4.--Divisions indicating suit and value.] If a plate of metal the size of a playing-card is divided at each end into parallelograms, after the manner shown in fig. 4, these divisions will represent the positions occupied by the puncture or dot in representing the various suits and values. A small hole being drilled in the centre of each parallelogram, the plate will serve for a 'template' by means of which the cards may be pierced in the correct places. The plate is laid upon the face of the card, and a fine needle is pricked through the proper hole, just far enough to raise the necessary projection on the back of the card. One point at each end, then, will serve to mark all the cards of a picquet pack. If those cards which are lower than seven have to be marked, two points may be taken. For instance, a point in the top left-hand corner, together with one three divisions further to the right, will indicate the six of clubs. A point in the second space on the same line, with one in the fifth space, will represent the five of clubs, and so on. This is a very good system of marking for many purposes. It takes only a short time to mark the whole pack; the marks are invisible, and will escape the closest scrutiny. But great practice is necessary to render the touch sufficiently acute, and the perception of the small differences sufficiently delicate, to read the marks with precision. [Illustration: FIG. 5.] Another method whereby a single dot is made to represent both suit and value of any card is illustrated in fig. 5. In every ornamental back almost, there is some portion of the pattern which is more or less of a fan-shaped or radial design. If this should happen to contain thirteen divisions, nothing is easier than to assign to each one a value, and thus the entire suit is represented by merely varying the position of the dot. The suit is given by placing the dot nearer or farther from the centre. Fig. 5 is a diagram which illustrates this method in its simplest form. A dot placed outside the periphery of the design stands for 'spades,' one just inside for 'hearts,' half-way between the two lines for 'diamonds,' and close to the inner circle it means 'clubs.' The value or 'size,' as it is called, is shown by the radial line, opposite which the mark is placed. Having followed this explanation, the reader will at once perceive that the dot marked _a_ (fig. 5) represents the two of diamonds. Of course it frequently happens that there is no part of the pattern which contains thirteen divisions. Then, either more than one design must be used, or the form of the mark must be varied. Supposing there are only six divisions available for the purpose, the six highest cards can be indicated by a dot, the six next in order by a small dash, and the last by a minute cross. § D--_Cards marked [Illustration: squiggle] in manufacture._--Given the original conception of marked cards, and their practical application to the needs of the sharper, the next step is, obviously, the production of such wares commercially. The desirability of being able to open a new pack of cards and find them ready prepared for use, was too palpable to be overlooked. For a long time the existence of such cards was kept profoundly secret among a very few sharpers, and those 'in the know' reaped a rich harvest. Nowadays, however, these things are, comparatively speaking, 'common objects of the sea-shore.' Fig. 6 is a reproduction of the first pattern ever supplied, ready marked, by the makers. [Illustration: FIG. 6.] The distinctive marking was arranged by causing the end of the scroll, marked '_a_,' to assume various forms, and point in different directions. This card did very well for a time; but the mark was very obtrusive and the pattern became obsolete, being discarded, in fact, for improved forms which were of later invention. The next step in the way of improvement came with the introduction of the plaid-back cards, at one time largely used. It was soon discovered that these lent themselves readily to the purposes of falsification, and the result was the invention of a mark both easy to read and not liable to detection. Like so many other good things, it is marvellous in its simplicity. It is based partly upon modification of the pattern, and partly upon the position occupied by the mark. Fig. 7 illustrates a complete suit of these cards. The higher cards commence with a set of five parallel lines, placed somewhat to the left of the top right-hand corner. The space between the first and second lines is increased to indicate an ace; between the second and third, a king; between the third and fourth, a queen; and between the fourth and fifth, a knave. For the ten, nine, eight, and seven, the pattern is so arranged that the indicating lines terminate at the corner of the card. These being similarly treated, correspond with the four cards of that group. The six, five, four, and three, are respectively given by a similar band, which is so placed that it terminates upon the right hand side of the card, immediately below the top corner. The two is known by the fact of the card being unmarked; that is to say, the lines of all the bands are an equal distance apart, and are not tampered with in any way. The suit is given by a band of lines, terminating some little distance below the top left-hand corner, on the left of the card. The first space (counting from the top) being widened, signifies a diamond; the second, a heart; the third, a club; and the fourth, a spade. If the reader has made the progress in 'sharping' which might reasonably be expected at this stage of his instruction, he should have no difficulty in distinguishing the suit of the ace in fig. 7. It is evidently the ace of clubs. [Illustration: FIG. 7.] This pattern is of especial value to the man who can deal 'seconds,'[2] as in giving off the 'draft' at poker, and so on, by keeping the pack spread out a little, he can read off the values of the first four or five cards. That is the great advantage in having marks which come quite close to the edge. We will conclude this subject of printed backs with a description of one of the best designs ever made (fig. 8). This pattern is particularly easy to read, even at a considerable distance, yet it is certainly not liable to detection by the uninitiated. To anyone who knows the secret, it appears strange that a pack of these cards may be given to a novice for examination, with the information that they are marked, and he will never find anything wrong with them. He may even examine them with a microscope, yet he will see nothing amiss. The reason is that he does not know what to look for. Most probably he will expect to find dots or marks, _put on_ the card by hand. He might thus detect 'scroll work,' examples of which are given further on, though most likely 'shading' would escape his notice from the fact that it is something for which he is not prepared. In this instance the distinguishing marks are two in number, one for suit and one for value. These are respectively indicated by variations in the form of the two small sprays in the left hand corner, round which lines have been drawn in the upper card (fig. 8). [Illustration: FIG. 8.] The lower of the two sprays is caused to show the suit by being curved up or down, or having its termination formed into a suggestion of a spade or a heart, as will be seen on reference to the figure. The upper spray is variously altered to denote the values. Thus: [Illustration: FIG. 9.] Cards marked in printing have of late years been virtually abandoned in America, owing to the fact that they are readily detected, even by those who are utterly unable to discover the marks. The general appearance of the cards is sufficient to show their origin. In the first place, the ink with which the cards are printed is as a rule very inferior; and secondly, the 'ace of spades' has NOT the maker's name upon it. As the maker himself would say--'What do _you_ think?' Fig. 10 is a comparison of the ace of spades from a genuine pack with that from a pack of manufactured 'marked backs.' It will be seen that the marked card bears the title of a purely hypothetical 'Card Company.' [Illustration: FIG. 10. Genuine Card. Manufactured Marked-back.] By referring to the price-lists given towards the end of this book, one finds that the price at which they are quoted is by no means exorbitant, when one bears in mind the risk which the maker runs, and the fact that he has to go to the expense of fifty-two plates for printing the backs, as against the one only which is required for genuine cards. In revenge, and to keep down the cost of production, he uses ink of a very inferior quality to that employed by good firms. Thus, the cards are rendered open to suspicion from the first, and no doubt this has much to do with their falling into disuse. In America their employment is confined chiefly to mining camps, where one may still find 'saloons' which are stocked entirely with this kind of 'paper,' as the cards are called. England, however, must be a fine field for them, as card players here are really so ignorant that the subtle methods of cheating would be thrown away. The best work is not necessary, and the sharp who went to the trouble of adopting it would be simply wasting his substance on the desert air. There is little doubt that these cards are largely used over here. § E--_Shading and tint-marking._--Manufactured cards having fallen into comparative desuetude, the reasonable inference is that they have been supplanted by something better; and such is the fact. In the hands of the best men they have been superseded by genuine cards, marked (generally by the sharp himself) either with 'shading' or 'line-work.' The earliest method of shading, so far as can be ascertained, consisted of the application to plain-backed cards of an even tint which, being rendered more or less deep, denoted the values of certain cards. This tint was produced by rubbing the card with a rag, lightly impregnated with plumbago, until the required depth of tint was obtained. This imperfect method, however, has gradually developed into others which can hardly be said to leave anything to be desired--at least from the sharp's point of view. At the present time shading is principally confined, if not entirely so, to ornamental backs. It is effected by applying a faint wash of colour to a fairly large portion of the card. This colour of course must be one which approximates to the tint of the card, and further, it must be one which will dry without removing the glaze. Just as there has been continual warfare between the makers of heavy guns and the inventors of armour-plating, so there has been a long struggle between the playing-card manufacturer and the professional gambler. Whilst the latter has been engaged in the endeavour to concoct a stain with which he could shade his cards without spoiling the enamel or altering the colour, the former has done his best to circumvent the sharp's endeavours by compounding the glaze of ingredients which will spoil the 'little game.' For some time the manufacturer triumphed, and it became known that Hart's red 'Angel-backs' were unstainable. Alas! however, vice--and, shall we say science--was victorious, and one can now buy a fluid warranted to stain any card for a mere trifle. These fluids are nothing more than solutions in spirit of various aniline dyes. For red, aurosine is used, and for blue aniline blue. Stafford's red ink, diluted with spirit, produces a perfect stain for red cards. Others as good can be made with the 'Diamond' dyes. A suitable solution having been obtained, the cards are shaded, either by putting a wash over a certain spot or by washing over the whole of the back with the exception of one spot. The latter method is the better of the two in many respects, as the cards can be distinguished at a distance of two or three yards, and yet will bear the strictest examination, even at the hands of one who understands the former method. In fact, the closer one looks at the cards the less likely one is to discover the mark, or, as the sharp would say, to 'tumble' to the 'fake.' The directions for use issued with the shading fluids will be found on page 302. As the delicate tints of shaded work are lost in reproduction, satisfactory examples cannot be given. On the opposite page, however, will be found an illustration of one method of shading the familiar 'angel-back' card represented in fig. 11. [Illustration: FIG. 11.--Angel-back.] The shading in fig. 12 has been considerably exaggerated, to render it apparent. [Illustration: FIG. 12.--'FALLEN ANGELS'] The little 'angel' (_a_, fig. 11) is made to indicate the value of the cards by shading the head for an ace; the right wing for a king; the left wing for a queen; the right arm for a knave, and so on. The two is not marked. The suit of the card is denoted by shading various portions of the foliated design adjacent to the 'angel' (_b_, fig. 11). With the exception of the exaggerated shading, these marks are facsimiles of those upon a pack purchased from one of the dealers, all of whom supply them. Although the cards can be bought ready shaded, most sharpers prefer to do them for themselves. Therefore, they merely buy the marking-fluids, and invent their own marks. § F--_Line and scroll work._--This is the kind of marking which is adopted by the most expert among card-sharpers. When well done it can hardly be detected even by another sharper. This system may be briefly summarised as follows. Some convenient portion of the card-back is selected--a flower or some similar device in the pattern, for instance--and a shading consisting of very fine lines, in imitation of the normal shading of the pattern, is used, its position indicating the value of the card. A specially prepared 'line-work fluid' is used, and the work is put on with a fine pen or, better still, with a fine sable pencil. In using a pen there is always a danger of scratching the enamel, but by the use of a 'photographic sable,' such as retouchers employ, this is obviated. In order to imbue the reader with a due appreciation of these works of art, our first example shall be one of a very obvious character; one that could only be used in a 'soft game.'[3] We shall then have an opportunity of comparing it with one or two of the masterpieces of the century, and, looking back upon the earlier pages of this book, we can reflect upon the manner in which the science of card-sharping is progressing, like other and more legitimate sciences. A portion of the pattern, consisting of five projections, is usually chosen in line-marking, and the line-work is applied in the following manner. The first projection, or petal, on the left, is shaded to denote an ace; the second a king; the third a queen; the fourth a knave; and the fifth a ten. Then for a nine, the first and second are shaded; for an eight the second and third; and so on to the six. Lastly, taking the foliations in groups of three, the first three represent the five; the second, third, and fourth, the four; and the third, fourth, and fifth, the three. The two is not shaded. [Illustration: FIG. 13.] In the case of the card which is reproduced in fig. 13, the spray of leaves marked _a_ would be chosen to indicate the values. The spray _b_ would be shaded to denote the suit. Reference to fig. 14 will serve to make this clear. [Illustration: FIG. 14.] Having mastered this elementary method, we will now turn to some of the finest work that has ever been put upon cards. Fig. 15 illustrates five cards of the 'angel-back' pattern. These are respectively the king, queen, knave, ten, and nine. It is not too much to say that the mark would never be discovered without assistance being given, by one previously acquainted with it. [Illustration: FIG. 15.--SCROLL-WORK] In this example the spray marked _c_ (fig. 11) is chosen, and marked in a manner of which fig. 16 is a magnified diagram. [Illustration: FIG. 16.] As a concluding example of line-work, if the reader will turn back to fig. 8, he will find, in each corner of the pattern upon the card, a leaf with five points, an ivy leaf in fact. In marking a genuine card of this pattern, this leaf would be selected for the purpose, and shaded with line-work after the manner of fig. 17. [Illustration: FIG. 17.] _Cards marked whilst in play._--We now arrive at the last subdivision of this branch of our subject, and perhaps the one which will prove most generally interesting, viz. the possibility of placing distinctive marks upon the cards during the course of the game. The average reader may probably be surprised to learn that such a practice has been resorted to by sharpers from time immemorial. Further, its accomplishment presents not the slightest difficulty, in fact it is the simplest thing in the world. The earliest method appears to have been that of raising a slight burr upon the edges of the cards with an instrument provided--perhaps for that purpose(?)--by Nature, to wit, the thumb-nail. This and other primitive methods alike have been superseded by others more scientific. Therefore we will not waste our time in detailing such elementary matters, but pass on to the means used at the present day. One of the simplest appliances is the 'nail prick,' quoted in the price-lists at half a dollar. This is simply a tiny piece of metal, carrying a point, which is held when in use under the thumb-nail of the right hand. With this point the cards can be pricked without observation, in positions which will indicate the suit and value. It is, however, not much used. Pricking the cards is a method chiefly employed by men who can deal 'seconds.' The sharp will prick the corners of all the aces and court cards, or as many of them as happen to fall into his hands, from time to time; and whilst dealing, he can feel the little projection caused by the prick, and hold these cards back till they could be dealt to himself. One who did this every time it came to his turn to deal must inevitably win all the money sooner or later. No sharp, however, would be insane enough to arouse suspicion in this manner. The most refined and scientific method of pricking the cards is by means of an ingenious little appliance, known as the 'poker-ring.' This is an ordinary finger-ring, having attached to it upon the under side a needle-point of about one sixty-fourth of an inch in length (fig. 18). In the illustration, the length of the point is exaggerated. [Illustration: FIG. 18.] As the cards are held in the hand, the corner of any one which it is desired to mark is simply pressed against the point with the thumb of either hand. Thus with one hand the sharp is enabled to mark any card he chooses, under the very eyes of his adversaries, and without a single suspicious movement being observable. But the greatest advance in this direction was made when the art of marking cards with shade-work was discovered. It was found that a little aniline colour, taken upon the tip of the finger, could be transferred to the back of a card slightly deepening the tint in the spot to which it was applied. The colour was at first derived from a piece of blue aniline pencil, carried in the pocket, and upon the point of which the finger was secretly rubbed. As far as one can ascertain, the English sharp has not progressed beyond this point in his professional knowledge. In America, however, it is otherwise. Across the water, superior intelligences soon concocted a coloured paste which would answer the purpose much better. Scooping a hole in a piece of cork, the cavity was filled with the composition, and the cork was sewn inside the lower edge of the waistcoat. In this position the colour was convenient to the hand. The idea thus conceived has been improved upon until one may say that this method has reached perfection in the form of appliances known as 'shading boxes.' [Illustration: FIG. 19.] These implements of chicanery, of which fig. 19 is an illustration, are little nickel-plated boxes, which are completely filled with the coloured composition. In the centre of the lid is a slot through which the colour is pressed. The finger being passed over this slot, takes up a little of the colour. The base of the box is pierced around the circumference with small holes, for convenience in sewing it to the inside of the waistcoat or underneath the flap of a side pocket, as may be preferred. The boxes are generally used in pairs, one containing red composition and the other blue. With these two colours, almost every coloured card can be marked. The paste for refilling the boxes is supplied separately, or, if the sharp is acquainted with its composition, he may make it for himself. Here is the recipe. Olive oil, stearine, and camphor are incorporated in a melted condition with aniline of the required hue. The mixture is then poured out upon a level surface and allowed to cool. When cold it is worked up with the blade of a knife upon a sheet of white paper, to get rid of the superfluous oil. It is then ready for use. Marking placed upon cards in this way can be instantly removed by merely rubbing the card upon the table-cloth. It is worthy of note that these boxes are considered to be so good that they are not included in the catalogues of dealers in so-called 'sporting-goods.' They are kept as a secret among those who are 'in the know.' These convenient little articles, then, bring us to the end of the systems of marking. It only remains to instruct the neophyte who has followed the course of our lessons so far, in the methods of utilising the marks when once they are placed upon the cards. Those familiar words of the great artist who said that the medium he employed in mixing his colours was 'brains,' may find an echo in the directions for playing marked cards. They must be used with intelligence or not at all. Indeed, great circumspection is requisite in utilising the information which the marks provide. In a game of whist, for instance, a thorough-paced player would at once detect any glaring peculiarity of play resulting from knowledge surreptitiously acquired. One may know, perfectly well, which card in one's hand would win the trick, but it is not always advisable to play it. Tact and judgment, added to a thorough acquaintance with the rules of the game which is being played, are necessary adjuncts to the successful employment of any system of cheating. In a round game, when it is your turn to deal, you may read the cards as you deal them; and in this way know the hands of your opponents, or at any rate the principal cards. In a single-handed game you can remember the whole of your antagonist's cards, but with more than two players it is not advisable to attempt to commit to memory more than one hand. That, preferably, should be the hand of the 'flattest man,' the 'greatest mug,' the man who is playing highest, or your most dangerous opponent. With a little practice the top card of the pack can be read, just before it is dealt. There is plenty of time for this whilst the previous card is on its way to the table. In a game such as Poker, where the suit is of no consequence, you simply repeat to yourself the value of the card as you deal it, and from your knowledge of the game you may deduce the discards from that particular hand. Then, in giving off the 'draft'--_i.e._ the cards to replace those which have been discarded, and which, of course, you have not seen--you read the cards as they are given out. In this way you can form a tolerably accurate opinion as to what cards that hand finally contains. If your hand happens to be better, you can bet against this particular player, continually raising the stakes until all the other players are 'raised out.' That is to say, they do not feel inclined to risk so much money on their hands, and therefore they throw them down, and leave the game, for the moment, in the hands of the two highest players. A knowledge of the top card may be utilised in dealing 'seconds.' The top card, being one which you require, may be kept back until it comes to your turn either on the deal or the draft. This, however, is a very bad way of using marked cards. It is sure to be detected sooner or later, and then your only course will be to 'clear out' from the scene of your former victories. Whilst, if you confine your attention to the use of the information given by the marks, trusting to your wits rather than to the deftness of your fingers, you will not only win but 'last.' Working with shaded cards, in which the shading occupies the greater portion of the card, many of your opponents' cards can be read as they hold them in their hands; especially where they are held spread out, as is so often the case in England. Whatever may be the game, marked cards will often enable you to win where you otherwise would lose, so long as due care and judgment are exercised. For example, at Vingt-et-un, you will always know whether it is advisable to draw another card or not. You will not stand in doubt as to the card you will get. At Baccarat you will know what cards you have given the players, and what you will draw if you take one. Too many false drafts, however, are liable to create suspicion; so in this game you must be careful in your proceedings. At Loo, you will have a strong advantage, as you will always know the contents of the hand upon the table, and when to take 'miss.' In games such as 'Banker' or 'Polish Bank,' which consist of betting that you have in your hand a card (not seen) which will beat one that has been turned up, you have to contend with no uncertainty whatever. Having pursued our subject to this point, it cannot be denied that we have learnt something of great importance, viz. that among the advantages enjoyed by us in this nineteenth century, we must not overlook those embodied in the fact, that not only are marked cards articles of commerce, readily obtainable at the right places, but we have also the means of falsifying genuine cards, of any pattern, at a few minutes' notice. Even failing this, we have at our command means of marking all the cards which it is necessary to know whilst under the very noses of our antagonists. The practical philosopher--if such exist--whilst meditating upon the benefits accruing to mankind from civilisation, should by no means forget that, in one notable instance at least--card-playing to wit--civilisation has provided the means of eliminating from the affairs of life the undesirable and inconvenient element of chance. There is no such thing as chance, says the predestinationist; and certainly in some cases the truth is with him. FOOTNOTES: [2] _Vide_ Chapter VI., 'Manipulation.' [3] This expression does not apply, as might be imagined, to the comparative simplicity of the game, but rather to the positive simplicity of the players. CHAPTER IV _REFLECTORS_ Although there can be no question as to the utility of marked cards in the hands of the sharper, it frequently happens that he is unable to avail himself of the advantages presented by their employment. It may be, perhaps, that he is so situated as to be compelled to use genuine cards belonging to someone else; and that, the comparatively scanty and hurried marking supplied by means of poker-ring or shading box will not provide him with all the information imperatively demanded by the nature of the game in which he is engaged. He may, perhaps, be playing in circles where the devices of marking, and the methods of accomplishing it, are well known. For many reasons the use of marked cards may be too risky to be ventured upon; or the cards themselves may not be available at the moment. Again, the sharp may not have taken the trouble to master any system of marking; yet, for all that, he requires a knowledge of his opponent's cards just as much as his more talented brother of the pen, the brush, and the needle-point. How then, it may be asked, is he to obtain this knowledge? Simply--very simply. The sharp needs to be hard pressed indeed, to be driven to the end of his tether. Marked cards being out of the question, it is possible to obviate to a great extent the necessity for them by the use of certain little instruments of precision denominated 'reflectors,' or, more familiarly, 'shiners.' These are not intended to be used for the purpose of casting reflections upon the assembled company. Far from it. Their reflections are exclusively such as have no weight with the majority. They, and their use alike, reflect only upon the sharp himself. These useful little articles are constructed in many forms, and are as perfectly adapted to the requirements of the individual as are the works of Nature herself. Just as man has been evolved in the course of ages from some primitive speck of structureless protoplasm, so, in like manner, we find that these convexities of silvered glass have crystallised out from some primordial drop of innocent liquid, more or less accidentally spilled upon the surface of a table in years gone by. Such, then, was the origin of the reflector. The sharp of long ago was content to rely upon a small circular drop of wine, or whatever he happened to be drinking, carefully spilled upon the table immediately in front of him. Holding the cards over this drop, their faces would be reflected from its surface, for the information of the sharp who was dealing them. Times have advanced since then, however, and the sharp has advanced with the times. We live in an age of luxury. We are no longer satisfied with the rude appliances which sufficed for the simpler and less fastidious tastes of our forefathers; and in this respect at least the sharp is no exception to the general rule. He, too, has become more fastidious, and more exacting in his requirements, and his tastes are more expensive. His reflector, therefore, is no longer a makeshift; it is a well-constructed instrument, both optically and mechanically, costing him, to purchase, from two and a half to twenty-five dollars. Not shillings, bear in mind, but dollars. Think of it! Five pounds for a circular piece of looking-glass, about three-quarters of an inch in diameter! The fact that such a price is paid is sufficient to indicate the profitable character of the investment. The first record we have of the employment of a specially constructed appliance of this kind describes a snuff-box bearing in the centre of the lid a small medallion containing a portrait. The sharp in taking a pinch of snuff pressed a secret spring, the effect of which was to substitute for the portrait a convex reflector. The snuff-box then being laid upon the table the cards were reflected from the surface of this mirror, giving the sharp a reduced image of each one as it was dealt. A device of this kind may have passed muster years ago, but it could never escape detection nowadays. At the present day card-players would be, unquestionably, 'up to snuff.' Among the more modern appliances, the first to which we shall refer is that known as the 'table-reflector.' As its name implies, it is designed for the purpose of being attached to the card-table during the game. It is thus described in one of the price-lists. '_Table-reflector._--Fastens by pressing steel spurs into under side of table. A fine glass comes to the edge of table to read the cards as you deal them off. You can set the glass at any angle or turn it back out of sight in an instant.' From the many samples similar to the above with which one meets in 'sporting' literature, the legitimate inference is that punctuation-marks are an expensive commodity in certain districts of America. [Illustration: FIG. 20.] The reflector to which this paragraph refers is illustrated in fig. 20. It is a neat little contrivance, nicely finished and nickel-plated. The mirror _m_ is convex, forming as usual a reduced image of the card. A represents the position of the reflector whilst in use. B shows the manner in which it is turned back, out of the way and out of sight. The hinge is fitted with light friction-springs, which enable the mirror to retain any position in which it may be placed. The correct way to 'play' the reflector is to press the steel point into the under side of the table, just sufficiently far back to bring the hinge about level with the lower edge of the table top. Whilst in use, the mirror, contrary to what one might suppose, is not inclined downwards, but the inclination given to it is an upward one as in the illustration. Thus, whilst the sharp is leaning slightly forward, as one naturally would, whilst dealing, the cards are reflected from the mirror as he looks back into it. Used in this manner, the reflector can be played anywhere, and even those who are familiar with 'shiners' will 'stand' it. Inclined downwards, it may be easier to use, but in that case the dealer would have to lean back whilst distributing the cards. A proceeding such as that would be liable to attract attention and to arouse suspicions which, all things considered, had better be allowed to slumber if the sharp is to maintain that mental quietude so necessary to the carrying out of his plans. It is possible of course that nothing of the kind may occur, but, on the other hand, it might. One cannot be too careful, when even the most innocent actions are apt to be misconstrued. The world is so uncharitable, that a little thing like the discovery of a bit of looking-glass might lead to a lot of unpleasantness. Who knows? Should anyone happen to come behind the dealer whilst the mirror is in view, it can always be turned out of sight with the little finger in the act of taking up one's cards from the table, or by sitting very close it can be altogether concealed. Another very efficient form of reflector is one so constructed as to be adaptable to the interior of a pipe-bowl. It consists of a small convex mirror, similar to the one used in the table reflector, which is cemented to a piece of cork shaped to fit inside the bowl of an ordinary briar-root pipe (fig. 21). [Illustration: FIG. 21.] Such a device is more adapted to the requirements of the second or third-rate sharper, as it would not be available in a circle of cigarette-smoking 'Johnnies.' It is used in the following manner. The 'shiner' is carried separately from the pipe, and held until required in the palm of the hand, with the cork downwards. The sharp having finished his pipe, stoops down to knock out the ashes, upon any convenient spot. As the hand is again brought up to the level of the table, the glass is pressed into the bowl of the pipe with the thumb. The pipe is then laid upon the table, with the bowl facing towards its owner, a little to the left of where he is sitting. In this position the mirror is visible to no one but the sharp himself. He is therefore at liberty to make the freest use of it without exciting suspicion in the least. [Illustration: FIG. 22.--PIPE-REFLECTOR _IN SITU_] Fig. 22 is a photograph of pipe and mirror _in situ_, which will give a far better idea of the convenience of this arrangement than any amount of explanation could possibly enable the reader to form. The card which is seen reflected in miniature was held at a distance from the mirror of about six inches. Among the various forms in which reflectors are supplied, there are some attached to coins and rouleaux of coins of various values. Also there are some so constructed as to be attached to a pile of 'greenbacks' or bank-notes. The manner in which these are used will be readily understood, therefore there is no need to do more than refer to them. In addition to these, there is the appliance described in the catalogue as--'Reflector, attached to machine, can be brought to palm of hand at will.' This will be found described in the chapter on 'holdouts,' to which class of apparatus it properly belongs. The smallest and most difficult to use of all reflectors is one the very existence of which is but little known, even among sharps, viz. the tooth-pick reflector. In this instance the mirror is a very tiny one adapted to lie at an angle within the interior of a large quill tooth-pick. With the exception of its size, it is similar in other respects to the pipe-reflector already described. Needless to say, the extreme minuteness of the image formed by so small a mirror entirely precludes its use except by a sharp who is an expert indeed, and one whose vision is of the keenest description: _m_, fig. 23, indicates the position occupied by the mirror within the interior of the quill. The noble bird--typical of all gamblers--from whose pinion the feather has been extracted for so unworthy a purpose, might well exclaim, 'To what base uses may we come!' [Illustration: FIG. 23.] The operator who has adopted this form of instrument will enter the room where card-players are assembled, chewing his tooth-pick after the approved Piccadilly fashion of a few years ago. Having taken his place at the table, he throws down the tooth-pick in front of him, with the pointed end turned towards him. His mirror then comes into play, in the same manner as that of the pipe-reflector aforesaid. One form of reflector which is very useful to the sharp in a single-handed game, is that mentioned in one of the catalogues as being intended to stand behind a pile of 'chips' or counters upon the table. It may appear to the uninitiated that there would be great difficulty in concealing a mirror in this way. Such, undoubtedly, would be the case if only one pile of chips were used. By placing two piles side by side, however, the difficulty disappears. With counters, say, an inch and a quarter in diameter, there is ample space behind two piles, when standing close together, to accommodate and conceal a tolerably large reflector, as such things go. The mirror in this case is mounted somewhat after the fashion of a linen-prover; and precisely resembles a small hinge. The hinge being opened, reveals the reflector. It is set at a suitable angle and simply laid upon the table, either behind the rouleaux of counters, as explained above, or behind a pile of bank-notes, as may be most convenient. If the sharp should unhappily be compelled to part with either counters or notes--a circumstance, by the way, which should never occur in the ordinary course of events--though accidents will happen now and then--the reflector can be closed up and secreted in an instant. It is a neat little device, and one well worthy the notice of intending purchasers. (_See advt._) In connection with sharping of any kind, as in every other branch of art, whether sacred or profane, legal or illegal, one fact is always distinctly noticeable. No matter what improvements may be made, or what amount of complexity may be introduced into any system, or into the appliances which have been invented to meet its requirements, the practice of its leading exponents always tends towards simplicity of operation. To this rule there are very few exceptions. The greatest minds are, as a rule, content to use the simplest methods. Not the easiest, bear in mind, but the simplest. The simple tools are generally more difficult to use with effect than the more elaborate ones. The great painter with no other tools than his palette-knife and his thumb will produce work which could not be imitated by a man of inferior talents, although he had the entire stock of Rowney or Winsor and Newton at his disposal. So, in like manner, is it with the really great expert in sharping. With a small unmounted mirror, and a bit of cobbler's wax, he will win more money than a duffer who possesses the most perfect mechanical arrangement ever adapted to a reflector. It is the quality of the man which tells, not that of his tools. It may perhaps be asked then, if the simplest appliances are best, why is it that they are not generally adopted, in place of the more complicated devices. That, however, is just the same thing as asking why an organ-grinder is content to wind out machine-made airs during the whole of his existence, rather than to devote his time to the far less expensive process of learning to play an instrument. The answer is the same in both cases. It is simply that machinery is made to take the place of skill. The machine can be obtained by the expenditure of so much or so little money, whilst the skill can only be obtained by a lifetime of practice. Your duffer, as a rule, does not care about hard work. He prefers a situation where all the hard work is put out, and the less irksome is done by somebody else. Hence the demand for cheating-tools which will throw the responsibility of success or failure upon the manufacturer, leaving the operator at liberty to acquire just as much skill as he pleases, or to do without skill altogether if he thinks fit. According to one of the leading experts in America, the above-mentioned bit of cobbler's wax, in conjunction with the plain unmounted mirror, is by far the best method of employing a reflector. The mirror is simply attached, by means of the wax, to the palm of the hand near the edge; and when it is fixed in this position, the little indices, usually found upon the corners of modern playing-cards, can be read quite easily. Furthermore, so situated, the reflector is quite secure from observation. The majority of sharps, however, appear to strike the happy medium between the simplicity of this device and the complexity of the 'reflector attached to machine.' Thus, it is the table-reflector which appears to be the most popular for general use, although from its nature it is not well-adapted for use in a round game. There are too many people to the right and left of the operator. For a single-handed game, however, where the sharp has no opportunity of 'getting his own cards in,' it is invaluable. Supposing, then, for the moment, gentle reader, that you were a sharp, your plan of working the table-reflector would be as follows. You would find your 'mug' (first catch your hare), and perhaps you might induce him to invite you to his club. Having got your hand in to this extent, doubtless you would find means of persuading him to engage you in a game of cards, 'just to pass the time.' He thinks, no doubt, that he is perfectly safe, as the club cards are being used, and moreover being in all probability what is known in 'sporting' circles as a 'fly-flat'--that is, a fool who thinks himself wise--he imagines that he knows enough about cheating to 'spot' anyone who had the audacity to 'try it on' with him. Now, if there is one thing more certain than another, it is that a sharp is always safest in the hands of a man who thinks he knows a lot. The event will nearly always prove that his knowledge is limited to an imperfect acquaintance with some of the older forms of manipulation; things which have been discarded as obsolete by all practical men. Therefore, if he anticipates cheating at all, he prepares himself to look out for something vastly different to what is about to take place. His mind running in a groove, he is preoccupied with matters which are of no importance to him; and thus falls an easy prey to the sharper. In such a case, then, you have a 'soft thing.' You select a table which affords you the opportunity of securing a nice, convenient seat, with your back to the wall. You fix your 'shiner' just under the edge of the table, and engage your 'pigeon' in a single-handed game of poker. If you are worth your salt, you ought to pluck him--nay, _skin him_, for all he is worth. CHAPTER V _HOLDOUTS_ The term 'Holdout' is the name given to a mechanical contrivance, constructed with the object of enabling the card-sharper to 'hold-out,' or conceal one or more cards, until such time as he finds that they will be useful to him by turning the balance of fortune in his favour at some critical point of the game. They are obviously unavailable in those games where the whole pack is distributed among the players, as the cards abstracted must in that case necessarily be missed. It will be seen, then, that although the name may appear clumsy and puerile, it is notwithstanding well chosen and expressive. The gambler 'holds out' inducements to the cheat; the market, provided by cheating, 'holds out' inducements to the manufacturer; the manufacturer 'holds out' inducements to purchase his machines; and the machines themselves 'hold out' inducements which very few sharpers can resist. It is like the nursery-rhyme of the dog that was eventually 'purwailed on' to get over the stile. As far as we have yet travelled upon our explorations into the regions of fraud and chicanery, yclept 'sharping,' our path has been, comparatively speaking, a rosy one. The way has been by no means intricate, and the difficulties we have had to encounter have been but few. At this point, however, the course runs through a region which is, to some extent, beset with thorn and bramble, in the guise of mechanical contrivances having a more or less complex character. The non-technical reader, however, has no cause for being appalled at the nature of the ground which he is invited to traverse; the author undertakes to render his travelling easy, and to put him through, as it were, by 'Pullman-Express.' One should always endeavour to popularise science whenever the opportunity serves. The mechanically minded reader, at any rate, will revel in the examples of human ingenuity--and corruptibility--which are here presented for the first time to his admiring gaze. As in all other instances of means well-adapted to a given end, these utensils of the holdout persuasion have taken their origin from extremely simple and antiquated devices. Perhaps we are not correct in saying 'extremely antiquated,' since 'Cavendish' is of opinion that cards have not been invented more than five hundred years. Those, however, who attribute their invention to the Chinese, æons before the dawn of western civilisation, will be inclined to the belief that the 'Heathen Chinee' of succeeding ages must have coerced the smiles of fortune, with the friendly aid of a holdout, centuries before the discovery of the land of that instrument's second or third nativity. As to this debatable point, however, there is very little hope that we shall ever be better informed than at present. It belongs to the dead things of the dead past; it is shrouded in the mist of antiquity and buried beneath the withered leaves of countless generations; among which might be found the decayed refuse of many a family tree, whose fall could be directly traced to the invention of the deadly implements known as playing cards. Do not let the reader imagine for a moment that I am inveighing against the use of cards, when employed as an innocent means of recreation. That is not my intention by any means. Such a thing would savour of narrow-mindedness and bigotry, and should be discouraged in every possible way. The means of rendering our existence here below as mutually agreeable as circumstances will permit are by no means so plentiful that we can afford to dispense with so enjoyable a pastime as a game of cards. It is not the fault of the pieces of pasteboard, that some people have been ruined by their means; it is the fault of the players themselves. Had cards never been invented, the result would have been very similar. Those who are addicted to gambling, in the absence of cards, would have spun coins, drawn straws, or engaged in some other equally intellectual recreation. When a man has arrived at the state of mind which induces him to make 'ducks and drakes' of his property, and a fool of himself, there is no power on earth that can prevent him from so doing. But to return. The earliest account we have of anything in the holdout line is the cuff-box described by Houdin. I for one, however, am inclined to think that there is a slight tinge of the apocryphal in the record as given by him. My reason for this opinion is twofold. In the first place the description is singularly lacking in detail, considering Houdin's mechanical genius; and secondly, the difficulty of constructing and using such an apparatus would be for all practical purposes insuperable. I should say that Houdin had never seen the machine; and that he trusted too implicitly to hearsay, without exercising his judgment. Of course there is nothing but internal evidence to support this view; still, I cannot help believing that part at least of the great Frenchman's account must be taken 'cum grano.' In any event, however, we are bound to admit that something in the nature of a holdout was known to some persons in the early part of the present century. Houdin entitles the device above referred to--'La boite à la manche;' and his description is to the following effect. A box sufficiently large to contain a pack of cards was concealed somewhere in the fore part of the sharp's coat-sleeve. In picking up the pack, preparatory to dealing, the forearm was lightly pressed upon the table. The box was so constructed that this pressure had the effect of throwing out the prepared or pre-arranged pack previously put into it, and at the same time a pair of pincers seized the pack in use, and withdrew it to the interior of the box, in exchange for the one just ejected. In his autobiography, Houdin recounts an incident in which this box played a prominent part. A sharp had utilised it with great success for some time, but at last the day came when his unlucky star was in the ascendant. The pincers failed to perform their function properly, and instead of removing the genuine pack entirely, they left one card upon the table. From the description given of the apparatus, one may imagine that such a contingency would be very likely to arise. The dupe of course discovered the extra card, accused the sharp of cheating--and not without reason, it must be admitted--challenged him to a duel, and shot him. Serve him right, you say? Well, we will not contest the point. The substitution of one pack for another appears to be the earliest conception of anything approximate to the process of holding-out cards until they are required. All sorts of pockets, in every conceivable position, appear to have been utilised by the sharps of long ago, for the purpose of concealing the packs which they sought to introduce into the game. This necessarily could only be done at a period when plain-backed cards were generally used. The sharp of to-day would want a goodly number of pockets, if it were necessary for him to be able to replace any pattern among the cards which he might be called upon to use. Holding out, however, in the true sense of the term, became a power in the hands of the sharp only with the introduction, and the reception into popular favour, of games such as Poker, in which the cards are not all dealt out, and the possession of even one good card, in addition to a hand which, apart from fraud, proves to be decent, is fraught with such tremendous advantages to the sharp who has contrived to secrete it. The earliest example of a card being systematically held out until it could be introduced into the game with advantage to the player, is probably that of the sharp who, during play, was always more or less afflicted with weariness, and consequently with a perpetual desire to stretch himself and yawn. It was noticed after a while that he always had a good hand after yawning; a singular fact, and unaccountable. Doubtless the occultists of that day sought to establish some plausible connection between the act of stretching and the caprices of chance. If so, there is very little question that, according to their usual custom, they discovered some super-normal, and (to themselves) satisfactory hypothesis, to account for the influence of lassitude upon the fortunes of the individual. In accordance with the usual course of events in such instances, however, the occult theory would be unable to retain its hold for long. The super-normal always resolves itself into the normal, when brought under the influence of practical common-sense. In this particular case the explanation was of the simplest. Having secreted a card in the palm of his hand, the sharp, under cover of the act of stretching, would just stick it under the collar of his coat as he sat with his back to the wall. When the card was required for use, a second yawn with the accompanying stretch would bring it again into his hand. This, then, was the first real holdout--the back of a man's coat collar.[4] Since that time the ingenuity of the cheating community has been unremittingly applied to the solution of the problem of making a machine which would enable them to hold out cards without risk of detection. That their efforts have been crowned with complete success we have the best of reasons for believing, inasmuch as holdouts which can be used without a single visible movement being made, and without the least fear of creating suspicion, are articles of commerce at the present moment. You have only to write to one of the dealers, inclosing so many dollars, and you can be set up for life. No doubt you can obtain the names and addresses of these gentlemen without difficulty; but since the object of this book is not to supply them with gratuitous advertisement, their local habitation will not be given herein, although their wares are prominently mentioned. In order that the reader may fully appreciate the beauty and value of the latest and most improved devices, we will run lightly over the gamut of the various instruments which have been introduced from time to time. This course is the best to pursue, since even among the earlier appliances there are some which, if well-worked, are still to be relied upon in certain companies, and indeed _are_ relied upon by many a sharp who considers himself 'no slouch.' There is every reason to believe that the first contrivance which proved to be of any practical use was one designated by the high-sounding and euphonious title of 'The Bug.' Your sharp has always an innate sense of the fitness of things, and an unerring instinct which prompts him to reject all things but those which are beautiful and true. Ample evidence of this is not wanting, even in such simple matters as the names he gives to the tools employed in his handicraft. 'The Bug' would appear to be an insect which may be relied upon at all times, and in whose aid the fullest confidence may be placed. In fact, there is a saying to the effect that the bug has never been known to fail the enterprising naturalist who has been fortunate enough to secure a specimen, and that it has never been detected in use. [Illustration: FIG. 24.--'The Bug.'] This entomological curiosity is illustrated in fig. 24, and is thus described in the catalogue of one indefatigable collector. 'The Bug.' A little instrument easily carried in your vest pocket, that can be used at a moment's notice to hold out one or more cards in any game. Simple yet safe and sure. Price $1,00. Such then are the general characteristics of the species; but since the reader will probably desire a more intimate acquaintance with its habits and its structural details, the following description is appended. In its essential features the bug is simply a straight piece of watchspring, bent--as Paddy might say--at one end. The end nearest the bend is inserted into the handle of a very small shoemaker's awl. There is nothing else 'to it' whatever. The point of the awl is stuck into the under side of the table, in such a manner that the spring lies flat against the table top, or nearly so, the point of the spring projecting beyond the edge of the table to the extent of about one-eighth of an inch. The cards having been dealt out (say for Poker), the sharp takes up those which have fallen to his hand, and stands them on edge upon the table, with their faces towards him, holding them with both hands. The card or cards which he wishes to hold out are then brought in front of the others, and with the thumbs they are quietly slid under the table between it and the spring. In this position they are perfectly concealed, and may be allowed to remain until required. When again wanted, these cards are simply pulled out by the two thumbs, as the sharp draws his other cards towards him with a sweeping motion. Thus, by selecting a good card here and there, as the succeeding hands are played, the sharp acquires a reserve of potential energy sufficient to overcome a great deal of the inertia with which he would otherwise be handicapped by the fluctuations of fortune. The next form of holdout which falls beneath our notice is that known as the 'Cuff Holdout.' Let us see how the genius of the maker describes it. 'Cuff Holdout. Weighs two ounces, and is a neat invention to top the deck, to help a partner, or hold out a card playing Stud Poker, also good to play the half stock in Seven Up. This holdout works in shirt sleeves and holds the cards in the same place as a cuff-pocket. There is no part of the holdout in sight at any time. A man that has worked a pocket will appreciate this invention. Price, by registered mail, $10,00.' The cuff-pocket, above alluded to, was a very early invention. As its name indicates, it was a pocket inside the coat sleeve, the opening to which was situated on the under side at the seam joining sleeve and cuff. In fig. 25 '_a_' denotes the opening of the pocket. [Illustration: FIG. 25.] In a game of Poker it would be employed as follows. Whilst shuffling the cards, the sharp would contrive to get three of a kind at the top of the pack. He would then insert his little finger between these three cards and the rest, the pack being in the left hand. Then holding his hand in front of him he would reach across it with the other, for the (apparently) simple purpose of laying down his cigar, upon his extreme left, or if he were not smoking he might lean over in the same manner to 'monkey with his chips' (_i.e._ to arrange his counters). In this position the orifice of the pocket would come level with the front end of the pack, the latter being completely covered by his right arm. This would give him an opportunity of pushing the three selected cards into the pocket, where they would remain until he had dealt out all the cards and given off all the 'draft' except his own. Still holding the pack in his left hand, and his hand in front of him, he would again cross his right hand over, this time for the purpose of taking up and examining his own hand of cards, which he had taken the precaution of dealing well to the left, to give him an excuse for crossing his hands. He would then remove the cards from the cuff-pocket to the top of the pack, and lay the whole down upon the table. His manoeuvring having been successful so far, he would now throw away three indifferent cards from his hand and deliberately help himself to the three top cards of the pack. These, of course, would be the three (aces for preference) which he had previously had concealed in the pocket. Thus, he is bound to have a 'full,' in any case. If he had been so fortunate as to possess another ace among the cards which fell to his hand on the deal, he would have a 'four'; which can only be beaten when 'straights' are played by a 'straight flush'--in other words, a sequence of five cards, all of the same suit. His chances of 'winning the pot,' then, are infinite as compared with those of the other players. The great disadvantage of the cuff-pocket was the difficulty of removing the cards when once they had been put into it. To facilitate their removal, therefore, the pocket was sometimes provided with a slide, having a projecting stud, which could be drawn with the finger. This would throw the cards out into the hand. This description will serve to enlighten the reader as to the advantages to be gained by substituting the cuff-holdout in place of the pocket which it is intended to supplant. It fulfils its purpose in a much more perfect manner, being far easier to use, and requiring less skill on the part of the operator. [Illustration: FIG. 26.] Referring to fig. 26, it will be seen that this instrument consists practically of a pair of jaws, which, being movable, will separate sufficiently to allow a card to be held between them. These jaws are drawn towards each other by means of an elastic band slipped over them. Elastic is the material commonly used in the springs of holdouts, being readily replaced when worn out or otherwise deteriorated. The projecting lever situated at the side of the machine is for the purpose of separating the jaws when the cards are to be withdrawn. The act of pressing it to one side releases the cards, and at the same time throws up a little arm from the body of the holdout, which thrusts them out. The machine is strapped around the fore-arm with the jaws underneath, and is worn inside the sleeve of the coat or, if playing in shirt-sleeves, inside the shirt-sleeve. Acting from the inside it will hold a card or cards against the under surface of the sleeve, in which position they are concealed from view by the arm. The hands being crossed, as in the case of the cuff-pocket, the cards are simply slipped between the jaws, where they are held until required. The hands being crossed for the second time, the lever is pressed and the cards fall upon the top of the pack, which is held underneath at the moment. This operation is termed technically 'topping the deck.' Fig. 27 shows the manner in which the cards are held by this machine. [Illustration: FIG. 27. Showing card held under the arm.] An extremely simple form of appliance, and one which may be utilised with effect, is that known as the 'ring holdout.' It is merely a small piece of watchspring fitted with a clip, enabling it to be attached to an ordinary finger-ring. Between this spring and palm of the hand the cards are held (fig. 28). [Illustration: FIG. 28.--Ring Holdout.] With a little practice the deck may be topped, hands made up or shifted, and cards held out in a manner which is far safer and better than any 'palming,' however skilfully it may be done. Needless to say, the cards used must not be too large, or the operator's hand too small, if this device is to be employed. We now come to the subject of coat and vest machines, among which are to be found some of the finest examples of mechanical genius as applied to the art of cheating. The earliest vest machine was a clumsy utensil covering nearly the whole of the wearer's chest. It was called--not inaptly--by the gambling fraternity of the time the 'Breast-plate.' Like all other ideas, however, which contain the germ of a great principle, this conception has been improved upon, until it has developed into an invention worthy of the noble end which it is intended to fulfil. In its latest and most improved form, as widely used at the present day, it is illustrated in fig. 29. As a thorough acquaintance with the construction and working of this machine will be of great assistance to us in arriving at an understanding of those which follow, we will go into it somewhat exhaustively with the aid of the lettering in the illustration. [Illustration: FIG. 29.] Referring then to fig 29, _a_ is a slide which is free to move in the direction of the length of the base-plate _b_. It is held in position and guided by means of fittings which pass through the slot cut in the base-plate. This slide is composed of two thin plates of metal between which the cards are held as shown, and is protected by the cover _c_, which is removable, and which is hinged when in use to lugs provided for the purpose upon the base-plate. The ends of base-plate and cover farthest from the hinge-joint are each pierced with a row of small holes. These are to facilitate the sewing of the apparatus to the divided edges of a seam. Attached to the upper surface of the slide will be seen thin strips of metal, bent into somewhat of the form of a bow. In practice these are covered with cloth, to prevent the noise they would otherwise make in rubbing against the cover. As the slide moves forward into the position it occupies in the figure these projecting strips, pressing against the cover, tend to thrust base-plate and cover apart. This action separates the edges of the seam to which those parts of the apparatus are respectively sewn, and provides an aperture for the entrance or the exit of the slide, together with the cards it is holding out. As the slide returns to the other end of the base-plate, the cloth-covered strips fall within the curvature of the cover, thus allowing the edges of the seam to come together; and when the slide is right home, the central projecting strip passes beyond the hinge-joint, thus tending to press the free ends of base-plate and cover into intimate contact. The opening which has been fabricated in the seam is thus securely closed, and nothing amiss can be seen. The to-and-fro movement of the slide is effected in the following manner. Attached at one end to the base-plate is a flexible tube _d_, consisting simply of a helix of wire closely coiled. Through this tube passes a cord _e_, one end of which is led around pulleys below the base-plate, and attached to the slide in such a manner that, when the cord is pulled, the slide is drawn into the position shown. To the other end of the cord is fastened a hook for the purpose of attaching it to the 'tab' or loop at the back of the operator's boot. It may be here mentioned that the cord used in this and all similar machines is a very good quality of fishing-line. The slide is constantly drawn towards its normal position within the machine by the piece of elastic _f_. The band _g_ with the buckle attached is intended to support the machine within the coat or vest. The foregoing description necessarily partakes of the nature of Patent Office literature, but it is hoped that the reader will be enabled to digest it, and thereby form some idea of this interesting invention. Although it is both a coat and vest machine, this apparatus is more convenient to use when fastened inside the coat, as the front edges of that garment are readier to hand than those of the waistcoat. The edge of the right breast is unpicked, and the machine is sewn into the gap. The flexible tube is passed down the left trouser-leg, inside which the hook hangs at the end of the cord ready for attachment to the boot. When the operator is seated at the table, he seizes a favourable opportunity of hooking the cord to the loop of his boot, and all is ready. Having obtained possession of the cards he wishes to hold out, he holds them flat in his hand, against his breast. Then, by merely stretching his leg, the cord is pulled, the seam of the coat opens (the aperture being covered, however, by his arm) and out comes the end of the slide. The cards are quietly inserted into the slide; the leg is drawn up, and--hey, presto! the cards have disappeared. When they are again required, another movement of the leg will bring them into the operator's hand. One can readily see how useful a device of this kind would be in a game of the 'Nap' order. Having abstracted a good hand from the pack (five cards 'never would be missed') it could be retained in the holdout as long as might be necessary. Upon finding oneself possessed of a bad hand, the concealed cards could be brought out, and the others hidden until it came to one's turn to deal, and then they could be just thrown out on to the pack. The price of this little piece of apparatus is $25.00, and, doubtless, it is worth the odd five, being well made and finished up to look pretty. In fact, it is quite a mantelboard ornament, as most of these things are. Evidently, the sharp, whilst possessing the crafty and thieving instincts of the magpie, has also the magpie's predilection for things which are bright and attractive. Therefore his implements are made resplendent with nickel and similar precious metals. Although electroplating or something of the kind is necessary to prevent rust and corrosion, one would be inclined to think that articles which are intended to escape observation would be better adapted to their end if they were protected by some method just a trifle less obtrusive in its brilliancy. However, that is not our business. If the buyers are satisfied, what cause have _we_ to complain? The 'Kepplinger' vest or coat machine, which is referred to in the Catalogue (p. 293), is exactly the same thing as that just described, with the addition of Kepplinger's method of pulling the string, which will be described further on. The 'Arm Pressure' vest machine, mentioned in the same Catalogue, is a modification of the old 'Jacob's Ladder' sleeve holdout, to which we shall have occasion to revert presently. In an earlier edition of the Catalogue the arm-pressure machine is thus eulogised:-- 'New Vest Machine. Guaranteed to be the best Vest Machine made. This machine weighs about three ounces, and is used half-way down the vest, where it comes natural to hold your hands and cards. The work is done with one hand and the lower part of the same arm. You press against a small lever with the arm (an easy pressure of three-quarters of an inch throws out the cards back of a few others held in your left hand), and you can reach over to your checks or do anything else with your right hand while working the Hold-Out. The motions are all natural and do not cause suspicion. The machine is held in place by a web belt; you don't have to sew anything fast, but when you get ready to play you can put on the machine and when through can remove it in half a minute. There are no plates, and no strings to pull on, and no springs that are liable to break or get out of order. This machine is worth fifty of the old style Vest Plates for practical use, and you will say the same after seeing one.' The statement guaranteeing this to be the best vest machine ever made has been expunged of late, as will be noticed in the reproduction of the Catalogue upon page 294. In reality it is not nearly so efficient as the Kepplinger, all statements and opinions to the contrary notwithstanding. Its construction will be readily understood from the description of the 'Jacob's Ladder' which follows next in order. This brings us, then, to the subject of sleeve machines, or appliances whereby the sharp, like Ah Sin, the 'Heathen Chinee,' who understood so well 'the game he did not understand,' is enabled to have a few cards up his sleeve. 'Up his sleeve!' How those words suggest the explanation so often given by the innocent-minded public to account for the disappearance of the various articles which slip so nimbly through a conjurer's fingers. And yet, if they only knew it, that is about the last place in the world that a conjurer, as a rule, would use as a receptacle for anything. Of course there is no Act of Parliament to prevent him, should he desire to do so; but that's another story. With the sharp, however, there are several Acts of Parliament to prevent _him_ from using his sleeve for any such purpose; and yet he often resorts to it. How true is the saying that 'one man may steal a horse, whilst another may not look over the hedge.' [Illustration: FIG. 30.] [Illustration: FIG. 31.] As far as can be ascertained, the 'Jacob's Ladder' was the forerunner of all other sleeve holdouts. It was fastened to the under side of the fore-arm, and worked by pressure upon the table. Its construction was essentially that of a pair of lazy-tongs, arranged as in figs. 30 and 31. The base-plate carrying the working parts was curved so as to lie closely against the arm and hold the machine steady whilst in use. The 'lazy-tongs' device was fixed to the base-plate at one end, the other being free to move, and carrying the clip for the cards. Situated at an angle above the 'tongs' was a lever, also attached at one end to the base-plate, the other end terminating in a knob. Half-way down this lever was hinged a connecting-rod, joining the lever with the second joint of the 'tongs.' Pressure being applied to the knob, the connecting-rod would force out the joint to which it was attached; and the motion being multiplied by each successive joint, the clip was caused to protrude beyond the coat cuff. In this position the card could be inserted or removed as in the cases already noticed. The clip was returned to its place within the sleeve by means of a rubber band. Some of these 'Jacob's Ladder' sleeve machines are made to work by pulling a string, after the manner of the coat and vest machine already described. Those advertised at $50.00 are of this description. The advantage of a machine of this kind is of course found in the fact that the cards are brought directly into the hand. This particular form, however, was very difficult to use, as the cards were always liable to catch in the cuff, a circumstance which is obviously much to the detriment of the apparatus. There is also the further disadvantage of being compelled to wear an abnormally large shirt-cuff, which in itself would attract attention among men who had their wits about them. The enormous facilities for unostentatious operation afforded by a machine working inside the sleeve were too readily apparent to allow of the sleeve holdout falling into disuse. It was the kind of thing which must inevitably be improved upon, until it became of practical utility. And such has been the case. The very finest holdout the world has ever seen is that known as the Kepplinger or San Francisco. This machine in its latest forms is certainly a masterpiece. Yet so little appreciation has the world for true genius, that the inventor of this marvellous piece of apparatus is practically unknown to the vast majority of his fellow-men. Kepplinger was a professional gambler; that is what _he_ was. In other words, he was a sharp--and of the sharpest. As to the date at which this bright particular Star of the West first dawned upon the horizon of 'Tom Tiddler's Ground' deponent sayeth not. Neither have we any substantial record of the facts connected with the conception and elaboration of that great idea with which his name is associated. Of its introduction into the field of practical utility, however, and its subsequent revelation to the fraternity to whom its existence was of the utmost consequence, the details are available, and therefore may be revealed. The event occurred in this wise, as follows, that is to say:-- In the year of grace 1888, Kepplinger, the inventor, gambler and cheat, was resident and pursuing his daily avocations in the city known colloquially as 'Frisco.' Now it is a singular feature of human nature that, whatever a man's calling may be, however arduous or exacting, he becomes in course of time so much a creature of habit that he is never really happy apart from it. One may suppose that it is the consciousness of ability to do certain things, and to do them well, which accounts for this fact. At any rate, the fact remains. We are all alike in this respect--especially some of us. The barrister at leisure will prefer to sit in Court and watch another conducting a case; the actor with an evening to spare will go and see someone else act; the omnibus-driver with a day off will perch himself upon a friend's vehicle, and ride to and fro; and the sharp will infallibly spend his leisure moments in gambling. When there are no dupes to be plundered, no 'pigeons' who have a feather left to fly with, the 'rooks' will congregate in some sequestered spot, and enjoy a quiet game all to themselves. And they play fairly? Yes--if they are obliged to do so; not otherwise. They will cheat each other if they can. Honour amongst thieves! Nonsense. In 1888, then, Kepplinger's relaxation for some months consisted of a 'hard game' with players who were all professional sharps like himself. The circle was composed entirely of men who thought they 'knew the ropes' as well as he did. In that, however, they were considerably in error. He was acquainted with a trick worth any two which they could have mentioned. However much the fortunes of the others might vary, Kepplinger never sustained a loss. On the contrary, he always won. The hands he held were enough to turn any gambler green with envy, and yet, no one could detect him in cheating. His companions were, of course, all perfectly familiar with the appliances of their craft. Holdouts in a game of that description would have been, one would think, useless incumbrances. The players were all too well acquainted with the signs and tokens accompanying such devices, and Kepplinger gave no sign of the employment of anything of the kind. He sat like a statue at the table, he kept his cards right away from him, he did not move a muscle as far as could be seen; his opponents could look up his sleeve almost to the elbow, and yet _he won_. This being the condition of affairs, it was one which could not by any stretch of courtesy be considered satisfactory to anyone but Kepplinger himself. Having borne with the untoward circumstances as long as their curiosity and cupidity would allow them, his associates at length resolved upon concerted action. Arranging their plan of attack, they arrived once again at the rendezvous, and commenced the game as usual. Then, suddenly and without a moment's warning, Kepplinger was seized, gagged, and held hard and fast. Then the investigation commenced. The great master-cheat was searched, and upon him was discovered the most ingenious holdout ever devised. What did the conspirators do then? Did they 'lay into him' with cudgels, or 'get the drop' on him with 'six-shooters'? Did they, for instance, hand him over to the Police? No! ten thousand times no! They did none of those things, nor had they ever any intention of doing anything of the kind. Being only human--and sharps--they did what they considered would serve their own interests best. A compact was entered into, whereby Kepplinger agreed to make a similar instrument to the one he was wearing for each of his captors, and once again the temporary and short-lived discord gave place to harmony and content. Had Kepplinger been content to use less frequently the enormous advantage he possessed, and to have exercised more discretion in winning, appearing to lose sometimes, his device might have been still undiscovered. It was thus, then, that the secret leaked out, and probably without the occurrence of this 'little rift within the lute'--or should it be _loot_?--the reader might not have had this opportunity of inspecting the details of the 'Kepplinger' or 'San Francisco' holdout. This form of sleeve machine will be easily understood by the reader who has followed the description of the coat and vest holdout already given upon referring to fig. 32 upon the opposite page, the illustration being a diagrammatic representation of the various parts of the apparatus. [Illustration: FIG. 32.] It is evident that we are here brought into contact with a greater complexity of strings, wheels, joints, tubes, pulleys, and working parts generally than it has hitherto been our lot to encounter. There is, however, nothing which is superfluous among all these things. Every detail of the apparatus is absolutely necessary to secure its efficiency. The holdout itself, _a_, is similar in construction to the coat and vest machine, except that it is longer, and that the slide _b_ has a greater range of movement. The machine is worn with a special shirt, having a double sleeve and a false cuff. This latter is to obviate the necessity of having 'a clean boiled shirt,' and the consequent trouble of fixing the machine to it, more frequently than is absolutely necessary. It will be seen that the free ends of the base-plate and cover, instead of being pierced with holes, as in the vest machine, are serrated, forming a termination of sharp points (_p_). These are for the purpose of facilitating the adaptation of the machine to the operator's shirt-sleeve, which is accomplished in the following manner. In the wristband of the inner sleeve a series of little slits is cut with a penknife, and through these slits the points upon the base-plate are thrust. The base-plate itself is then sewn to the sleeve with a few stitches, one or two holes being made in the plate to allow this to be done readily. Thus the points are prevented from being accidentally withdrawn from the slits, and the whole apparatus is firmly secured to the sleeve. In the lower edge of the false cuff slits are cut in a similar manner, and into these the points of the cover are pushed. The cuff is held securely to the cover by means of little strings, which are tied to holes provided for the purpose in the sides of the cover. These arrangements having been made, the shirt, with the machine attached, is ready to be worn. The operator having put it on, takes a shirt stud with rather a long stem, and links the inner sleeve round his wrist. Then he fastens the false cuff to the inner sleeve by buttoning the two lower stud-holes over the stud already at his wrist. Thus, the inner sleeve and the cuff are held in close contact by the base-plate and cover of the machine. Finally, he fastens the outer sleeve over the whole, by buttoning it over the long stud which already holds the inner sleeve and the cuff. Thus, the machine is concealed between the two sleeves. If one were able to look inside the operator's cuff whilst the machine is in action, it would appear as though the wristband and cuff came apart, and the cards were protruded through the opening. The points, then, are the means whereby the double sleeve is held open while the machine is in operation, and closed when it is at rest. From the holdout, the cord which works the slide is led to the elbow-joint, where it passes around a pulley (_c_). This joint, like all the others through which the cord has to pass, is what is known as 'universal'; that is to say, it allows of movement in any direction. From the elbow to the shoulder the cord passes through an adjustable tube (_d_). The telescopic arrangement of the tube is to adapt it to the various lengths of arm in different operators. At the shoulder-joint (_e_) is another universal pulley-wheel, which is fastened up to the shoulder by a band of webbing or any other convenient means. At this point begins the flexible tube of coiled wire, which enables the cord to adapt itself to every movement of the wearer, and yet to work without much friction (_f_). The flexible tube terminates at the knee in a third pulley (_g_), attached to the leg by a garter of webbing. The cord (_h_) now passes through an opening in the seam of the trouser-leg and across to the opposite knee, where through a similar opening projects a hook (_i_), over which the loop at the end of the cord is placed. It must not be imagined that the sharp walks about with his knees tethered together with a piece of string, and a hook sticking out from one leg; or even that he would be at ease with the knowledge of having a seam on each side unpicked for a distance of two inches or so. That would be what he might call 'a bit too thick.' No; when the sharp sits down to the table, nothing of any such a nature is visible. Nor when he rises from the game should we be able to discover anything wrong with his apparel. He is much too knowing for that. The arrangement he adopts is the following:-- At each knee of the trousers, where the seams are split open, the gap thus produced is rendered secure again, and free from observation, by means of the little spring-clip shown in fig. 33. This contrivance is sewn into the seam, being perforated to facilitate that operation. When closed, it keeps the edges of the opening so well together that one could never suspect the seam of having been tampered with. When it is required to open the gap, the ends of the clip are pressed with the finger and thumb (B, fig 33). This instantly produces a lozenge-shaped opening in the seam, and allows of the connection between the knees being made. [Illustration: FIG. 33.--Seam-clips, A and B.] When the sharp sits down to play, then, he first presses open these clips; next, he draws out the cord, which has hitherto lain concealed within the trouser-leg, and brings into position the hook, which, turning upon a pivot, has until now rested flat against his leg: lastly, he passes the loop at the end of the cord over the hook, and all is in readiness. These operations require far less time to accomplish than to describe. The sharp being thus harnessed for the fray, it becomes apparent that by slightly spreading the knees, the string is tightened, and by this means the slide within the body of the holdout is thrust out, through the cuff, into his hand. The cards which he desires to hold out being slightly bent, so as to adapt themselves to the curve of the cuff, and placed in the slide, the knees are brought together, and the cards are drawn up into the machine. At the conclusion of the game the cord is unhooked, and tucked back through the seam; the hook is turned round, so that it lies flat; and finally the apertures are closed by pressing the sides of the clips together. There is one point in connection with the practical working of the machine which it may be as well to mention. The pulley _g_ at the end of the flexible tube is not fixed to the knee permanently, or the sharp would be unable to stand up straight, with the tube only of the requisite length; and if it were made long enough to reach from knee to shoulder whilst he was in a standing position, there would be a good deal too much slack when he came to sit down. This pulley, therefore, is detachable from the band of webbing, and is fixed to it when required by means of a socket into which it fits with a spring-catch. Such then, is the Kepplinger holdout; and the selling-price of the apparatus complete is $100.00. If there were any inventor's rights in connection with this class of machinery, doubtless the amount charged would be very much higher. Governments as a rule, however, do not recognise any rights whatever as appertaining to devices for use in the unjust appropriation of other people's goods or money--at least, not when such devices are employed by an individual. In the case of devices which form part of the machinery of government, the Official Conscience is, perhaps, less open to the charge of prejudice and narrow-mindedness. What is sauce for the (individual) goose is not sauce for the (collective) gander. However, two wrongs would not make a right, and perhaps all is for the best. Before leaving the subject of holdouts, there is one other form to which it is necessary to refer, viz. the table holdout. It is thus described by the maker:-- '_Table Holdout._--Very small and light. It can be put under and removed from any table in less than half a minute. Works easily from either knee. It will bring three or more cards up into your hand and take back the discards as you hold your hands and cards in a natural position on top of the table.' This 'contraption' is an extremely simple thing, its recommendation being that it accomplishes mechanically what the 'bug' requires manipulation to effect. It is constructed on the same principle as the ordinary vest machine, and is fastened to the under side of the table-top by means of a spike, in a similar manner to the table reflector. The string which works the slide terminates, at the end which is pulled, in a hook having a sharp point. The machine being fixed under the table ready to commence operations, the pointed hook is thrust through the material of the trousers just above one knee. When the slide is required to come forward, the knee is dropped a little; and, upon raising the knee again, the slide is withdrawn by its spring, as in all similar arrangements. By this time the reader will be in a position to understand the nature of the 'reflector on machine,' referred to in the last chapter, without needing to be wearied with further details of this particular kind. Having thus glanced at all the principal varieties of the modern holdout, with one or two of the more ancient ones, it only remains to add a few general remarks to what has been said. Each class of machine has its own peculiar advantages and disadvantages. Each sharp has his own peculiarities of taste and his own methods of working. Therefore, there is no one kind of appliance which appeals equally to all individuals. Some will prefer one machine; some another. That, of course, is the rule in the world generally. A great deal also depends upon the manners and customs of the country in which the machine is to be used. [Illustration: FIG. 34.--Poker player's method of holding cards.] For instance, how many card-players are there in England who hold their cards in the manner represented in fig. 34? Very few, I take it. Yet it is a very good method of preventing others from seeing one's hand. Further, it is the correct way to hold the cards when using the Kepplinger sleeve-machine. The cards are placed flat in one hand, the fingers of the other are pressed upon them in the centre, whilst the thumb turns up one corner to allow of the indices being read. To adopt this method in England, however, would be to arouse suspicion at once, merely because it is unusual. Therefore the vest machine is the best for the English sharp; although no holdout can compare with the Kepplinger in a game of Poker in America. Although most of these contrivances are simple in operation, the reader must not run away with the idea that their use entails no skill upon the part of the sharp who uses them. That would be far too blissful a state of affairs ever to be achieved in this weary world, where all is vanity and vexation of spirit. Certainly, they do not demand the dismal hours of solitary confinement with hard labour which have to be spent upon some of the manipulative devices and sleight-of-hand dodges; but still they require a certain amount of deftness, which can only be acquired by practice. The following instructions will represent the advice of an expert, given to a novice who proposed to try his hand with a machine at the game of Poker:-- 'Practise at least three weeks or a month with the machine, to get it down fine [i.e. to gain facility of working, both of machine and operator]. Don't work the machine too much. [Not too often during the game.] In a big game [that is, where the stakes are high] three or four times in a night are enough. NEVER play it in a small game [because the amount that could be won would be incommensurate with the risk of detection]. Holding out one card will beat any square game [honest play] in the world. Two cards is very strong; but can easily be played on smart people. Three cards is too much to hold out on smart men, as a 'full' is too big to be held often without acting as an eye-opener. Never, under any circumstances, hold out four or five. One card is enough, as you are really playing six cards to everyone else's five. This card will make a 'straight' of a 'flush' sometimes; or, very often, will give you 'two pair' or 'three' of a kind. If you are very expert, you can play the machine on your own deal; but it looks better to do it on someone else's.' Having digested these words of comfort and advice--precious jewels extracted from the crown of wisdom and experience--we may proceed on our way invigorated and refreshed by the consciousness of having acquired knowledge such as rarely falls to the lot of man to possess. FOOTNOTE: [4] Even the modern sharp sometimes uses a method quite as simple. He will put the cards he wishes to hold out under his knee-joint, and when he requires to use them, he will hitch his chair closer to the table, taking the cards into his hand as he does so. This device is called in France the 'coup de cuisse.' CHAPTER VI _MANIPULATION_ Many readers upon the occasion of their taking up this book for the first time will be under the impression, doubtless, that the most important revelations it contains will prove to be those connected with the manipulative devices employed by card-sharpers and others in cheating the simple-minded and unwary. But, whatever preconceptions upon the subject may have existed, the details of mere manipulation are far from being those of the most consequence to the sharp in the exercise of his profession. This, of course, must be understood to be simply a general statement which does not apply to particular cases. The low-class English sharp, for instance, relies almost entirely upon certain forms of sleight of hand to deceive the senses of his dupes. Again, there are some tricks and dodges which are practised by even the most high-class cheats. The rule is, however, that mere sleight of hand is to a great extent obsolete; at least, among those who seek to swindle really good card-players. The methods of legerdemain are more the common property of the multitude than formerly, and this fact tends to operate very largely to the detriment of the sharp. With the legitimate _prestidigitateur_ it is otherwise. It is true, some persons are in a position to form a better idea as to how his tricks are accomplished than was the case in years gone by; but even then, there remains the advantage that they are better able to appreciate his deftness and his ingenuity. Therefore, he is rather benefited than otherwise by the spread of this particular form of knowledge. It is the poor sharp who has suffered through the enlightenment of the public. His lines have fallen in rough places of late years; yet it can hardly be said that he has not proved himself more than equal to the occasion. When checkmated in one direction, he is generally capable of creating a diversion in his own favour in another. In card games especially there is always a risk in resorting to manipulation nowadays. There is the ever-present possibility of some one among the cheat's antagonists having sufficient knowledge to detect him in his manipulation of the cards. He is haunted by the fear that sharp eyes are watching his every movement, and he knows full well that he can accomplish nothing in this way without some movement which a trained eye would instantly detect. Once detected in cheating, his reputation is gone. He can no longer hope to find dupes among his former acquaintances. He must seek 'fresh fields and pastures new.' However precious reputation may be to an honest man, it is a thousand times more so to the sharp. Once his reputation is gone he has to depend upon chance custom; whereas he might otherwise have a nice little circle of regular clients, at whose expense he could live in ease and comfort. As a professional sharp remarked to a young friend, to whom he was giving lessons in the art of cheating: 'The best gamblers [they don't call themselves sharps] play with fair cards only; and, by being wonderfully keen card-players, make their brains win, instead of cheating with the pack. They play in partnership (secret), and are invincible, as they know all the various swindles and so can protect themselves from being cheated. The most successful men are among this class, although nearly all of them can do the finest work with a pack of cards. 'The next best class are those who play marked cards well, many of them using cards that no one not acquainted with the work could find out in a lifetime. [Instance, the scroll-work on p. 51.] These men, if they can only get their own cards into a game, are sure to win. 'Then, after these, come the class of "second dealers," "bottom dealers," and men who habitually do work with the pack to win. _These men always get caught in the long run._' Such, then, being the case as evidenced by the word of an expert, one may form some idea of the relative value of manipulation as compared with other methods in the hands of the card-sharper. To deal thoroughly with this branch of our subject would require a text-book of sleight of hand, as nearly all the tricks of 'hanky-panky' could be made to serve the purposes of cheating. But since so many excellent treatises of that kind are readily accessible to the public, it would be superfluous to do more than give the reader a general idea of those methods which the sharp has made peculiarly his own. Even among those which are here represented, there are many devices which are rapidly becoming obsolete, and others of which it is very doubtful how far they are used at the present moment. In sharping, like everything else, 'the old order changeth, giving place to new.' However, the reader must judge for himself as to what devices would be likely to deceive him personally, and that will help him to an understanding of what would probably have the same effect upon others. Thus he will be able to arrive at a tolerably approximate estimate of the probabilities in connection with the use or disuse of any individual trick. The author, being too old a bird to be caught with any such chaff, is really not so competent to form an opinion upon the subject. In his case familiarity, if it has not bred contempt, has at least deadened the due appreciation of the relative merits and advantages of the various trickeries. They all appear of the same tint against the background of past experience, each one possessing but little individuality of its own. With the reader, however, it is in all probability different. Assuming that he has merely a casual acquaintance with manual dexterity of this kind he will come fresh to the subject, and therefore to him the details will assume their proper relative proportions. To begin, then, with the oldest and most simple manipulations, our first topic is that of the 'Bottom Deal.' This trick, simple as it is, is the very stronghold of the common English sharp. In whatever game he is playing, he seizes the opportunity afforded by picking up the cards preparatory to dealing to place certain cards which would form a good hand at the bottom of the pack, and in shuffling he takes good care not to disturb them. But there is still the 'cut' to be thought about. Well, we shall see later on how the effects of the cut are to be obviated. In the meantime, however, it is evident that if the cards were cut and piled in the ordinary manner, those cards which the sharp had so carefully preserved at the bottom would be brought to the centre. That would never answer his purpose; so, when the cut has been made, if the game is one which does not necessitate the dealing out of the entire pack, he simply takes up the bottom half of the pack, leaving the other on the table. Then, holding the cards as in fig. 35, he proceeds to deal. From this point the trick, as its name suggests, consists of dealing the bottom cards, either to himself or, preferably, to a confederate, in place of the upper cards which should justly fall to that hand. [Illustration: FIG. 35.--Bottom Deal.] From the position in which the cards are held it will be seen that, as each card is dealt, the finger and thumb of the dealer's right hand fall respectively below and above the pack. It is, therefore, entirely optional whether he shall take the top card with his thumb, or the bottom one with his finger. When a card has to be dealt, then, to himself or to his confederate, as the case may be, it is the bottom one which is taken; to the other players the top ones are dealt out. When quickly done, it is impossible to see whether the card comes from the top or the bottom, although the manner of holding and dealing the cards would imply that the bottom deal was being resorted to: the cards which come from the bottom, being pulled upwards, appear to come from the top. It can always be detected, nevertheless, by the different sound made by a card when brought from the bottom. There is just a slight click, which is distinctly audible, and easily recognised. The reader should try it for himself, and note the effect referred to. After a few minutes' experience he would never afterwards be mistaken in deciding as to whether a card was dealt from the top or bottom of the pack. A sharp who uses the bottom deal rarely employs any other form of manipulation whatever. We now pass on to the trick known as 'Dealing Seconds.' The trick is so named because it consists of dealing out the second card from the top instead of the top one. It is particularly useful in connection with marked cards, where of course the top card can be read, and very often the second one also.[5] The effect in this case is that the sharp can always retain the better of the two top cards for himself. Suppose, then, there are four players. The sharp, commencing to deal, notices that the top card is a knave, whilst the second is a three. He therefore deals the second card to the player immediately to his left. It may then appear that the second card now is a king; and, consequently, the sharp deals the top card to the second hand, leaving the king on top. If the card which is now second in the pack is lower than the king, the third player receives that card; but if the second should prove to be an ace, the king goes to the third player, and the ace to the sharp himself. It may happen, however, that the sharp, having dealt round to the three players in this manner, finds that the second of the remaining cards is of more value to him than the first. In that case, of course, he would deal himself the second. Thus it is seen that the sharp has really had a choice of five cards on one round of the deal; and the larger the number of players, the greater his choice, although he may at times have to choose between two cards which would answer his purpose equally well. If he is thus compelled to give away a good card he should dispose of it where it is likely to do him least harm, if he can contrive to do so. Besides marked cards, there are other methods of discovering the value of the top card and, consequently, the advisability of dealing seconds, as we shall see presently. The trick of dealing the second card is very easily learned. Take a pack of cards in your left hand, in the manner usually adopted in dealing, with the thumb lying across the middle of the pack. Then with the thumb advance the two top cards slightly to the right. This being done, it will be found that these two cards can be taken between the thumb and middle finger. With the second held by the tip of the middle finger, advance the top card a little further to the right. The cards will now be in a position frequently adopted in dealing, the top card being sufficiently forward to be grasped by the right finger and thumb. So far, there is nothing unusual in the operations; but this is where the trick comes in. If the middle finger of the hand holding the cards is advanced, the second card, resting upon its tip, will be advanced also; and if at the same time the thumb is drawn back, the top card is withdrawn with it. It is now the second card which is the more advanced of the two, and consequently the card which would be taken by the right hand in dealing. In fact, the two cards can be rubbed together by the finger and thumb, alternately advancing and receding. If the second card is to be dealt, then it is pushed forward and the top one is drawn back, the movement being masked by a slight dropping of the arm towards the operator. Of course the change in the position of the cards is not made until the instant the right hand reaches the pack to take the card. Thus the entire operation appears to consist of one movement only. An expert 'second-dealer' will place a known card on top of the pack and deal the whole of the other cards from beneath it, leaving that card in his hands at the finish; and this without any manipulation being visible to any but the sharpest vision. The utility of the second-dealing method of procedure, it is evident, depends greatly upon the fact of having a knowledge of the top card. With marked cards the acquiring of this knowledge can present no difficulty, and even with genuine ones the difficulty is by no means insuperable. All that is necessary is to reach over to the left, keeping the cards in front of one, with the top card drawn off a little to one side, so as to have the index in the corner visible from below, and a sly peep will do the trick. There are innumerable excuses available to account for the reaching over, as we have already seen in the case of the cuff holdout. Given the fact that there is something to the left of the operator which must be reached with the right hand, the rest is easy. The act of leaning to one side effectually covers the slight tilting of the left hand which enables the under side of the cards to be seen. There used to be an old American colonel (the numerical strength of officers in the American army must have been extraordinary at some time or another) at one of the best London clubs who was very partial to the use of this trick. He would lay his cigar upon the table, well over to his left, and then, bending down to get it, he would note both top and bottom cards, in the manner described. Simple as this dodge may be, it is unquestionably of great service at times. Take, for instance, the case of the dealer at Poker. After he has dealt the cards, but before giving off the draft, he leans over to pick up his hand, and in so doing sees the 'size' of the top card of the 'deck.' Upon inspecting his hand, he can tell whether the top card will be of use to him or not. If it is, he can easily hold it back until he can take it for himself; if not, he very generously lets someone else have it. For the benefit of those who may not know the game of Poker, and in England there are many who do not, I may illustrate the great utility of knowing the top and bottom cards by a reference to the results attainable by such means in the familiar game of Nap. Suppose that you are playing a single-handed game, and it is your turn to deal. You note the top and bottom cards. If they happen to be decent ones, both of the same suit, you hold back the top card, and give your opponent the second. The top one then comes to you. You now give your opponent the card next in order, and deal the bottom one to yourself. The rest of the cards may be left to chance, until the five are dealt out to each hand. The consequence of this manoeuvre is as follows. You are sure of having two good cards of one suit, and it is about an even chance that among the other three will be another of the same kind. Therefore, you are pretty certain of a long suit to lead from. Your chances, therefore, are a long way better than your opponent's. If, however, on the other hand, you find that the top and bottom cards are small ones, and of different suits, you may make your opponent a present of them. They may of course prove useful to him; but the chances are that they do not. But, whatever happens, you know the value of two cards out of his five; a fact which may have considerable influence upon the result of the hand, as all 'Nappists' will admit. Necessarily there is nothing of real certainty about this achievement; but, still, the player who knows the top and bottom cards, even though he is not skilful enough to dispose of them to the best advantage, gathers in a goodly proportion of the chances of the game which do not belong to him by right. We now come to the consideration of methods employed by the sharp in manipulating the cards to his own advantage during the process of shuffling, and of preventing the overthrow of his plans by the disarrangement introduced into the result of his efforts in the fact of the cards having to be cut by an opponent. However carefully he may contrive to arrange the order of the cards, the cut would obviously upset his calculations. Therefore, in addition to some method of placing the cards in order, he must also have a ready means of rendering the cut inoperative. We have already seen how the bottom-dealer dodges it; and now we will look into one or two other systems, most of them equally simple, and all of them equally effective. We will suppose for the moment that the cards have been arranged in, or at any rate not disarranged by, the shuffle. The sharp lays the pack upon the table; his opponent lifts up the top half and lays it down near the bottom half. In the natural course of things the sharp should now take up the bottom half, place it upon the top half that was, close the cards together, and commence to deal. If this were done, the cards which he required to have on top would now be in the middle of the pack, and all the trouble he had devoted to their disposition would be wasted. So he is compelled to adopt some means of restoring the cards to their former position. In accomplishing this there are several courses open to him. The simplest and most barefaced method, and yet one which will escape detection nine times out of ten, is the following. The cards having been cut, and the two halves of the pack having been placed side by side in the usual manner, the sharp picks up the bottom half with the right hand, as though he were about to place it upon the other; but instead of so doing, he deliberately puts it into his left hand. Then picking up the top half, he adds it to the other, in the position it originally occupied. There is absolutely nothing in this but impudence, and yet the dodge will nearly always pass muster. Try it the next time you are playing cards, and you will find that nobody will notice it if it is done with apparent carelessness. Even though someone did perceive that the cards were in the same order as formerly, the sharp could always apologise for his inadvertence and suffer them to be cut again. Another very simple method is to cross the hands, picking up the right half of the pack with the left hand, and the left half with the right hand. Then uncrossing the hands, the two halves are put together in their former order. The crossing of the hands tends to confuse the mind of an onlooker, so that he really does not know which hand contains the half that should be placed on top. The reader must distinctly understand that such open and palpable deceptions as these two last would only be practised by the very lowest class of sharps. A good man would scorn the action.[6] With regard to the methods resorted to at any time very much depends upon the class of sharp and the intelligence of the company in which he happens to find himself. The employment of simple trickeries like these in a card party of 'smart' players could only be attended with modified success, very modified indeed. If the players were smart, the sharp would smart. This joke is not copyright, but it is logical nevertheless. The 'pass,' which is the essence of so many card-tricks, is another means of restoring the order of the cards after they have been cut. Since it is explained in every book on conjuring, however, we will only just glance at it. For a fuller description the reader may be referred to Professor Hoffman's admirable treatises. In making the pass the two halves of the pack are picked up in the order they should rightly assume after being cut, care being taken however that there is a slight division maintained between them. For instance, the bottom half is placed upon the top one as it lies upon the table perfectly level sideways, but projecting over one end about a quarter of an inch. The pack is now put into the left hand, and in the act of levelling up the two halves the little finger is inserted between them. Meanwhile the sharp engages the other players in an animated conversation. Then just before dealing, apparently with the object of again levelling the cards, he covers the pack with his right hand. In an instant the cards appear to pass through one another, and the half which was uppermost before cutting is in that position now. The action is simply this. The little finger of the left hand being between the two halves of the pack, that which is above for the moment is held by the little finger and the other three. The lower half is gripped by the thumb and fingers of the right hand. Then by slightly opening the left hand and closing the right, the two halves are drawn asunder. Immediately reversing the motion the two halves come together again with their respective positions reversed. The movement necessary to effect this operation is covered by a slight dropping of the hands at the critical moment. This is called the 'double-handed pass,' as both hands are used to effect it. There are also various single-handed passes available to the expert, but these are more difficult to accomplish neatly, and cannot be so readily disguised. If used at all they are accompanied by a movement of the hand from the operator, as in pointing at something or in shaking the wrist clear of the cuff to give freedom of arm during dealing. The simplest of these passes is made by holding the cards between the thumb and the last three fingers of the left hand, a slight division between the two halves of the pack being maintained at the thumb side. The lower half is now dropped into the palm, and with the forefinger it is turned up towards the thumb. The upper half is now released and allowed to fall upon the fingers which are extended for its reception. Finally, the lower half is dropped upon the upper one and the original order is restored. Much practice, of course, is required to perform this operation with ease and despatch. Another form of pass may be accomplished in putting the cards from the right hand into the left. The pack is held in the right hand, with the upper half slightly advanced, and the lower nipped in the thumb-joint. The left hand, instead of taking the whole pack, merely takes the upper half. The right, in levelling the cards, deposits the lower half upon the upper. It must be forcibly impressed upon the reader that under no circumstances whatever is it possible to make the pass without that device being detected by an expert who is looking for it. Even half a glance at the operator's movements would arouse suspicions which could not be easily allayed. It is therefore a dangerous proceeding at any time for a sharp to indulge in. It is possible that through inattention the expert may not actually see the pass made; but the accompanying movements are sufficient indication of what is going on to anyone who 'knows his way about.' In days gone by, the pass was a power in the hands of the sharp; but now, alas, it is only of occasional use, and the risk it involves is very, very great. Another method of dodging the cut is to take the half of the pack which should finally be on the top, but which the sharp desires to be underneath, holding it by the thumb and three last fingers of the right hand, with the forefinger bent, and its back resting upon the back of the top card. The cards, being thus removed from the table, are now held entirely by the forefinger and the other three, the thumb being taken away. The second half of the pack is now taken up between the thumb and forefinger; at the same instant, the other cards being slipped underneath instead of on top as they should be. Skilfully and quickly done, this plan is very deceptive, as such things go. Rather than resort to any method of restoring the order of the cards after they have been cut, it is far preferable for the sharp to so arrange matters, if possible, that the act of cutting should bring those cards uppermost which are required to be at the top. In a single-handed game, by keeping strict watch upon the direction of his opponent's gaze, he may be enabled to find an opportunity of making the pass; but in a round game, someone is sure to be looking at the cards, and the pass becomes much too risky to be attempted. Therefore, in a case of this kind, the sharp will endeavour to manipulate the cards in such a way that the cut merely serves the purpose of removing certain cards, which are placed above those he needs, uppermost. [Illustration: FIG. 36.--The Bridge.] The commonest plan in use for this purpose is the device known as the 'Bridge.' This architectural contrivance consists of either bending the two halves of the pack in opposite directions, or bending one half, and leaving the other straight (fig. 36). The trick derives its name from the curvature thus produced.[7] In the illustration, the cards which are required to be on top are the straight ones now lying underneath. An unsuspicious player, being called upon to cut the pack, will undoubtedly lift off the bent half, owing to the division existing between it and the other. Then there is no need of the pass, or anything of the kind. The sharp has 'forced the cut.' Considering how well-known the bridge is, it is extraordinary how often it is successful. The fact is, the players are not looking for it; they assume that they are playing with honest men, and upon that assumption the sharp in great measure relies. The bridge is specially useful in cases where a confederate is available to cut the cards. Then the bridge need not be so much arched. The very slightest bend is sufficient, as the 'confed.' will be careful to cut at the right place. The 'end-bridge' is a variety we shall have to touch upon later on, and other dodges for attaining the same end as this one will be described in the chapter on 'Prepared Cards.' Working backwards, then, from the end to the means, we arrive by a natural transition to the methods of manipulation employed in securing an advantageous disposition of the cards. Among these, a prominent place is occupied by what are known as 'false shuffles.' These are of three kinds. The first is the shuffle which leaves undisturbed the previous arrangement of the entire pack. The second is that which affects only part of the pack, allowing the rest to retain its original order. The third is the variety which effects the systematic disposition of the cards in a manner which will bring good hands to the sharp and his accomplices, if such there be, or at any rate either to the sharp himself or to an accomplice. By way of familiarising the reader with these processes, we will just glance through the older forms of all three kinds. It must be distinctly borne in mind, however, that the modern methods of shuffling have rendered most of these obsolete. They have been replaced by improved manipulations, as we shall see later. Of the first kind of these shuffles there is a great variety. They are simply manipulations which appear to be shuffles, but in reality are not so. We will investigate one of them. The pack is taken in two halves, one of which is held in each hand. From the right hand half about half a dozen cards are pushed off and placed _beneath_ those in the left hand. Then, from the left hand, three cards say are pushed off and placed beneath those in the right hand. This process is continued, always putting more cards from right to left than _vice versa_, until the whole pack appears to have been shuffled into the left hand. This looks exactly like a genuine shuffle. In fact, most persons upon having it explained to them will say that the cards really _are_ shuffled, but it is not so. The effect produced is that of a simple cut. If the bridge is made before commencing, the process can be continued until the top card has resumed its former place. Then it will be found that there has been absolutely no disarrangement of the cards whatever. This shuffle is particularly useful at the beginning of a game when the sharp contrives to get the deal, or upon the introduction of a fresh pack of cards. Gamblers are superstitious as a rule, and when their 'luck is out,' which is generally the case when they happen to be playing with a sharp, they will sometimes seek to improve it by changing the cards. Now, even a new pack can be opened for the purpose of arranging the contents, and sealed up again so neatly that there is no evidence of its ever having been tampered with. Then, supposing the sharp to be a member of a club, the person who purchases the club cards may be a confederate, and thus the cards which are apparently fresh from the maker may have been falsified in any desired manner.[8] Whatever method may have been adopted to arrange the pack, the foregoing shuffle will not disturb it. The cut is rendered inefficient by either of the methods given, and all is happiness and prosperity. The second form of false shuffle is quite as easy to accomplish as the first. All that is necessary is to take care that the part of the pack which is required to be kept intact should not be disturbed. The rest of the cards may be shuffled to one's heart's content. The sharp, having noted certain cards among those which have been played that would be of service to him in some way or another, in picking them up contrives to place them all together at the top or bottom of the pack. Then in shuffling he avoids all interference with those cards. A good plan is to put the cards on top and lay the pack upon the table. Then with the right hand lift up the top cards, and, with the left, cut the remainder in two and shuffle one portion into the other. This will pass for a genuine shuffle almost anywhere. Selected cards, placed above or below the pack, are called 'top-stock' or 'bottom-stock,' as the case may be. They are useful for a variety of purposes, as will be readily understood. The effect of the holdout when used in the game of Poker, as described in the last chapter, is to work the top-stock for draught. The shuffle just dealt with would work the top-stock for deal. The last of the three kinds of false shuffles enumerated is of course the most generally useful in almost any game. Take whist for example. How pleasant would it be to be able to deal oneself, or one's partner, a hand containing nearly all the trumps. Well, that is a thing which is quite possible of accomplishment and by no means difficult. The cards are simply arranged during the shuffle. It is what is called 'putting up' a hand, and this is how it is done. As the tricks are played in the previous hand you notice those which contain a preponderance of the best cards of one suit, say diamonds. You keep an eye particularly upon the four tricks which would make the best hand, viz., those which contain the highest cards. It is your turn to deal. You pick up the tricks as they lie upon the table or are passed to you, keeping those you require slightly separate from the rest as you gather them up, and finally place them at the bottom of the pack, with the little finger of your right hand inserted between them and the cards which are above. You now proceed to shuffle. The first operation is to put all the cards above your little finger into the right hand. Thus you hold the cards you require in your left hand, but there are sixteen of them, and you only want thirteen. Therefore you push off three of them into the right hand. Now you are ready to make your final arrangements. With the thumb of your left hand slip off one card from that hand on to those in the right. Then with the thumb of your right hand slip that card together with the three immediately below it _under_ the cards in the left. Again you slip one from the left on top of those in the right, and again place that card with the three next to it under the left hand cards. This action is repeated until only three cards remain in the right hand. Arriving at this point care must be observed. You have of course borne in mind the necessity of having the bottom card, which will be the trump, of the same suit as that which preponderates in the number selected, and have arranged matters accordingly. Now, with only three cards in the right hand, there remain two of the selected cards above those in the left which have not been handled. The second of these two will be the one required for the trump card, in this case a diamond. Therefore you put the first one on top of the three remaining in the right, and the second one below them. Then the whole five are put at the bottom of the pack and the shuffle is complete. You evade the cut by whichever method suits your opportunities best, and upon dealing, all the selected cards fall to yourself. The above is a shuffle which is easily acquired, and when done neatly and quickly, the effect is very good. It looks exactly like a genuine shuffle. The only difficult part of the manipulation is placing the four cards from right to left. There is not much time to count them. With a little practice however, the operator can _feel_ that the right number of cards go into the other hand. The best practice is to pick out all the cards of one suit, and shuffle them into the others in the manner described. Then when the cards are dealt out, it will be seen at once whether the shuffle has been correctly performed or not. The passing of the cards from side to side must be quickly done, and without pausing between the movements, if the trick is to escape detection. This one instance will serve to give the reader the basis of all the other shuffles in which the cards are arranged. They all consist in the main principle of placing certain cards all together in some convenient position in the pack, and then arranging them with a proper number of indifferent cards between each one and the next. The nature of the game of course decides the manner of their arrangement. The reader may very possibly find some difficulty in quite grasping the details of these explanations, but if he will take a pack of cards and follow the instructions step by step they will all become clear. If these older forms of shuffling are thoroughly understood, it will be a great help towards arriving at the full significance of the more modern manipulations which are about to be described. At the present day the foregoing trickeries would be inadmissible owing to the fact that only the most juvenile card players would ever use the form of shuffles they involve. No _player_ would ever think of taking the two halves of the pack, one in either hand, when about to shuffle. That style of thing is quite out of date. Indeed in a smart game the dealer would not be even allowed to raise the cards from the table when shuffling, although in the ordinary way they are more often than not simply shuffled from one hand into the other. The principal shuffles of modern times are three in number:-- 1. The 'Over-hand Shuffle.' 2. The 'Riffle' or 'Butt-in Shuffle.' 3. The 'Écarté Shuffle.' The over-hand shuffle is that in which the cards are taken in the left hand and shuffled, a few at a time, into the right. It is familiar to all, and requires no more than the mere mention of it to recall it to the reader's mind. The riffle, or butt-in, as it is called in America, is the shuffle in which the pack is laid upon the table, the top half is taken off with the right hand and laid near it. The fingers of either hand then press upon the cards of the respective halves of the pack, whilst the thumbs 'riffle' or bend up the corners of the cards, allowing them to spring down, one or two at a time, from right to left alternately, those of one side falling between those of the other. Finally the cards are levelled up and the shuffle is complete. The écarté shuffle is one in which the cards are laid on the table with one side of the pack facing the operator. The top half of the pack, or rather less, is taken off with the right hand and shuffled into the remainder of the cards held by the left as they lie upon the table. In those cases where the dealer is not allowed to shuffle the cards in his hands, the riffle or the écarté shuffle is used. A variety of the riffle called the French shuffle is sometimes adopted in which a half of the pack is taken in either hand, the two halves resting upon the table at one end and inclined towards each other, a few cards at a time being allowed to fall from either side alternately. With these higher class shuffles then, it is evident that more improved methods of manipulation must be adopted to render them amenable to the purposes of cheating. We have therefore to examine the means employed by the sharp (1) to keep intact a pre-arrangement of the cards, (2) to leave undisturbed a certain portion of the pack which has been 'put up' or 'stocked,' and (3) to put up hands or arrange the cards to suit his own purposes. The corollary to these manipulations is necessarily the means of nullifying the effect of the cut which follows as an inevitable consequence upon the shuffle; except, of course, in those cases where a player is content to 'knock' instead of cutting. This 'knock' is an American institution, and consists of merely rapping the top of the pack with the knuckles. It signifies that the player does not wish to cut, and is frequently practised by the sharp's accomplice, when he has one, to avoid disturbing the order of the cards. To retain the original order or pre-arrangement of a whole pack, the riffle is the shuffle that is generally used; the modification referred to in the last paragraph but one being the most convenient form for the purpose. The top half of the pack being taken in the right hand, and those of the bottom half in the left, the cards are riffled together upon the table. If the pack were levelled up, the shuffle would of course be effectual; but it is in the act of levelling that the trickery is introduced. As the cards rest in front of the operator, those of one side alternating with those of the other, they are covered by his hands, the thumbs being towards him, the three first fingers of each hand on the opposite side of the pack, and the little fingers pressing upon the ends of the right and left halves respectively. In this way the cards are just straightened merely, but not closed up. A turn of the hands, from the little fingers outwards, throws the two packets of cards at an angle one to the other, the thumbs now resting upon the corners nearest the operator. The little fingers are then closed in towards the thumbs. This has the effect of pushing the cards of each packet diagonally across those of the other. Those of the right half pass against the thumb of the left hand, whilst those of the left half pass in a similar manner across the right thumb. Thus the cards simply pass from either hand into the other. The top half of the pack is now held by the fingers and thumb of the _left_ hand and _vice versa_. The two packets are now quickly separated, and that in the left hand is placed above that in the right. The whole of the cards are therefore in their original positions, although they appear to have been perfectly shuffled. The passing of the cards across is to give the appearance of closing them together; whereas they really pass right through into the opposite hands. Quickly done, this shuffle is most deceptive, but the whole operation should not occupy more than a couple of seconds. It can always be detected by one who knows it, on account of the necessity of turning the two halves at an angle; otherwise it is perfect. It cannot be very successfully performed with a full pack, but with an écarté pack of 32 cards it is very simple. To allow a certain number of cards to remain undisturbed is a comparatively simple matter in any shuffle. It is only necessary to see that they _are_ undisturbed. In the over-hand shuffle they may be placed either at the top or bottom of the pack, passing them all together from the left hand into the right. When they are at the top, the approved method is to slip off at once, into the right hand, as many of the top cards as may be necessary to insure that the whole of the selected cards are together. This packet is held by pressing the cards endwise between the forefinger and the root of the thumb. The remaining cards are then shuffled _on to the forefinger_, thus maintaining a slight division above those which have been put up. The final movement of the shuffle is to part the pack at this division, and return the top cards to their original position. In the riffle shuffle it is quite as easy to retain the position of any cards which may require to be kept in view. If they are at the bottom of the pack, they are simply riffled down upon the table before any others are allowed to fall, and the rest of the cards are shuffled above them. If they are at the top, they are held back until all the other cards have fallen. In either case, the cards of one half are simply let down sooner or more slowly than those of the other, according to whether the stocked cards are at the top or the bottom. In the écarté shuffle, the proceedings are a little more complex. It would never do to coolly ignore a certain portion of the pack in shuffling; therefore the observers have to be thrown off the scent. This is done by means of the manipulation known as 'the French card-sharper's shuffle,' which is accomplished in the following manner. The pack lies upon the table before the operator, with the stocked cards on top. With the thumb and _second_ finger of the right hand, he seizes a sufficient number of the top cards to be sure of having the selected ones all together, and lifts them up, at the same time moving his hand away from him so as to leave the pack unobstructed by the cards just raised. Then with the thumb and _first_ finger of the left hand, he takes up a similar packet of cards from the pack, leaving probably about a third of the pack still remaining on the table. Now comes the trick. The right hand packet is placed under the cards just raised by the left thumb and forefinger, and is immediately gripped by the _middle_ finger and thumb of that hand. Meanwhile, the left-hand packet is taken by the right thumb and forefinger, and moved aside. The two packets have thus changed hands, the top cards being now in the left. In this position they are held by the left finger and thumb, whilst the right hand shuffles the second packet into the cards remaining on the table. This process is gone through several times and the cards appear to be thoroughly well shuffled. Nevertheless, it is evident that the top cards have remained intact throughout. Before passing on to the third form of false shuffle, by means of which cards are put up or stocked, it is necessary at this point to refer to the device known as the 'end-bridge,' a thing which is commonly used at the present time to force the cut at a given point in the pack. Any false shuffle is manifestly useless without some resource of this kind. As the reader is doubtless aware, it is a common practice among card players, at the conclusion of the shuffle and before giving the pack to be cut, to part it at about the middle and place the lower half above the upper. This seems to have become quite the orthodox termination of any shuffle; just a final cut as it were to finish. It is in this final cut that the end-bridge is generally made. We will suppose that the stocked cards are at the top of the pack. The top half is taken by the thumb and second finger of the right hand and drawn off; the cards being held near the corners at one end, the forefinger meanwhile resting upon them between the second finger and thumb. In the act of drawing off the cards they are pressed between the thumb and finger, so as to bend them slightly concave at the back between the corners by which they are held. The bottom half of the pack is then placed above the upper one, the curvature of which produces a slight division between the two halves at one end. The other end not having been tampered with it can be turned towards the players with impunity. The cards being levelled, they are laid on the table in such a position that the player who is to cut will take them by the ends; and it is almost certain that he will cut at the bridge. By way of example, then, the French card-sharper's shuffle in its entirety would consist of the following movements. (1) The top cards are lifted by the right hand, and the second packet raised by the left. (2) The top packet is placed under the second one, and gripped by the left hand. (3) The right hand seizes the second packet, and takes it from above the top one, which remains held by the left thumb and finger. (4) The second packet is shuffled into the cards remaining on the table, and the top packet is dropped upon the whole. (5) The pack is parted by drawing off the upper half with the thumb and second finger of the right hand; at the same moment the bridge is made, the upper half is put under the lower, and the cards are given to be cut. Thus, both the shuffle and the bridge are included in one complete operation. We now come to the modern methods of 'stocking,' or 'putting-up' hands. This, of course, includes the third form of false shuffle. The simplest method of stocking is accomplished in the act of picking up the cards from the table preparatory to shuffling, and is very useful in a game such as Nap. The player who is about to deal notes among the cards lying upon the table those which would provide him with a good hand. With each hand he seizes one of them and immediately after takes up as many indifferent cards as there are players besides himself. He has then two cards 'put up.' Again he picks up two more good cards in the same way, and follows up with the proper number of indifferent ones, as before. He has now four cards out of the five he requires. With one hand therefore he picks up the remaining card, with three others, and puts all the cards thus taken up into one hand. The rest of the pack may be picked up anyhow, care being taken to keep the arranged cards on top. Then comes the shuffle. The first thing to be done is to put on the top of the selected card, which is uppermost, a similar number of indifferent cards to that which is between each of the selected ones, viz., as many as there are players besides himself. Thus the cards he wants will come to him on the deal. The rest of the shuffle is immaterial, so long as the 'stock' is not interfered with. The end-bridge may be worked for the cut, and all being well, he will have the hand he prepared for himself. Some men can do this picking-up with incredible rapidity and without exciting the least suspicion on the part of their opponents. Where the over-hand shuffle is used, the best way of putting up a hand is by means of the process which is called 'milking-down.' This is a manipulation which is both simple and effective. The cards required to be put up are placed all together at the bottom of the pack, which is then taken endways between the thumb and fingers of the left hand ready for shuffling, and the 'milking' commences. We will suppose the game to be Nap, and that three are playing. The dealer having put the selected cards at the bottom in the course of gathering the pack together, prepares to perform the over-hand shuffle as above indicated. With the thumb of his right hand he takes off one card from the top of the pack, whilst at the same moment and in the same movement the middle finger draws off one of the selected cards from the bottom. At this point then he has two cards in his right hand; one of those he has chosen, and an indifferent one from the top of the pack above it. But there are three players, so he must have two cards between each of his own and the next, therefore he draws off another from the top, over the two he already has in the right hand. Again he draws off together a card from the top and bottom, and over these places another from the top. This is repeated until all the hand is put up, and then the remainder of the pack is shuffled on to his forefinger in the manner previously described in connection with the over-hand shuffle. The stock is brought to the top, the pack is parted, the bridge made, and the cards are given to be cut. Milking-down was originally used by Faro-dealers for the purpose of putting up the high and low cards alternately. The high ones being put all together at the top of the pack, for instance, and the low ones at the bottom, they were drawn down in pairs with great rapidity and thus alternated. Nowadays, however, the process is used for putting up hands for most games. It is in connection with the riffle that the most skilful putting-up is accomplished, but much practice and experience are required to enable the manipulation to be performed with certainty. In theory, however, the process is simple. It consists of riffling between the selected cards the proper number of indifferent ones. Suppose that in a game of Nap the required cards have been put at the top of the pack. The cards are divided and riffled, taking care that none are allowed to go between the selected ones except the first and second, which must have the proper number between them. If there are three players, this number will, of course, be two. All that is necessary to effect this is to hold up the top card with one thumb, and the last two cards of the other half with the other thumb. The two cards are allowed to fall upon the second of the selected cards, and the top one is dropped over them. It is with the second and following riffles, however, that the difficulty comes in. In the second riffle, four cards have to be held up and two dropped under them. In the third riffle, seven cards have to be held up, and in the fourth, ten. The fifth riffle merely puts two cards above the top selected card, and the shuffle is complete. The great difficulty is to know that the right number of cards is held up each time, and that the right number is put between them. It seems almost impossible that it can be done with certainty, but there are plenty of sharps who can do it readily enough without any mistake whatever. In fact, some are so skilful with this shuffle that they can find any cards they please by looking at the turned-up corners, and place them in any position they please within the pack. In the game of Poker, when the pack has been stocked for draft, either at the top or the bottom, after the cut the sharp will place the two halves together in the proper manner, but leaving a little break between them. Thus he is enabled to know when the stocked cards are being given off and who has them. Or he may manage to hold back any that would be of use to him. If the cards are held inclined slightly upwards, he may frequently be enabled to draw back the top card as in the 'second-deal,' and give off the next ones. There is a single-handed pass sometimes used to bring the stock to the top, which is performed under cover of the right arm whilst reaching to the left. The cards are held upon a level with the table-top, and as the arm passes over them, those which are above the stock are pressed with the fingers of the left hand against the right elbow. Thus they are held for the moment whilst the others are drawn from beneath, and as the right arm returns, the stocked cards are brought to the top. In this way the entire operation is performed under cover of the arm, and is therefore undiscernible. Where a confederate is available to cut the pack, there is a form of false cut which appears to pass muster in America pretty well. It consists of merely grasping the pack in both hands, lifting it off the table, and pulling it apart, so to speak. The half which comes from the bottom is drawn upwards, thus appearing to come from the top, in the same manner as the cards in the bottom-deal. At the same time, the top half is drawn downwards, appearing to come from the bottom. Then, when the two halves are put together in their original position, it looks as though the lower half had been put upon the upper. Quickly done, this ruse is fairly successful. Another form of false cut is somewhat similar in effect to the French card-sharper's shuffle, and is used to retain a 'top stock' in its place. A third of the pack, or thereabouts, is taken off with the right hand, and the remainder is cut in two with the left. The top cards are now placed upon those which remain on the table, the second lot are thrown down beside them, and upon these the other two packets are placed as one, bringing the top cards into their original position. Thus, whilst the pack is really cut into three, the only effect of the cut is to bring the bottom cards into the middle; a result which is of no consequence where only a top stock is concerned. We may conclude the present chapter with a description of the system of cheating known as 'Counting-down.' This is a method which is not by any means so familiar to the masses as those with which we have just been dealing. It is one of those devices which seem to lie within the borderland between honesty and dishonesty; although, when one understands its real nature, there is no question as to the fact that it really _is_ cheating, and nothing else. It is the most scientific mode of swindling, in games where only a few cards constitute a hand, that has ever been devised, and it is so good that it almost defies detection, even at the hands of an expert. It is just that one word 'almost,' however, which qualifies its absolute perfection. There is always some weak point in a trick, however good. Counting down is one of those operations which depend more on memory than sleight of hand. It requires long practice and much skill, but the skill is rather mental than manipulative. It is necessary that the sharp who practises it should be able to memorise instantly as many cards as possible. Comparatively few persons can remember more than five cards at a glance. Not one in a thousand can remember ten. There are some, however, who can remember the order of a whole pack of fifty-two cards, after seeing them dealt out rather slowly. Needless to say there are not many individuals of the latter class. All, however, use some system of artificial memory. Without something of the kind, counting-down would be impracticable. The object of this system, of course, is to enable the sharp to know the sequence of a certain number of cards which are to be introduced into the play, and thus to be certain of their value, and also of the hands in which they are to be found. The possession of this knowledge is of the utmost importance sometimes. As a readily understood and familiar example, let us suppose that the sharp is engaged in a single-handed game of Nap, and that he can remember twelve cards, together with the order in which they occur. His first duty will be to note the manner in which his opponent usually cuts, whether near the middle of the pack, near the top or the bottom. Most people have some peculiarity in this way which may be relied on. Suppose then the sharp finds that the other man's cut is generally pretty well in the centre. When it is his turn to deal, in the act of shuffling he will place twelve cards in rapid succession at the bottom of the pack, at the same time holding the pack so that the faces of the cards are visible. He notes these twelve cards, and the order in which they occur. At the conclusion of the shuffle he leaves just so many cards over them as he thinks the other will take off in the cut; consequently, after cutting, those cards will be at the top or nearly so. If the sharp is fortunate the cut will come into the first one or two of them, and then when the cards are dealt, he knows by looking at his own hand precisely what cards his opponent holds. If his own hand will allow him to 'go more' than his opponent feels inclined to risk, he will do so, if not he allows his opponent to play. In either case he knows perfectly well what the result of the hand will be before a single card is put down. Of course if the case should be that he is playing against an unmistakable 'Nap' hand, and that he has no cards the skilful playing of which will prevent the other man from winning, he is bound to accept the inevitable. But it is obvious that the advantages he enjoys, compared with his antagonist, are enormous. With a sharp who works the bottom-deal, the memorising of five cards only is sufficient. He notes the five cards and leaves them at the bottom of the pack which is given to be cut. After the cutting, he picks up the bottom half of the pack, leaving the other upon the table. If the five cards at the bottom are good ones he deals them to himself, but if, on the contrary, they are little ones, which would make a bad hand, he deals them to his opponent. He will always let the opponent have them unless they are exceptionally good, because it is worth more than half the game to know what cards one has to contend with. It is in the game of 'Poker,' however, that counting-down is of the greatest assistance. The cards are dealt round five to each player, and we will suppose it is the sharp's turn to deal next. He throws his hand, face downwards, on the table, and puts the rest of the pack on top of it. He therefore knows the five bottom cards of the pack, having memorised his hand. Even though some of the other players may understand counting-down, no one will suspect that any trickery is in progress, as the whole proceeding is quite usual and perfectly natural. Having the whole of the cards in a heap in front of him, the sharp now takes them up to straighten or level them, somewhat ostentatiously keeping their faces turned well away from him, so that he cannot see a single card. He does not overdo this appearance of honesty however. That would be almost as fatal as an appearance of cheating. The cards being straightened, the shuffle has now to be accomplished. In this case it will be one of the second, or partial order. The sharp takes good care, in riffling down or what not, to leave undisturbed the five cards he has memorised, and finally to have them in such a position within the pack, that the cut and deal will leave them at the top. His object, of course, is to have the choice of those five cards in the draft. If he has been fortunate in his manipulation, the card which comes to him on the last round of the deal will be one of those five. In that case he knows the value of the two or three top cards, and looking at his hand he can tell whether either of them will be of use to him when it comes to his turn to draw. If so, in giving off the draft to the other players, he may, if opportunity serves, hold back the card or cards he requires. Then the other hands being complete, he can throw away a corresponding number of indifferent cards from his hand and take the selected ones for himself. Generally speaking, this method will enable him to retain and utilise a card which, otherwise, he would have thrown away as being useless, and very often enable him to make 'two pair.' It is manifest that however skilfully this may be done, there is a strong element of uncertainty attaching to the result. The player who cuts the pack may not divide it in the right place by a card or two, and therefore it might happen that the whole of the five cards may be distributed in the deal. But it is bound to come right sometimes, and then it is worth all the trouble and annoyance of the previous failures; but whether it is successful or not, it is done as a matter of routine, and if only for the sake of practice, every time the sharp has to deal. He cannot exercise himself too much in such a difficult operation. Still there is a good bit of chancework about it which is not at all acceptable to the sharp, and to obviate this two sharps will often work in secret partnership. The dealer, having memorised his own hand, which he has plenty of time to do thoroughly, waits until his partner's cards are done with. When that moment arrives, the accomplice passes his cards to the dealer in such a way that their faces can be seen. These must be remembered at a glance. The dealer has now ten cards to work with instead of five, and thus the chances are far more than proportionately greater. Some of the known cards are _sure_ to be at the top of the pack, ready for the draft, and looking at the last card which has fallen to him on the deal, the sharp can tell what they are. If, in addition, it is the confederate who cuts the cards, of course the game becomes too strong to be beaten. He is sure to cut the pack at the right place. If the sharp is a fine shuffler, with a good memory, well-trained in this class of work, he can dispense with an accomplice, and do quite as well without one. Supposing it to be his turn to deal next, he looks at his hand, and if the cards he holds are not of much consequence, he 'passes,' that is, he stands out of the game for the time being. Meanwhile he gathers up the pack and discards, and keeping the faces of the cards turned away from him he evens them up in readiness for the deal. Then he waits until the two or three hands that are being played are called or shown up. With a glance, he remembers as many of these cards as he conveniently can, places them either at the top or bottom of the pack and 'holds' them during the shuffle, arranging their position in the pack as in the former cases. The last card which comes to him on the deal being one of these, he knows the sequence of several of the top cards which remain in the pack. Consequently he not only knows what he is giving off in the draft to others, but also what remains for him when it is his turn to draw. If, then, it suits him best to discard, as to which he does not stand in doubt as the other players do, he throws away according to the nature of the cards he will have to draw from the pack to replace his discards. It really is just the same thing as though he had two hands dealt to him instead of one. He has the opportunity of making his selection from at least twice as many cards as either of his opponents. Unless the reader should happen to be himself a high-class sharp, he can have no idea of how well this is done by some men who make it their speciality. It is a method which renders a good shuffler--expressive term--with a good system of artificial memory, well-nigh invincible at such a game as Poker. Counting-down is simple, when you can do it; it is impossible of detection by ordinary players, and best of all, _even smart gamblers will stand the work_. After that no more need be said about it. From the contents of this chapter, the expert reader will see that in so far as manipulation pure and simple is concerned, the sharp of to-day is in a position very little better than that of his prototype of fifty years ago. If we except the improved methods of 'stocking' and so on, which have resulted from the introduction of new shuffles and certain methods of preparing the cards, there are hardly any new developments to record. That this should be so, and indeed must of necessity be so, will be evident to anyone who has made a study of card-tricks. There are only certain manipulations possible in connection with fifty-two pieces of pasteboard. Generations of keen intellects have already made a study of their possibilities; and like the 'old poets, fostered under friendlier skies,' these have stolen all the best ideas from their unhappy successors. And the worst of it is the ideas have become more or less common property. To invent a new deception in the way of the manipulation of cards is for all the world like trying to make a new proposition in 'Euclid.' That ancient humb--philosopher I should say--has covered the whole ground; much to the disgust of that hypothetical example of encyclopædic information known as 'any schoolboy.' In our time we have all of us tempered our regret that so great a philosopher should ever die, with the far greater regret that he should ever have lived. His loss would have been 'any schoolboy's' infinite gain. Well, man is born to Euclid as the sparks fly upward, and there is no dodging the difficulty. It is just the same in the fraudulent manipulation of cards. All that can be done has been done. If it were not so the sharp would be the gainer, therefore it is better as it is. Nowadays, however, it is quite possible to be a first-rate sharp without being capable of performing the simplest feat of dexterity. This sounds very much like saying that a man might be a thorough mathematician without knowing the multiplication-table, but the cases are not exactly upon all fours. It is quite possible to reason logically without having made the acquaintance of that maid of mystery 'Barbara'; and it is quite possible in like manner to be able to cheat without having recourse to manipulation. It is a thing which is not necessary, and more often than not it is attended with the risk of detection. The sharp has gone further afield in the augmentation of his resources. He has pressed into his service every device that human ingenuity can conceive or rascality execute, every contrivance that skill can produce, and even the forces of Nature herself have been made to serve his ends. Meanwhile the unfortunate dupe has been laying the flattering unction to his soul, that given the understanding of certain primitive forms of manipulation, he has nothing else to fear. Much he knows about it! There is no fool like the fool who imagines himself wise, and there is no dupe like the 'fly flat,'--the man who 'thinks he knows a thing or two.' Well, it is not the fault of this book if he is not henceforth a wiser and a richer man. FOOTNOTES: [5] See fig. 7. [6] The terms 'good man' and 'cunning cheat' must here be considered as synonymous. [7] The curve of the upper cards, as shown in the figure, is much exaggerated. It is, really, very slight. [8] See Chapter VII.--'Collusion and Conspiracy,' p. 173 _et seq._ CHAPTER VII _COLLUSION AND CONSPIRACY_ The words which head this chapter are hard words. One cannot deny it. They are intended to be so. Being so, they belong to the class of utterances which, according to the sages, 'break no bones.' This may be true enough even of collusion and conspiracy. But in all conscience, or the lack of it, these have broken hearts and fortunes enough to compensate for any amount of merely physical incapacity. There cannot be the slightest doubt that a large proportion of the cheating which goes on, in what is called polite society, is accomplished by these means. The high position of the players is, unfortunately, no guarantee of fidelity. One may be cheated anywhere, even in exclusive clubs of the most _recherché_ character, as many know to their cost. Practically, there is no high and dry rock upon which the gambler can perch, and say to the tide of cheating--'Thus far shalt thou come, and no farther.' He is not safe anywhere, for he can never tell who may not be tempted, at some time or other, to resort to dishonest practices. The sharp is not always a professional; he may, now and then, be an amateur. Where the stakes are heavy, the temptation to take an unfair advantage of an opponent is occasionally too great for some to resist; especially where no risk of detection is run in so doing. Accidental circumstances will sometimes give a player overwhelming advantages in the play, of which none but he are aware; and who shall say that he will not avail himself of the opportunity which chance has thrown in his way? Against this sort of thing, however, there is no other safeguard than the watchfulness of the players. Where, then, is the 'game,' the amusement, if one has to play, armed at all points, as it were, and living in dread of pickpockets? It is not with this sporadic kind of cheating, however, that we now have to deal, but with the systematic banding together of individuals to swindle at play. As a notable example of this kind of thing, the reader will do well to peruse the recital of the following incident, which occurred a few winters ago at one of the leading clubs in the West End of London. At this club a very favourite game was écarté, played generally 'à la galerie.' That is to say, the bystanders were allowed to bet among themselves, or with the players, as to the result of the game. In this case, the lookers-on form themselves into two parties, one behind each player, and lay wagers upon the chances of their respective champions. The doings of this club, then, afforded an opportunity for cheating which was too good to be missed. Certain unprincipled members therefore proposed, and managed to get elected, two clever French card-sharpers. The method of procedure adopted was to place these two men opposed to each other at a card-table, and let them play écarté. As large a 'gallery' as possible was assembled, and then the fun began. There was nothing of refinement or delicacy of operation in the method employed. All that took place was simply that one or the other of the players lost to order. According to how the betting ran, that is to say, according to the player whose winning would put the most money into the pockets of the conspirators, so would the result of the game be. Certain signs were made to the players, unobserved of the outsiders, and in response to these signs the game was made to go in one direction or the other. The favourite plan appeared to be for all the conspirators to station themselves behind one of the men, and, of course, other members of the club who wished to join in had to take up their position behind the other. The secret brotherhood then made as many bets with those across the table as they could. When this had been effected, their player was sure to win. If the cards were not running favourably to him, he would put up hands for himself, make the bridge, and give the cards to be cut. No doubt, out of pure courtesy, his opponent would obligingly cut at the required place. At the end of the evening the proceeds were divided among the conspirators. Well, this little game had gone on for some time, and had doubtless been the means of putting in circulation a good deal of capital which otherwise would have remained locked up, when a most unforeseen and regrettable incident occurred. Among the newly-elected members of the club was one who had some little knowledge of sleight-of-hand. Chancing to be a spectator of the proceedings one evening, he at once 'tumbled to the bridge.' He might well do so, for, as one of the fraternity remarked, the players had latterly become so secure in the ignorance of the members that, owing to their carelessness, the structure referred to had become not so much a bridge as a veritable 'Arc de Triomphe.' Through the enlightenment which was thus brought about, the matter came to be laid before the committee. The result was that Écarté à la Galerie was prohibited. Those who are familiar with club matters will doubtless remember the circumstance, and know the club to which allusion is made. A very necessary adjunct to collusion of almost any kind is some system of secret telegraphy. With such a system in operation between two or more players who are in secret partnership, there are many games in which winning can be made a certainty. The telegraphy, of course, is seldom of a character which would permit those acquainted with it to indulge in secret gossip, but for the most part consists of signs which indicate the names of the cards. Generally speaking there will be two classes of indications, one for suit, and one for value. For instance, if the player who is signalling is seen to lay his right hand open upon the table, that may serve to indicate hearts; if the hand, instead of lying flat, is resting upon its side, that may mean spades; if clenched flat on the table, clubs may be signified; and finally, if clenched and thumb upwards, that may denote diamonds. The values of the cards are no less easy to indicate. If the telegraphist looks upwards, that may mean an ace; if downwards, a king; if to the left, a queen; if straight in front of him, a knave; if to the right, a ten; with head on one side, and looking upward, a nine; ditto, and looking to the right, an eight; ditto, and to the left a seven, and so on through the whole number. There is no difficulty in arranging a system of this kind, to be worked either by word or sign, and such systems if carefully thought out are very difficult to detect. Suppose two partners at whist are in collusion and one of them is about to lead. The other may desire him to lead clubs. He may, therefore, address to anyone in the room a sentence beginning, 'Can you tell me----' The initial letter of the sentence indicates the suit which he desires his partner to lead. If he wanted diamonds he would say 'Do you know----' &c. If it was necessary to call for hearts he would observe, 'Have you seen----' &c. Lastly, if spades were in requisition he would ask some question beginning, 'Shall you have----' These things are all very simple, but they mean a great deal, sometimes, in a game of cards. Another system of signalling sometimes adopted is to indicate the fact of certain cards being held by the position in which the cards are laid upon the table. The person signalling, having looked at his hand, wishes to let his accomplice know that he holds a certain card of importance in the game. Therefore, whilst waiting till the other players have sorted their hands, he closes up his cards for the moment, and lays them before him on the table. The manner of their disposition will give the required cue, or, as it is called, 'office.' The end of the cards farthest from the operator may be taken to represent a kind of pointer, which is set opposite to some particular figure upon an imaginary dial, supposed to be drawn upon the table. Several cards can be indicated in this way, and for others additional factors can be introduced. For instance, the cards may be spread a little, the top card may project a little to one side or over one end, or the operator may keep his fingers resting upon the cards. In fact, the variety of signals is infinite. From the laying down of a cigar to the taking up of a glass of wine, from the opening of the mouth to the stroking of the chin, every movement, however simple and unsuspicious, can be made the means of cheating at almost any game. A code of signals to indicate every card in the pack, and no more difficult to decipher than the Morse code in telegraphy, can be arranged by anyone in five minutes. Indeed, the Morse code itself can be used in connection with what the French sharps call 'La dusse invisible,' a system of signalling to an accomplice by pressure of the foot under the table. In using this system care must, of course, be taken not to tread on the wrong person's toes. An instance of card-sharping, involving the use of secret telegraphy, once came under the author's notice, in connection with the projected exposure of a noted card-sharp. The circumstances of the case arose in the following manner. It is well known that one of the most able and uncompromising among exposers of fraud at the present day is Mr. Henry Labouchere, M.P., the Editor and Proprietor of 'Truth.' In the columns of that widely read and influential publication, the trenchant criticisms and fearless utterances of 'Scrutator' have done yeoman's service in the cause of truth and justice. The author has had the privilege upon several occasions of being associated with Mr. Labouchere in the running to earth of impostors of various kinds, and one of those occasions was in connection with the case of the sharp above referred to. Some of the details will doubtless occur to the minds of those who recollect the name of the man known as Lambri Pasha. It is advisable to say 'known as,' for whether his real name was anything resembling that there is nothing to show. If there is one thing which one may be inclined to believe more than another, it is that although Lambri the man may have been, Pasha he certainly was not. This man Lambri, then, an Italian by birth and a sharp by profession, had carried on his operations upon so large a scale as to bring himself prominently before the notice of 'Scrutator.' As usual in such cases, 'Scrutator' proceeded to make short work of him. At the time referred to, this Lambri happened to have a quarrel with one of his accomplices, and in revenge this man revealed to Mr. Labouchere the entire _modus operandi_ of the means used by his employer to cheat the gamblers in those high circles to which he had obtained access. This being the case, the author was approached by Mr. Labouchere with a view to arranging a plan of action whereby the arch swindler might be caught red-handed, and the exposure made complete. The following scheme was accordingly devised. The author, in the guise of a country squire supposed to be of great wealth, was to be presented to Lambri, and invited to join in the game of baccarat, specially arranged for the 'staging' of the little drama which was to follow. Needless to say it was not proposed that the author, although armed, should be alone in a venture which promised to result in violence of a more or less pronounced type. Among the other guests it was arranged to have some whose daily avocations were not altogether unconnected with Scotland Yard. Lambri's system was an exceedingly simple one. It was worked with the assistance of a confederate, and baccarat was the game principally favoured. In this game three packs of cards are used in combination, forming one large pack of 156 cards. It is obviously impossible to hold this bulky pack in the hands with any degree of convenience whilst the cards are being shuffled; therefore the shuffle is accomplished by standing the cards on edge upon the table with their faces turned away from the dealer, and in this position they are mixed together. Lambri, having taken the 'bank,' would proceed to shuffle the cards in the manner described. During this operation, and as the various cards were brought to the front, the confederate, who had taken up a convenient position, would indicate to his principal their value by means of a code of signals arranged for that purpose. From the explanations already given the reader will have no difficulty in deducing the manner in which the cards were put up for the advantage of the 'bank.' In order to detect this manoeuvre, then, it would be necessary to watch the proceedings from the commencement, note the arrangement adopted, and at the right moment give the signal for seizing both cards and dealer. Preparations having been made for carrying this plan into effect, and all due precautions having been taken, it was hoped that Lambri would quietly walk into the snare which had been set for him. 'The best laid schemes,' however, 'gang aft agley.' Whether the confederate had played fast and loose with both sides, which is more than probable, or whether information had leaked out through some other channel, it is impossible to say. Certain it is, however, that Lambri obtained an inkling of what was in progress, and took steps--or rather, 'made tracks'--accordingly. The day previous to that decided upon for the exposure the accomplice received a telegram from Paris informing him that the object of our kind attentions, owing to pressure of important business, would be detained there for some weeks. There can be no doubt that the affairs which so suddenly called him to Paris were both pressing and important; for, to all appearance, they have occupied his attention ever since. That appointment has never been kept, and, so far as can be ascertained, he has never from that date to this put in an appearance in England. To all his former friends and acquaintances he is 'lost to sight,' though, to a great many of them, he undoubtedly is 'to memory dear,' and _very_ dear. A sharp may generally be trusted to arrive at a sound decision in all matters affecting his own interests; and it certainly cannot be said that 'Lambri Pasha' has proved himself to be an exception to the rule. At baccarat collusion and conspiracy are generally used for the purpose of 'rooking' some particular individual of the pronounced 'Juggins' type, and the plan of operation is somewhat as follows. We will suppose that the field of action is the card-room of some small club, where baccarat is played clandestinely, and for heavy stakes. Among the members who are addicted to this pastime there is one youngster with more money than brains, and several of the reverse characteristics. Half a dozen of these latter habitués of the club will sit around a table prepared for the game in an upper chamber, waiting the advent of their victim. Upon the table in front of the dealer is the shoe containing the proper number of packs: the cards being arranged, we will say, to give six winning coups to the bank, and then to lose right out to the end. They are not playing--far from it, although the table may be strewn with money. Theirs is a waiting game for the present, and they are passing the time as best they can. When the dupe arrives at the club it is whispered to him that there is a little game in progress upstairs. His arrival is signalled to the conspirators, and by the time the innocent fledgling reaches the room, there is a game apparently in full blast. The new-comer sees that the bank is winning every time. At the end of the six winning coups the dealer says he has won enough, or makes some other excuse for retiring from the game. A new dealer is therefore required, and it does not need much persuasion to induce the 'mug' to take the bank. There is a superstition to the effect that banks which commence luckily for the dealer will continue so to the end, and the unfortunate youth never suspects that it is a 'put-up job' for him. Consequently he sits down to play, and naturally he loses everything to the end of the deal. The 'Juggins,' however jubilant he may have been, soon finds that he has no cause for rejoicing. You see, when a man takes the bank in the middle of a game he cannot have the cards shuffled, but must take them just as they lie on the table, and continue the game from the point at which the last dealer left it. If proceedings of this kind are not to be stigmatised as wholesale robbery, it is difficult to see how they are to be described. The most common method of cheating at poker in clubs and private houses alike, but particularly in good society, is one which is accomplished by means of collusion, and in connection with that process of the game known as 'raising out.' In poker, the bets of the players are raised in rotation around the table, and the players who wish to remain 'in'--that is to say, those who do not wish to forfeit what they have already staked--must all have equal stakes in the pool. Now, unless a man has a particularly good hand he is not disposed to risk too much upon its chance of winning; consequently, when the stakes have risen to a certain amount, he will stand out rather than go beyond what he has already risked. Two men, then, in secret partnership, upon sitting down to play, will contrive to get the man with most money, or the best player (their greatest antagonist) between them. Therefore, if these two men systematically raise their bets, whether they have good hands or not, they must eventually reach the point at which the other players will 'go out.' If the man between them wishes to remain in, he must make good, or, in other words, bring his stakes up to an amount equal to those of the conspirators. This he may do for some time, but sooner or later the game will become 'too hot' for him and he will go out. He is between two fires, and stands no chance whatever. Then, everyone else having gone out, the game is in the hands of the two sharps, and they can finish it in any way they think best. They may keep on raising each other for a time, until at last one of them refuses to stake another 'chip,' and throws away his hand, and then the other simply takes the pool. Or one of them may 'call' the other, and upon seeing the hand may throw his own away without showing it, the inference being that it is not so good as that of his supposed antagonist. There is really no need for the other players to see either of the hands. They cannot be called, because one or the other of them is always raising his stakes, and until the stakes are made good without anyone raising, the call is not complete and no hands are shown. Then, when all the other players are 'raised out,' there is nobody left to call upon them to show their hands. At the end of the evening, of course, they divide the spoil. These things may all appear to be very simple, but they are extremely difficult of detection by outsiders. Indeed, it is the very simplicity of collusion that constitutes the great charm of its employment, and the great safeguard against its detection. Unlike manipulation, it can be accomplished by anyone and gives far less indication of its existence. The only drawback to it is that where there is a conspiracy there is always a chance of rogues falling out, and honest men being put in possession of the truth. In every kind of game, and in every department of trickery, collusion has been utilised as a ready means of arriving at the consummation of the sharp's desires. It is seldom, indeed, that a scheme of any magnitude is devised without more than one person concerned in it; and the accomplices have assumed every kind of guise, tinkers, tailors, soldiers, sailors, waiters, club-porters, card-canvassers, and even officers of justice. There is no end to the disguises in which these individuals have appeared, and apparently no limit to their ingenuity. One of the most immense frauds ever perpetrated in connection with sharping, and in which the fewest persons were concerned, was that recorded by Houdin. At the outset it was entirely conceived and executed by one sharp alone, although another took part in it at a later stage, much to the disappointment of the original promoter of the scheme. As this incident is of interest, and exhibits in a striking manner the possibilities of cheating which exist at all times and in all places, the reader shall have the benefit of its perusal. Although the events happened many years ago, the story is not very well known, and is well worthy of retelling. At the date of the narrative, Havana, according to the historian, was the place most addicted to gambling of any in the world. As he also observed, that was not saying a little. And it was in that haven of delight that the occurrences related took place. A Spanish sharp, named Bianco, purchased in his own country a tremendous stock of playing-cards; and, in view of the undertaking in which he was about to embark, he opened every one of the packs, marked all the cards, and sealed them up again in their wrappers. This he did so skilfully that there was no evidence of the fact that the packages had ever been tampered with. The stupendous feat involved in a proceeding of this kind being successfully accomplished, the cards were shipped off to Havana and there disposed of to the card-dealers at a ruinous sacrifice. So good indeed were these cards, and so cheap, that in a very little while the dealers could not be induced to purchase those of any other make. Thus after a time there were hardly any cards circulating in the place other than those which had been falsified by Bianco. The sharp, it may be imagined, was not long in following upon the track of his cards; and being a man of good address, he contrived to obtain introductions into the best society. He played everywhere, of course, and where he played he won. Hardly ever being called upon to use any cards but his own, it is not surprising that he should rapidly acquire wealth among people whose chief recreation appeared to be gambling. To avert suspicion, however, he was careful to complain constantly of the losses he had sustained. Among the various clubs in Havana was one which was of the most exclusive kind. The committee was so vigilant, and such great precautions were taken to prevent the admission of doubtful characters, that hitherto it had been kept free from the contamination of cheating. Into this club, however, Bianco contrived to effect an entrance, and carried on his operations therein with much success. He was destined, notwithstanding the zeal of the committee, to remain alone in the field but a very short time. Another sharp, a Frenchman this time, contrived also to obtain admission to the club; and he, too, set to work to prospect the country, thinking that he had possessed himself of a gold-mine as yet unexploited. Accordingly, this second adventurer, Laforcade by name, seized a favourable opportunity of appropriating a quantity of the club cards. These he took home with him for the purpose of marking them, intending to return them when marked to the stock from which they had been taken. One may imagine the man's surprise upon opening the packs to find that every card had already been marked. Evidently, then, somebody had been before him, and Laforcade determined to find out who it could be. He made inquiries as to where the cards were obtained, and, purchasing some at the same place, found that these also were marked. In fact, every pack that he could procure had been tampered with in like manner. Here then was a gigantic swindle, and he determined to profit by it. He would let the other man do all the work, but _he_ would share in the profits. If the other man, whoever he might be, would not listen to reason, he would threaten to hand him over to the police. Having arrived at this decision, he set to work to watch the play of the various members of the club, and, naturally, the invariable good fortune of Bianco could not fail to attract his attention. Keeping strict watch upon that gentleman's proceedings, Laforcade soon arrived at the conclusion that Bianco, and no other, was the man of whom he was in search. He therefore took an early opportunity of engaging his brother-swindler in a quiet game of écarté, whilst no other members of the club were present. The game was played, and Bianco won, as a matter of course. Then, as usual, the winner asked his opponent if he was satisfied, or whether he would prefer to have his revenge in another game. Much to his surprise, however, instead of saying simply whether he preferred to play again or not, the loser coolly rested his elbows on the table, and regarding his adversary composedly, gave him to understand that the entire secret of the cheerful little deception which was being practised was in his possession. This, of course, came rather as a bomb-shell into Bianco's camp, and reduced him at once to a condition in which any terms of compromise would be acceptable, in preference to exposure and imprisonment. Matters having arrived at this point, Laforcade proposed terms upon which he was willing to come to an understanding with the Spaniard. These were, briefly, that Bianco should continue his system of plunder, on condition that he handed over to his fellow-cheat one-half of the proceeds. These terms were agreed to, and upon that basis of settlement the agreement was entered into. For some time after this all went well with the two swindlers. Laforcade established himself in luxury, and gave his days to pleasure. Bianco ran all the risk; the other had nothing to do but sit at home and receive his share of the profits. It is true he could keep no check upon his associate, to see that he divided the spoil equitably; but, holding the sword of Damocles over him, he could always threaten him with exposure if the profits were not sufficiently great. At length, however, Bianco began to tire of the arrangement, which perhaps was only natural. Besides, the supply of marked cards was beginning to run short, and could not be depended upon much longer. This being so, the prime mover of the plot having won as much as he possibly could, promptly vacated the scene of his exploits. The unfortunate Laforcade thus found himself, as the Americans say, 'left.' The prospect was not altogether a pleasant one for him. He had acquired expensive tastes which he might no longer be enabled to indulge; he had accustomed himself to luxuries he could no longer hope to enjoy. He had not the skill of the departed Bianco; yet, nevertheless, he was compelled to (metaphorically) roll up his sleeves and work for his living. Things were not so bad as they might have been. There was still a good number of falsified cards in use; so he determined to make the best possible use of his opportunities while they remained. He therefore set to work with ardour, and success largely attended his efforts. At last, however, the crash came. He was detected in cheating, and the whole secret of the marked cards was brought to light. Even in this unfortunate predicament Laforcade's good-fortune, strange to say, did not desert him. He was taken before the Tribunal, tried, and _acquitted_. Absolutely nothing could be proved against him. It is true the cards were marked, but then, so were nearly all the others in Havana. Laforcade did not mark them, as was proved in the evidence. He did not import them. To all intents and purposes he had nothing to do with them whatever. It could not even be proved that he knew of the cards being marked at all. Thus the case against him broke down utterly, and he got off scot free. It is, nevertheless, presumable that he did not long remain in that part of the world. As to what became of Bianco, nothing is known. Possibly his record concluded with the familiar words 'lived happily ever after'; but most probably not. The end of such men is seldom a happy one. The recital of the above-mentioned circumstances will serve to accentuate the contention that it is impossible wholly to guard against cheating. Here was a case in which the utmost caution was observed, in order to exclude cheats and impostors from a club; and yet it is seen that, within a very short time, two men of the sharp persuasion contrived to effect an entrance. If this is possible in the case of a club, where there is not only a committee to investigate the _bona fides_ of every applicant for membership, but also a large body of members presumably alive to their own interests who have to be satisfied of the fitness of the candidates for election, what chance has a mere private individual of protecting himself against the sharp and his insidious ways? Those two men, Bianco and Laforcade, must have had friends among the inhabitants of Havana, friends who would have been horrified to know the real character of those whose intimacy they found so agreeable. Among the dupes of those two adventurers there must have been some who would have resented bitterly any aspersion of the honesty of their associates. We have seen the return they gained for their friendship, and what has happened once may happen again. There is only one course to pursue of which it can be said that it is absolutely safe. It is an extremely objectionable one, no doubt; but we are speaking, just now, of absolute safety. There is nothing for it but to _suspect your best friend, if he is a gambler_. The desire for gain affects equally the high and the low. The instinct of theft is rife alike in rich and poor. To use a colloquialism, all are tarred with the same brush. The only difference is that what is called stealing in the poor starving wretch who takes a loaf, to save the parish the expense of a funeral, becomes, in the case of his more fortunate and richer fellow-sinner, merely a little intellectual peculiarity, which is dignified with the name of kleptomania. The poor man envies the rich man his wealth; the rich man envies the poor man his solitary ewe lamb. Instances of this kind have never been wanting at any time in the world's history, and even in matters of everyday life; but once a man becomes a gambler, there is every prospect that his desire for gain will eventually overmaster all the finer feelings of his nature. You doubt it? Well, search the columns of your newspaper, and every day you shall find at least one case where some foolish fellow has stolen property, or money, entrusted to his care, and has devoted the proceeds of his theft to gambling purposes. There is every reason in the world for suspecting anyone of dishonesty who is found to have taken to gambling. If it is not so, then all history lies, and past experience counts for nothing. Closely allied to the subject of conspiracy is that of the maintenance of places in which gambling is systematically carried on, in defiance of the law, and in spite of the utmost watchfulness of the police. It is true that one of the most familiar head-lines upon the newspaper placards is: 'Raid on a Club! The accused at Bow Street.' Every week our attention is attracted by some announcement of that kind, made in letters six inches high. But we hardly ever give the matter a second thought; the whole thing is too common an occurrence. Yet not one tithe of these gambling-dens is ferreted out. Crushed here to-day, they spring up there to-morrow. They are perennial. Like the phoenix, they arise from their own ashes--but under another name. And where the players are to be found, there will the sharps be gathered together. That is a thing which goes without saying, and is open to no manner of doubt. In these cases, of course, both sharps and flats are drawn together by one common bond of union--that of defeating the aim of the law for the suppression of gaming-houses. The dupe merely sees in the efforts of the Government to protect him from the consequences of his folly an unwarrantable interference with the liberty of the subject. Therefore, he conspires with the sharp to run counter to the law, and thus plays right into the hands of his natural enemy. That he suffers in consequence is no one's fault but his own; unfortunately, it is not he alone who suffers. Those who are nearest, and should be dearest, to him are those who suffer most. The devices resorted to by the occupants of clandestine gaming-houses in order to conceal all traces of the appliances used for the purpose of gambling would fill many volumes in their description, but as they do not form part and parcel of our subject we cannot enter into an account of them. Probably one of the most ingenious ideas ever conceived for the immediate removal of all signs of gaming apparatus in the event of a police raid, was that which was actually utilised at a so-called club a good many years ago. The plan was briefly this. Upon the fire in the card-room a large kettle of water was kept constantly boiling, ostensibly for the purpose of diluting the ardent liquors imbibed by the members. The whole of the gaming utensils, dice-boxes and everything else, were made of one of the alloys known as fusible metals, which melt at a lower temperature than boiling water. An alloy of bismuth, tin, lead and cadmium can be made to melt at a far lower temperature than that of boiling water. In the event of a raid being made upon the club, then, the whole of the appliances were put into the kettle, where they at once melted, and even though any one looked in the kettle during the search there was nothing to be seen. It is in places of this kind where collusion and conspiracy are most rampant. Those who have the ability to devise methods of cheating the police may well be supposed to have sufficient ingenuity to cheat the players. Those who _must_ gamble, therefore, should be very wary when they entrust themselves and their money to the tender mercies of the society encountered at such resorts. With this word of caution we will bring the present chapter to a conclusion. CHAPTER VIII _THE GAME OF FARO_ Faro may almost be said to occupy in America the position of a national game. The methods of cheating used in connection with it are so numerous and so ingenious that it becomes really necessary to devote an entire chapter specially to them. Since there are parts of the world, however, outside America where the game is little known, and since it is necessary that the reader should understand something of it to enable him to follow the explanations, the first step must be to give some little idea of the nature of the game and the manner in which it is played. The following paragraphs, then, will contain a brief description of its salient features, and also of the apparatus or tools which are required in playing it. We will commence with the accessories first. These are: (1) the faro-box, (2) the check-rack, (3) the cue-keeper, (4) cue-cards, (5) the shuffling-board, (6) the layout, and (7) the faro-table. These, together with a pack of playing-cards, constitute the apparatus employed. Let us take the various items in their order as given. 1. _The faro-box._--This is a metal box in which the cards are placed, face upwards, and from which they are dealt one at a time. Fig. 37 illustrates the back view of such a dealing-box. [Illustration: FIG. 37.] It will be seen that the box is open at the back, and cut away at the top sufficiently to allow a large portion of the face of the top card to be visible. The plate forming the top overlaps the front side about one-eighth of an inch, and below its front edge is a slit, only just sufficiently wide to allow one card at a time to be pushed out, so that the cards are bound to be dealt one by one, and in the order they occupy in the pack. They are slipped out by the thumb, which presses upon them through the aperture in the top plate. The cards are inserted through the back, and constantly pressed upwards by a movable plate or partition, below which are springs sufficiently strong for the purpose. It is presumable that the object of this box is to prevent any possibility of the cards being tampered with. That it not only can be made to fail in this purpose, but also to play directly into the hands of the cheat, we shall see later on. 2. _The check-rack._--This is a polished wooden tray, lined with billiard-cloth. It is used by the dealer, to contain his piles of counters and his money. It stands at his left hand, upon the faro-table, during play. 3. _The cue-keeper, or cue-box._--This is a piece of apparatus used for the purpose of recording the cards as they are played, and is under the control of a man who is specially told off to attend to it. By its means at any stage of the game the players can see at a glance what cards have already been played, and what remain in the pack. It is constructed upon the principle of the ancient 'abacus' or 'obolus,' and consists of a framework of wood, supporting thirteen wires, upon each of which slide four small balls (fig. 38). [Illustration: FIG. 38.] Opposite each wire there is attached to the framework a miniature reproduction of one of the cards of a suit. In faro, as in poker, the suit of any card is of no importance. For all practical purposes the pack may be considered as consisting simply of four aces, four kings, four queens, and so on. Therefore, no record is kept of the suits of the cards which have been played, but only of their values. The position of the balls at the commencement of the game is at the left hand side of their respective divisions, as shown in the illustration. When a king, for example, is drawn out of the box, one ball, opposite the miniature king on the cue-keeper, is slipped to the right, and so on until all the fifty-two cards have been played, when, of course, the whole of the balls are at the right of the apparatus. The person who registers the progress of the game with this accessory is styled the 'case-keeper.' 4. _Cue-cards._--These are small cards upon which are printed the names of the thirteen cards, a space being left opposite each name, for the purpose of enabling the players to check off the cards as they are played. They are sometimes used in place of a case-keeper; but, even where a case-keeper is employed, they are utilised by the players for recording the winning and losing cards. Any card which wins is marked with a cross, and one which loses is marked with a nought. Fig. 39 represents a cue-card which has been partially filled up in this way, and the cards which have been played so far, it will be noticed, are readily distinguishable. The cards lost are two queens, two nines, two sevens, and three sixes. Besides showing what cards have been lost and won, the cue-card also tells what cards have yet to be played. Thus, at the stage of the game indicated in fig. 39, there are still remaining in the dealing-box one queen, one nine, three eights, two sevens, two fives, four fours, and three twos. This convenient record prevents the possibility of a player betting upon cards which have already been played. [Illustration: +-------------------------------+ | Ace + + + + Eight + | | King + + + + Seven 0 0 | | Queen 0 0 + Six 0 0 0 + | | Knave + + + + Five + + | | Ten + + + + Four | | Nine 0 0 + Three + + + + | | Two + | +-------------------------------+ FIG. 39.] The case-keeper and cue-cards were primarily introduced with the object of keeping a check upon the dealer, and of preventing him from using a pack containing more than fifty-two cards, or in which there was not the right number of each value. We shall see presently how he manages to get over that difficulty. 5. _The shuffling-board._--This is a thin slab of wood or metal, covered with billiard-cloth. It stands in front of the dealer, and upon it are placed the faro-box and the piles of winning and losing cards. It is upon this board, also, that the cards are shuffled; hence its name. 6. _The layout._--The designation of this adjunct to the game is derived from the fact that it forms that part of the table upon which the players 'lay out' their stakes. Usually it is a green cloth, having painted upon it a representation of the thirteen cards of one suit (see diagram of the faro-table, fig. 40). 7. _The faro-table._--This is simply an oblong table, having a recess or cavity cut out in the centre of one of the long sides. In this recess the dealer sits, being thus enabled to be as near to the layout as possible, and at the same time to have all his appliances within easy reach. Fig. 40 will give the reader a clear idea of the relative positions occupied by the dealer, the players, and the various component items of the apparatus. [Illustration: FIG. 40.--The Faro-Table. A, shuffling-board. B, faro-box. C, pile of losing cards. D, pile of winning cards. E, check-tray. F, case-keeper. G, layout. H, dealer. I, I, I, I, I, players.] The appliances above described being available, the game is played in the following manner:-- At the termination of a deal the cards are all lying face upwards upon the shuffling-board in two heaps at 'C' and 'D,' and the faro-box is empty. Without taking the cards off the table, but simply turning them back upwards, the dealer mixes the two heaps together. The pack is then cut and placed with the faces of the cards upwards in the dealing-box. The players then stake their money, placing their stakes upon the layout over the card which they think will win. Each player, of course, may select any card he pleases, irrespective of the fact that another player may choose to bet upon the same card. In fact, they can all back the same card if they like. This, however, is a case which is rather rare, anyhow at the outset of a game. Meanwhile the top card of the pack has all along been visible to the players, through the aperture in the top of the box. This card, therefore, counts for nothing, and no bets can be made with respect to it. From the top card downwards, the cards alternately win for the players and the 'bank,' or dealer. The second card, then, when displayed will win for the players. All the bets having been made, the dealer draws off the top card and discloses the face of the second. The top card is placed upon the shuffling-board in the position indicated by 'C' (fig. 40), and those players who have staked their money upon the card in the layout which corresponds in value to the card which is now seen through the window of the dealing-box will have to receive from the dealer the amount of their stakes. If no player has bet upon that card the dealer of course has to pay nothing. The dealer has now to draw off another card from the box and display the face of the third. As explained above, this card will win for the bank. The second card is therefore drawn off, and placed upon the shuffling-board at 'D,' and the players who have staked their money upon the card representing the one which is now visible will lose their stakes to the dealer. The two cards thus played constitute what is called a 'turn.' After each turn the dealer pays the money he has lost and receives what he has won. All money staked upon cards other than those which have either won or lost remains undisturbed upon the layout. The players are then at liberty to rearrange their bets in any manner they may think fit, and the game continues. Again the top card is removed from the box, revealing a fourth, and placed upon the card already at 'C.' As before, those who have staked upon the card now showing in the box receive the amount of their bets in due course. And so on until no more cards remain in the box. There is one advantage enjoyed by the dealer in which the other players do not participate. When it so happens that both cards of a 'turn' are of the same value, both kings, for instance, such an occurrence is termed a 'split,' and a split means that the bank loses nothing, but, on the contrary, takes half the money, if any, which is lying upon the card of that value in the layout. This advantage or _refait_ gives the bank a preponderance of the chances to the amount of about three per cent. The above is the simplest form of the game; but, in reality, it is usually played in a more complicated manner. For instance, the players can 'string their bets'; that is to say, they can bet on more than one card at a time. A counter placed between any two cards signifies backing either of the two cards to win, and then the player will win if either of those cards wins, or lose if either loses, and so on. A single counter may be so placed as to back all the high cards to win, and the low ones to lose, or _vice versa_. By 'coppering,' or, in other words, placing a special counter called a 'copper,' upon his stake, a player can bet that any card will lose instead of win. With this short explanation of the game, we will proceed to consider the various methods of cheating at faro. The swindling which is practised in connection with this game, and for which it affords ample scope, may be divided into two kinds. Firstly, where the players cheat the bank; and secondly, where the bank cheats the players. This latter class may again be considered under two heads, viz. cheating with fair cards and fair boxes, and cheating by means of prepared cards and mechanical arrangements connected with the faro-box and other appliances of the game. We will take, first of all, the methods employed by the players to cheat the bank. This is done where the players are professional sharps who have contrived to 'put up a mug' (_i.e._ to persuade a dupe) to take the bank. The general practice is for one of the conspirators to have a room of his own laid out for the game, and into this very private room the victim is decoyed. In a case of this kind the 'rig is worked,' or in other words the swindle is perpetrated, by means of a dealing-box, so constructed as to enable the players to know what cards will win for them, and what will win for the bank. With this knowledge they run no risk of staking their money on the wrong cards. The contrivances for effecting this desirable result are known as 'tell-boxes.' Broadly speaking, these are of two kinds, the 'sand-tell' and the 'needle-tell.' The sand-tell box is so called because it is used in conjunction with prepared cards, which have been 'sanded' or roughened on one side, or both sides, as the case may be.[9] The cards which are intended to 'tell' are left smooth on their faces; all the others are slightly roughened on both sides. The effect of this mode of preparation is that, whilst the cards which are roughened on both sides will tend to cling together, any card which lies immediately upon the smooth face of a 'tell-card' will slip easily. [Illustration: FIG. 41.] The box with which these cards are used is shown in fig. 41, which represents a section taken through the centre of the box, from top to bottom. Referring to 'A' in the illustration, _s_, _s_ are two of the springs which press upwards upon the partition _p_, this in turn keeping the cards tightly pressed against the top of the box, in which the aperture or window _w_ is cut. These details are of course common to all dealing-boxes, as already explained. The trickery, however, in this instance is in connection with the front side of the box. Instead of being of an equal thickness all round, the front is made double. That is to say, an additional plate of metal is put inside the box, covering the whole of the front plate, except that it does not reach the top by the thickness of two cards. 'B' in the illustration represents an enlarged sectional view of the mouth of the box. The additional plate is shown at _a_; _b_ is the normal thickness of the front, and _c_ is the slit through which the cards are pushed out. The prepared cards being put into a box of this description, the effect produced in dealing is as follows. If the third card from the top is one of those which has been roughened on both sides, the second card will adhere to it; consequently the act of drawing off the top card will not cause the second to alter its position in the box. If, however, the third card should happen to be one of the tell-cards, whose face has been left smooth, the top card will draw the second one a little distance to the right over the top of the plate _a_. The second card, however, cannot be drawn right out, because the slit _c_ is not wide enough to allow more than one card to pass at a time. It is obvious, then, that if the players have some means of knowing whether the second card moves or not, they can tell whether the card immediately underneath it is a tell-card or the reverse. On reference to the illustration it will be manifest that the actual distance moved by the second card when drawn aside in this way can only be very slight. Indeed, it would not do to allow of much movement, or the dealer might notice it. Therefore, special means have to be adopted to enable the sharps to detect the small difference in the position of the cards. The necessary indication is readily obtained by means of what are known as 'sighters.' These are simply minute dots upon the faces of the cards. Upon each card one of these dots is placed, in such a position that when the card comes to the top the dot will be close to the edge of the aperture, but if the one below it is a smooth or tell-card, the slipping sideways of the card brings the dot away from the edge, and it appears farther to the centre of the opening. Fig. 42 is a diagram representing the top of a sand-tell box under both conditions. The dot marked _m_ is the sight. In practice, it is much finer than here shown, being in fact only just visible. 'A' indicates the position of the dot when the card below happens to be one which has been roughened. 'B' shows the card drawn to one side, bringing the dot away from the edge, thus intimating the fact that the card immediately underneath is a tell-card, the face of which has been left smooth. [Illustration: FIG. 42.] The general practice is to make all the court cards 'tell.' The advantage thus gained is that it is not necessary to bet on any particular card, but simply to back the high cards to win and the low ones to lose, or _vice versa_. This is not so liable to cause suspicion as having all the aces, for instance, to tell. In a case of this latter kind, the slipping of the card would indicate that the next card to be revealed would be an ace; therefore, if the conspirators are to win, at least one of them must bet upon an ace turning up. Whereas, if all the picture cards are made to tell, not only are there more tell-cards in the pack, but it is only necessary for one player to bet upon the high cards generally. The box simply tells them that a high card will show next, and they make their bets accordingly. Of course, it would never do for all the players to stake their money alike. That would let the cat out of the bag, with a vengeance. No; if the next card is to be a high card, one of them will bet upon the high cards; the others will bet upon particular small cards, avoiding the high ones. They cannot possibly lose on the next card, because they know that it is not one of the low cards which comes next. It will be remembered that, in the description given of the game, we saw that the bets are made just before the dealing out of each pair of cards or 'turn.' Therefore the indication given by the tell-box is only of use to the players before a turn commences, that is to say, before the first card of the pair is shown. They cannot change their bets until the second card of the pair is shown and the turn is played. Therefore, supposing the box indicates that the first card of the next turn, the one that wins for the players, is a court card, and that one of the players has consequently backed the high cards, the others must be careful how they arrange their bets. It may happen that one of them has put his money upon a card which will be the next to turn up; and this being the one which wins for the bank, that stake will be lost. Therefore, they have to arrange matters so that the highest stake which can possibly be won by the dealer is less than that of the player who has staked his money upon the card or cards which they know will win on the first draw. Or it may be that the other players will 'copper' their bets upon the low cards and thus play for absolute safety. These manoeuvres are necessary, and are here pointed out because they may be of assistance as a guide to the investigation of suspected cases of cheating by the means just described. If it should be found that, in a game of faro, it constantly happens that one of the players--not necessarily the same player--always wins on the first card of a turn, and that on the second card the others either do not lose at all, or, at any rate, that the amount which either of them loses is less than that which the other has won, it may be safely inferred that cheating is in progress. The second kind of tell-box, which is used for the same purpose as that we have just investigated, we have already referred to as the 'needle-tell.' This box is also used with prepared cards, but the preparation is of a very different kind. In this instance there is no roughening of the surfaces of the cards, but those which are required to tell are cut to a slightly different shape to the others. In some respects the needle is an improvement upon the sand-tell; the cards are more easily shuffled than is the case with the 'sanded' ones, the clinging of which might arouse suspicion with an intelligent dealer. The dealing-box, however, is more complicated in its construction. The tell-cards are cut with a slight projection at one end. Fig. 43 will give an idea of the exact shape. The projecting end will be noticed at _a_. Needless to say, in the cards actually used the defect in the card would not be more pronounced than is absolutely necessary. [Illustration: FIG. 43.] The dealing-box is so constructed that when either of the tell-cards arrives at a certain position (usually the fourth or eighth card from the top) the projecting corner presses against a light spring and causes a little 'needle' or point to project from the side of the box. Frequently one of the rivets with which the box is put together is made to push out a little. Whatever the index may be, however, it does not move sufficiently to attract attention. It is only those who are looking for it who know when it 'tells.' A movement of one thirty-second of an inch is ample for the sharp eyes of the swindlers to detect. The mechanism of the needle-tell, however, is not used solely in connection with cases where the players cheat the bank, it also forms a very necessary accessory to the 'two-card' box to be presently explained. Then it is used to let the dealer know when he is coming to the 'odd,' or fifty-third card. Having thus elucidated the comparatively simple methods used to cheat the dealer, we now proceed to investigate the more complex devices employed in those cases where the bank cheats the players. As stated in the earlier part of this chapter, the players may be swindled either with fair cards and a fair dealing-box, or by means of mechanical appliances. When the dealer elects to cheat without the use of mechanism, he is, of course, compelled to resort to manipulation, and to 'put up' the cards in such a way that they will help him to win. The reader will doubtless remember that in the description of the game 'splits' were mentioned as winning for the dealer. That is, when both cards of a turn are of the same value, the dealer takes half the money staked on the card which has split, or turned up twice in succession, the suits, of course, not counting. It is obvious, then, that if the dealer in shuffling the pack can contrive to put up a number of cards in pairs of the same value, his chances of winning are greatly enhanced. Splits, therefore, are the stronghold of the faro dealer's manipulation. If he can only make them plentiful enough without leading the players to suspect anything wrong, he is bound to win in the long run, and to win plenty. Whilst dealing out the cards in the first game, the dealer determines in his own mind what cards he will make split in the second game. We will suppose he has just drawn a nine from the box, and that this card has to go into pile 'C' (fig. 40). Now, by the laws of the game he is bound to place this card upon the top of the pile to which it belongs, therefore he does so. He may, however, with apparent carelessness, place it just a little on one side, so that he can distinguish it from the other cards. He now waits for the appearance of another nine, and this time one which will have to go into the other pile, 'D.' This one is disposed in the same manner. He has in sight, therefore, two cards of the same value, and if these two cards can be brought together during the shuffle, they will constitute a split. Seizing a favourable opportunity in evening up the two piles of cards, he may skilfully 'strip' the two nines--that is, draw them out from the others and place them at the bottom of their respective piles. There is no fear of losing them now; they are always to hand when required. It is not necessary, however, that the cards should be put at the bottom. So long as they are each in the same position, in the pile to which they respectively belong, that is all the dealer needs. Suppose the ninth card from the bottom of pile 'C' to be a king, all the man wants is to have the ninth card of pile 'D' a king also. If, therefore, the ninth card of that heap is placed a little to one side, and all the succeeding cards are put above it in like manner, that will leave a division in the pile, into which a king can be stripped at a convenient moment. If the players are sufficiently lax to allow the dealer to throw the cards carelessly into two heaps, instead of making two even piles, the case is, of course, much simplified. He has only to put the cards directly at the bottom or wherever else he may desire to have them. Given the fact of certain cards having been placed in pairs, one of each pair in the same position within its pile, the problem which presents itself for solution is, How can the dealer shuffle the two piles one into the other, so as to bring the proper cards together? In short, How are the splits put up? [Illustration: FIG. 44.] This is accomplished by means of what is called the 'faro dealer's shuffle.' It must not be thought that this manipulative device is essentially a trick for cheating; on the contrary, it is an exceedingly fair and honest shuffle, provided that there has been no previous arrangement of the cards. By its use, a pack which has been divided into two equal portions may have all the cards of one half placed alternately with those of the other half at one operation. In faro, the manner of dealing the cards necessarily divides them into two equal parts. This being the case, they are taken up by the dealer, one in each hand. Holding them by the ends, he presses the two halves together so as to bend them somewhat after the manner shown in fig. 44, in the position 'A.' The halves are now 'wriggled' from side to side in opposite directions, with what would be called in mechanism a 'laterally reciprocating motion.' This causes the cards to fly up one by one, from either side alternately, as indicated in the figure at 'B.' Thus it is evident that those cards which have been placed, with malice aforethought, in corresponding positions in the two piles, will come together in a shuffle of this kind, and form splits. This shuffle is a very difficult one to learn; but with practice and patience it can be accomplished, and the cards can be made to fly up alternately, without any chance of failure. A dealer, skilled in the devices we have just touched upon, can put up four or five splits in one deal, if he thinks it advisable so to do. By the use of such means he is also enabled to arrange the cards so as to checkmate any player who may appear to be following some particular system of betting. Finding that the players are, on the whole, inclined to back the high cards, the dealer may so arrange the pack that the low cards only win for them, the high ones falling to the bank. In this, however, he runs a great risk. It may happen that the players, finding themselves constantly losing on the high cards, may alter their mode of play, and back the low ones. That would be bad for the bank unless the dealer had a mechanical box which enabled him to alter the run of the cards. Such boxes, however, are obtainable; and their description is included in the branch of our subject which treats of cheating the players by means of mechanical contrivances, and to which we now proceed. In cases where the dealer uses apparatus for cheating, his requirements are three in number. Firstly, he must have what is known as a 'two-card' dealing-box, that is, a box which will allow him, whenever he pleases, to withdraw two cards at one time, instead of compelling him to deal them singly. Secondly, he must have an 'odd,' or fifty-third card. Lastly, he requires a mechanical shuffling-board, which adds the 'odd' to the pack, after the cards have been counted at the commencement of the game. The two-card box is one of the most expensive cheating tools a sharp can use. The prices charged for them are something exorbitant, as may be seen on reference to the catalogues. To be of any use, however, they must be well-made, and then they will earn their cost in a very little time. Badly-made, the sharp would find that, however cheap they appeared to be, they would really be the most expensive and ruinous contrivances he had ever known. They are made in many varieties, and known by as many poetic names, but the effect is the same in all cases. Pressure being applied to some part of the box, the mouth is caused to open sufficiently wide to allow two cards to be drawn out together. The best boxes are those high-priced commodities of which the catalogues say that they will 'lock up to a square box.' This does not mean a rectangular box, but a box that will bear examination. 'Fair' and 'square,' in this instance, mean the same thing. The only fault in the description is that the box, being false, cannot possibly become genuine with any amount of locking. It should be said that when locked it _appears_ to be genuine, and may be examined without fear of the trick being detected. Some boxes are made to lock by sliding them along the table. The bottom moves a little, this movement serving to fix all the movable parts. Some are so arranged that they are always locked. That is their normal condition, so they can be examined at any time. When it is required to widen the mouth and allow two cards to pass out together, a small piece of wire, or 'needle' as it is called, is made to rise out of the shuffling-board or table; this, pressing against one of the rivets, or into a little hole in the bottom of the box, unlocks the mechanism for the moment. Another form of the two-card box is one which has the bottom plate made of very thin metal, the 'springing in' of which, when pressed upon in the centre, unlocks the 'fake.' Some of the forms which unlock by sliding on the table are the most complicated, requiring sometimes three movements to free the working parts and allow the slit to widen. The movements, of course, have to follow in proper succession, as in any other kind of combination-lock. This prevents any accidental unlocking of the box whilst it is in the hands of strangers.[10] At the beginning of the game, then, the cards are counted to make sure that there are the proper number, and we will suppose that the dealing-box is a two-card with needle-tell attachment. One of the cards in the pack, therefore, will be cut with the projecting corner. We will suppose it to be the king of diamonds. Another king of diamonds, also cut to 'tell,' is held out in the mechanical shuffling-board. Whilst shuffling the cards, the dealer causes the holdout to add the 'odd' card to the pack. Thus there are two kings of diamonds in use. The cards being put into the dealing-box the game begins. The dealer keeps his eye upon the needle-tell, and meanwhile unlocks the mechanism of his box; that is, if it is made to lock, which is not necessarily the case, although safer. When the needle indicates the fact that one of the duplicate cards--in this case a king of diamonds--is immediately below the top card in the box, the dealer has to be guided by circumstances. If the card will win for him, well and good. He deals the cards as they should be dealt and the king falls to him. It is evident that it would never do to have two kings of diamonds turn up in the game, the cue-keeper and cue-cards would record five kings. So the dealer still watches the needle, and when he finds that the second king of diamonds is the top card but one, he exerts the necessary pressure upon the box to widen the slit. Then, instead of withdrawing only one card two are passed out together, and placed as one upon one of the piles. This squares accounts with the case-keeper. It may happen, of course, that when the first of the tell-cards comes to the top it would lose for the dealer. In that case he would work the 'squeeze,' and deal out the odd card with the one above it. Then he has to take his chance with the second of the duplicates, and the game becomes simply what it would be if honestly played. The advantage to the dealer resulting from the employment of the 'odd' is that it provides him with the means of winning, or at the worst prevents him from losing on one turn of the deal. This may not seem very much, but added to the chances of splits turning up it really means a great deal. When the dealer is a proficient in sleight-of-hand he will carefully note the line of play adopted by certain 'fat' players, or, as the unenlightened would say, players who bet heavily. During the next shuffle he will put up the cards so as to cause these 'fat' men to lose, and somewhere about the middle of the pack he will place the 'odd.' Or it may be he will so arrange matters that the shuffle and the cut will bring one of the duplicate cards about a third of the way down the pack and the other a third of the distance from the other end. Thus he will have two opportunities of withdrawing two cards at once, either of which he can use as may suit him best. Supposing that hitherto the heaviest betting has been on the high cards, the dealer will put up the pack in such a way that only the low ones win for the players. That is to say, the cards will come out alternately high and low, the high ones falling to the bank. As the game proceeds the first of the tell-cards by degrees comes nearer and nearer the top, and the dealer looks out for the needle-tell to indicate its approach. By this time, perhaps, the players may have noticed that the high cards are losing, and therefore may have altered their play, betting now upon the low cards. If this is so, the bank will begin to lose, but not for long. When the tell-card has become the second from the top the dealer manipulates the two-card device and draws out two cards at once. The run of the game is now altered. The cards still come out alternately high and low, but the high cards now go to the players. As they have taken to betting on the low ones they lose in consequence. If, however, the players show no signs of changing their mode of betting when the first tell-card nears the top, the dealer does not alter the run of the cards, but goes straight on. When he comes to the second duplicate card he must deal out two at once, or the 'odd' would be discovered. The cases given above are put in the simplest form, for clearness; but it must not be imagined that anyone investigating a suspected case of cheating would find the cards arranged to come out always high and low alternately. The dealer knows better than to risk anything of that kind. He would be caught directly. The cards are merely put up in a general sort of way, so as to give a preponderance in one direction or the other; the dealer being at liberty to alter the general run of the cards at either of the two duplicates. Of course he might even have two extra cards in the pack, these and their duplicates being tell-cards. That would give him a choice of two out of four opportunities of altering the run; but the more devices he employs the greater the chances of detection. One turn in the deal is plenty. It gives the dealer all the opportunities he needs; and in the long run he is bound to win. It is said that in some 'skin' houses in New York decks of 54, 55, or even 56 cards are frequently played on soft gamblers. It is possible for the dealer and players alike to be in a general conspiracy to cheat the bank. The dealer is not necessarily the banker. The bank may be found by anyone; the proprietor of the gambling saloon, for instance. But a dealer would be very foolish to cheat his employer. In a private game, if a dupe can be put up to find the bank in money, that is all right for the sharps. They are, one and all, at liberty to go in and win--and they do. The reader may be interested in knowing that in America some of the dealers who are employed by proprietors of gambling houses, or saloons as they are called, will demand a salary of four or five thousand dollars. It is said that a very expert dealer is worth that amount per annum, and that he can get it. It strikes one as being a somewhat high rate of pay for a man whose sole duty is to shuffle and deal out cards for a few hours a day, if that _is_ his sole duty. Suspicious persons--and there are a few such in the world--might be tempted to believe that there is more in the dealer's duties than meets the eye, and a 'darned sight' more. Whatever opinion may be entertained upon the subject, we can all join, at any rate, in hoping for the best, and in praying for the _bettor_. Though when a man is idiot enough to lose his money, as some do day after day, in a game where his own common sense ought to tell him that he stands every chance of being cheated, he may be looked upon as a hopeless case. There is nothing that will ever knock intelligence into him, or his gambling propensities out of him. The only system of treatment that could be expected to do him any good would be a lengthened course of strait-waistcoat, to be repeated with additions upon any sign of a recurrence of the malady. Two or three years ago an Englishman won 5,000_l._ in one year at the Cape, in a sort of rough-and-tumble game of faro. He ran the bank without either cue-cards or case-keeper, and also without a dealing-box, as in the prehistoric times in America before the losses experienced by those who 'bucked against the tiger' forced these implements into use. He dealt the cards out of his hand. The miners played against him for gold-dust and he nearly always won. His operations were of the most primitive kind. He simply had a lot of packs of cards, apparently new, but which had been opened and arranged. Some were packed for the high cards to win; some for the low ones. He would take a pack down, give it a false shuffle and begin to deal it. If he wanted to alter the run of the cards, he could at any time do so by merely dropping the top card on the floor. This he did very cleverly, and nobody noticed it, because the floor was always littered with used cards. Having no case-keeper to record the game, the missing cards were never missed. What about the poor miners? Well, they _must_ have been flats if their equilibrium remained undisturbed through a lively game such as that. They deserved to lose all that the dealer won. This sharp is now in England 'mug-hunting.' He is at present acting as bear-leader to a young man who has just come into 1,700_l._ a year. He makes most of his living at 'lumbering' and 'telling the tale,' and his stronghold is the bottom deal. The writer has great pleasure in acknowledging his indebtedness to him for much of the information as to the methods of the common English sharp. He is a swindler, but a most agreeable and gentlemanly one. This _Faro_ is a hard-hearted monarch whose constant delight appears to be a slaughter of the innocents; though one can hardly suppose that his victims are often the heirs male of Israel. Be that as it may, however, Faro's victims can hardly hope for succour from a daughter of Faro, for his only offspring are greed and fraud. And those who bow the head and bend the knee to Faro are simply ministering to these two, his children. Those who waste their substance on Faro are merely forging fetters for their own limbs, and giving themselves body and soul to a taskmaster from whose thraldom they will find it difficult to escape. To descend from metaphor to matter of fact, there is no game which gives freer rein to the passion of gambling than faro. There is no game in which money is lost and won more readily. Above all, there is no game in which the opportunities of cheating are more numerous or more varied. If these are qualities which can recommend it to a man of common sense, call me a gambler. FOOTNOTES: [9] See Chapter IX.--'Prepared Cards.' [10] See reprint of dealer's advertisement, p. 300. CHAPTER IX _PREPARED CARDS_ Although, in the course of our previous wanderings among what may be aptly described as 'The Groves of Blarney,' we have already encountered many examples of the various preparations used by the dwellers therein to add new beauties to their everyday requisites, there still remain some to be investigated. These philosophers, in searching for their form of the universal 'alkahest,' which turns everything they touch to gold, have contrived to learn many things, besides those we have already looked into. It behoves us, therefore, to follow in their footsteps as far as may be; and, before finally quitting the subject of playing-cards, to complete our information respecting these beautiful and--to the sharp--useful appliances. We have seen how much may be accomplished by means of judicious preparation of the cards. That is not a discovery which can be ascribed to the present generation of sinners, or the last, or the one before that. No man can say when preparation was first 'on the cards.' Some of the devices contained in this chapter are as old as the hills; others are of a more recent date; but, old or new, this book would be incomplete without some description of them. The very oldest are sometimes used even now, in out-of-the-way corners of the world, and among people who are possessors of that ignorance of sharping which is not bliss, at least if they happen to be gamblers. One of the oldest methods of preparing cards for the purposes of cheating was by cutting them to various shapes and sizes. That this plan is still adopted the reader already knows. We have now to consider the means whereby the sharp is enabled to alter the form of the cards in any way he pleases, with neatness and accuracy. [Illustration: FIG. 45.] The most primitive appliance used for the purpose is what is now known as a 'stripper-plate.' It consists of two steel bars, bolted together at each end, the length between the bolts being ample to allow a playing-card to be inserted lengthwise between the bars, and screwed up tightly. Fig. 45 illustrates a device of this kind, with a card _in situ_, ready for cutting. Across the centre of the top plate a slight groove is filed, to facilitate the insertion of the card in a truly central position. The edges of the two plates or bars are perfectly smooth, and are formed so as to give the required curve to the card when cut. In the illustration, the side of the card when cut would become concave. The cutting is managed by simply running a sharp knife or razor along the side of the arrangement. This takes off a thin shred of the card, and, guided by the steel plates, the cut is clean and the edge of the card is in no danger of becoming jagged. The most modern appliance of this kind, however, will be found quoted in one of the catalogues under the name of 'trimming-shears.' These shears are not necessarily cheating-tools; they are largely used to trim the edges of faro-cards, which will not pass through the dealing-box if they are damaged. The shears for cleaning up cards in a genuine manner, however, are only required to cut them rectangularly. In the case of those used for swindling they must cut at any desired angle. These shears consist of an oblong block of wood, into which a steel bar is sunk along one edge, carrying a bracket which supports the cutting-blade, working on a pivot at one end (fig. 46). The edge of the steel bar and the blade which works in close contact with it form respectively the lower and upper halves of the shears. Upon the upper surface of the wooden block two guide-plates are fixed, by means of thumb-screws. These plates are adjustable to any angle within certain limits, and are for the purpose of holding the cards in position whilst being cut. The guide-plates being set at the necessary angle, the card about to be cut is pressed against them with the left hand, whilst the right brings down the knife, and cuts off one edge. Fig. 46 shows a card in the act of being cut. Each card being held against the guides while cutting, uniformity of the whole is secured. When one side of each card has had a shaving taken off, if it is desired to trim the opposite side as well, the guides are adjusted to give the required width, and a second cut is taken. [Illustration: FIG. 46.] Shears of this kind, of course, will not cut the sides of the cards concave; but a very good substitute for convex sides may be made by taking two cuts on each side, at a very slight angle one to the other, taking more off the corners than in the centre. There is no need to impress upon the reader that the defective form of the card is not made sufficiently pronounced to be noticeable. The two cuts do not meet in the middle to form a point; the apex of the angle, so to speak, is cut off, leaving the central portion of the side flat, and square with the ends of the card. Square-cornered playing-cards of course will show no signs of having been trimmed in this way; but those with round corners are bound to do so, however slight a shaving may have been removed from the side. In trimming these for cheating, therefore, the sharp has to employ, in addition to the shears, what is called a 'round-corner cutter.' This is an instrument which restores the circular form of the corners, which otherwise would show the point at which the shears cut through them. It is simply a sort of punch, which cuts the corners, one at a time, into their original shape, and gives them their proper curve. So much, then, for the tools. We have next to consider the various forms given to the cards, and the uses to which they are put when thus prepared. The simplest device connected with cards which have been trimmed is that known as the 'large card.' As its name implies, it is a card which is left slightly larger than the rest of the pack. All the others are trimmed down, either slightly narrower or shorter, or smaller altogether. This is a very primitive dodge, and one seldom resorted to, in the ordinary way, nowadays. Its object is to give the sharp either a ready means of forcing the cut at a given point in the pack, or of making the pass at that point, if the cut does not happen to be made in the right place. The cards being manipulated so as to arrange them according to some particular system, the large card is placed at the bottom, and then the pack is divided at about the middle, and the top half put underneath. The pack is straightened, and laid on the table to be cut. Not suspecting any trickery, it is almost certain that the dupe, in cutting, will seize hold of the large card, which is now in the centre of the pack, and cut at that point. This brings the cards again into the positions they occupied relatively at first. If the cut, however, should not happen to be made at the 'large,' the sharp has to make the pass, and bring that card once more to the bottom. No modern sharp of any standing would use such a palpable fraud, even among the most innocent of his dupes. It is a long way behind the times, and was out of date years ago. Another form of card which at one time was largely used, but which has become too well-known to be of much service, is the 'wedge.' Wedges are cards which have been cut narrower at one end than the other, the two long sides inclining towards each other at a slight angle. The cards when cut in this way, and packed with all the broad ends looking the same way, cannot be distinguished from those which are perfectly square; but when some are placed one way and some the other, there is no difficulty in telling 'which is which.' Before these cards became commonly known, they must have proved very useful to the sharp. If he wished to force the cut at any particular place, he had only to place the two halves of the pack in opposite directions, and the cut was pretty sure to be made at the right point. If he wished to distinguish the court cards from the others, all he had to do was to turn them round in the pack, so that their broad ends faced the other way. If he wished to be sure of making the pass at any card, by just turning the wide end of that card to the narrow ends of the others he could always feel where it was, without looking at it. In fact, the utility of such cards was immense, but it has long been among the things that were. Now, the first thing a tiro in sleight-of-hand will do, on being asked to examine a pack of cards, is to cut them and turn the halves end for end, to see if they are 'wedges.' Needless to say, they never are. The only case in which it is at all possible to use cards of this kind at the present day is in a very, very 'soft' game of faro, where the players do not ask permission to examine the pack. The dealer has the sole right of shuffling and cutting the cards; therefore if he has the opportunity of using wedges, nothing is easier than to have all the high cards put one way, and the low ones the other. Then in shuffling he can put up the high cards to lose or win, and, in fact, arrange the pack in any manner he likes. There is very little safety, however, in the use of wedges at any time. Practical men would laugh at the idea of employing them. The concave and convex cards cut by means of the stripper-plates, described earlier in this chapter, are still in use to a limited extent. The common English sharp employs them in connection with a game called 'Banker.' He 'readies up the broads,' as he terms it, by cutting all the high cards convex, and the low ones concave. There is also another game known as 'Black and Red,' in which the cards of one colour are convex, and the other colour concave. The most commonly used form of cards, however, is that of the 'double-wedges' or 'strippers,' cut by means of the trimming-shears, and which have been already described. The name of 'strippers' is derived from the operation which these cards are principally intended to facilitate, and which consists of drawing off from the pack, or 'stripping,' certain cards which are required for use in putting up hands. Suppose the sharp is playing a game of poker, and, naturally, he wishes to put up the aces for himself, or for a confederate. He cuts the aces narrow at each end, and all the other cards of the same width as the ends of the aces. This leaves the sides of the aces bulging out slightly from the sides of the pack, and enables him to draw them all out with one sweep of his fingers during the shuffle. Then they are placed all together, at the bottom of the pack, and can be put up for deal or draft, or they may be held out until required. 'End-strippers' are a variety of the same kind of thing, the only difference being that they are trimmed up at the ends, instead of at the sides. It is only in England and other countries where the spread of knowledge in this direction has been limited to the sharps themselves, the general public remaining in ignorance, that strippers are employed. They would be instantly detected among people who have learnt anything at all of sharping. Trimming is not the only method of preparing cards for cheating purposes; there are others of much greater delicacy and refinement. Witness the following, which is culled from the circular issued by one of the 'Sporting Houses':-- '_To smart poker players._--I have invented a process by which a man is sure of winning if he can introduce his own cards. The cards are not trimmed or marked in any way, shape or manner. They can be handled and shuffled by all at the board, and without looking at a card you can, by making two or three shuffles or ripping them in, oblige the dealer to give three of a kind to any one playing, or the same advantage can be taken on your own deal. This is a big thing for any game. In euchre you can hold the joker every time or the cards most wanted in any game. The process is hard to detect, as the cards look perfectly natural, and it is something card-players are not looking for. Other dealers have been selling sanded cards, or cheap cards, with spermacetia rubbed on, and calling them professional playing or magnetic cards. I don't want you to class my cards with that kind of trash. I use a liquid preparation put on with rollers on all cards made; this dries on the cards and does not show, and will last as long as the cards do. The object is to make certain cards not prepared slip off easier than others in shuffling. You can part or break the deck to an ace or king, and easily "put up three," no matter where they lay in the deck. This advantage works fine single-handed, or when the left-hand man shuffles and offers the cards to be cut. These cards are ten times better than readers or strippers, and they get the money faster. Price, $2,00 per pack by mail; $20,00 per dozen packs. If you order a dozen I will furnish cards like you use.' The gentle modesty and unassuming candour of the above effusion, its honest rectitude and perfect self-abnegation, render it a very pearl of literature. It is a pity that such a jewel should be left to hide itself away, and waste its glories upon the unappreciative few, whilst thousands might be gladdened by the sight of it and proceed on their way invigorated and refreshed. Let us bring it into the light and treasure it as it deserves. As the talented author above quoted suggests, there are several methods of achieving the object set forth, and causing the cards to slip at any desired place, apart from the much vaunted 'liquid preparation put on with rollers' the secret of which one would think that he alone possessed. We will just glance at them all, by way of improving our minds and learning all that is to be learnt. The earliest method of preparing a pack of cards in this way certainly had the merit of extreme simplicity, in that it consisted of nothing more than putting the pack, for some time previous to its use, in a damp place. This system had the further advantage that it was not even necessary to open the wrapper in which the cards came from the maker. When the cards had absorbed a certain amount of moisture, it was found that the low cards would slip much more easily than the court cards. The reason for this was, that the glaze used in 'bringing up the colours' of the inks used in printing contained a large proportion of hygroscopic or gummy matter, which softened more or less upon becoming moist. The court cards, having a much greater part of their faces covered with the glaze than the others, were more inclined to cling to the next card, in consequence. Therefore the task of distinguishing them was by no means severe. Not satisfied with this somewhat uncertain method, however, the sharps set to work to improve upon it. The next departure was in the direction of making the smooth cards smoother, and the rough ones more tenacious. The upshot of this was that those cards which were required to slip were lightly rubbed over with soap, and those which had to cling were treated with a faint application of rosin. This principle has been the basis of all the 'new and improved' systems that have been put before the sharping public ever since. Either something is done to the cards to make them slip, or they are prepared with something to keep them from slipping. When the unglazed 'steam-boat' cards were much in use the 'spermacetia' system, referred to in the paragraph quoted a little while ago, was a very pretty thing indeed, and worked well. The cards which it was necessary to distinguish from the others were prepared by rubbing their backs well with hard spermaceti wax. They were then vigorously scoured with some soft material, until they had acquired a brilliant polish. Cards treated in this manner, when returned again to the pack, would be readily separable from the others. By pressing rather heavily upon the top of the pack, and directing the pressure slightly to one side, it would be found that the pack divided at one of the prepared cards. That is to say, the cards above the prepared one would cling together and slide off, leaving the doctored one at the top of the remainder. With glazed cards, if they are required to slip, the backs are rubbed with a piece of waxed tissue paper, thus giving them an extra polish; but the better plan is to slightly roughen the backs of all the others. They may be 'sanded,' as in the case of those used for the sand-tell faro-box. This simply means that the backs are rubbed with sand-paper. In reality, it is fine emery-paper that is used; any sand-paper would be too coarse, and produce scratches. There still remains to be considered the method of causing the cards to cling, by the application of that marvellous master-stroke of inventive genius, the 'liquid preparation,' as advertised. It may be hoped that the reader will not feel disappointed on learning what it is. The wonderful compound is nothing more or less than very thin white hard varnish. That is all. It may be applied 'with rollers,' or otherwise, just as the person applying it may prefer. The fact of certain cards being treated with this varnish renders them somewhat 'tacky,' and inclined to stick together; not sufficiently, however, to render the effect noticeable to anyone who is not looking for it. But, by manipulating the pack as before directed in the case of the waxed cards, the slipping will occur at those cards whose backs have not been varnished. The instructions sent out with the cards mentioned in the advertisement will be found reprinted at p. 304; therefore, since it would be presumptuous to think of adding anything to advice emanating from the great authority himself, we may leave him to describe the use of his own wares. Having thus said all that is necessary to give the reader sufficient information for his guidance in any case of sharping with which he may be brought into contact, we may bring this chapter to a close; and, in so doing, conclude all that has to be said upon the subject of cheating at cards. We have been compelled to dwell somewhat at length upon matters which are associated with cards and card-games only, because so large a proportion of the sharping which goes on in the world is card-sharping. Almost everyone plays cards, and so many play for money. Therefore, the sharp naturally selects that field which affords him the widest scope and the most frequent opportunities for the exercise of his calling. Card-sharping has been reduced to a science. It is no longer a haphazard affair, involving merely primitive manipulations, but it has developed into a profession in which there is as much to learn as in most of the everyday occupations of ordinary mortals. With this chapter, then, we take a fond farewell of cards, for the present; and having said 'adieu,' we will turn our attention to other matters. CHAPTER X _DICE_ With this chapter we strike out into fresh territory. We have passed through the land of those who trust their fortunes to the turn of the card, and arrive now among the aborigines, whose custom is to stake their worldly possessions upon the hazard of the die. As to which custom is the more commendable of the two, it is somewhat difficult to decide. They are both 'more honoured in the breach than the observance.' Readily, as we have seen, the innocent pieces of pasteboard are made to serve the purposes of cheating; and no less readily are the tiny cubes of ivory or celluloid falsified, and made the instruments of dishonesty. This of course is no secret. The name of 'loaded dice' is familiar to all; but it is the name alone which is familiar; the things themselves are, to the vast majority of mankind, absolutely unknown. In some respects it is quite as well that it should be so; but it is far better that these things should be generally understood, and that the signs and tokens of their existence and their employment should be known to all. In this chapter then, we shall deal with the subject in its entirety, describing the different systems of cheating, and some of the so-called games to which these methods are applied. Broadly speaking, cheating at dice maybe classed under two heads--the manipulation of genuine dice, and the employment of unfair ones. From this it will be gathered that the 'loaded dice,' so often spoken of, are by no means necessary to the sharp who has made this line of business his speciality. Loaded dice, in fact, are very puerile contrivances, compared with some of the devices which are about to be brought to the reader's notice. They are one of the landmarks of cheating, it is true; but they are not the high-watermark, by any means. The modern sharp has to a great extent risen above them, although they are still useful to him at times. They have one very great defect--they will not 'spin' properly; and that militates very greatly against their use, in circles where the players are at all 'fly.' We will first devote our attention to the means of cheating with fair dice; and the reader will learn that the thing which may have appeared to him as being difficult of accomplishment is really a very simple matter indeed. This branch of the art is known to its professors as 'securing,' and consists of a plan of retaining certain dice. One is held against the inside edge of the box, whilst the other is allowed to fall freely into it. In this way one of the dice is not shaken at all, and falls on the table in the same position as it previously occupied. In order that this may be accomplished satisfactorily, it is necessary to use a suitable dice-box; therefore, we will inspect one of the kind generally used by professional dice-players in this country. Before proceeding further, however, it may be as well to inform the reader that the information here given, with regard to dice and their manipulation, has been had upon the authority of one of the leading English sharps, and may be said to fairly represent the present state of the science. [Illustration: FIG. 47.] The dice-box referred to above is illustrated in section in fig. 47. It is simply the usual form, with the interior corrugated to insure the thorough turning about of the dice. The only preparation in connection with it is that the flat inside rim or lip, marked 'A' in the figure, is roughened by rubbing it with coarse glass-paper. This gives it a kind of 'tooth,' which prevents the dice from slipping when they are 'secured' against it. A box of this kind being to hand, nothing further in the way of apparatus is required for the operation of securing. All else depends entirely upon practice. As the dice are taken from the table one of them is secured, and the others are thrown into the box. An expert will use three dice, securing one and letting the others go, but it requires some skill to pick up three dice in the proper manner and without fear of dropping them all. Therefore a novice will use only two. The process is carried out as follows:-- The dice are laid upon the table side by side. The one farthest from the operator is placed with the ace uppermost, consequently the six is upon the face which lies on the table. This is the die which is about to be secured. The first two fingers of the right hand are now laid flat upon the dice, and between these two fingers the dice are taken up by their right-hand edges. Thus:-- [Illustration: FIG. 48.] They are now pushed well home by the thumb:-- [Illustration: FIG. 49.] The die nearest the operator is now allowed to fall into the dice-box, whilst the other is retained:-- [Illustration: FIG. 50.] The box is next taken in the right hand, the fingers lying flat over the mouth of it, and the thumb holding it at the bottom. [Illustration: FIG. 51.] In the act of closing the fingers of the right hand over the box, the die which has been retained is firmly pressed between the second finger and the inside edge of the box. In this position it is completely hidden by the forefinger, and is there held whilst the box is shaken. If the forefinger were raised the die would appear situated in this manner:-- [Illustration: FIG. 52.] The sharp, however, is particularly careful _not_ to raise his forefinger; that is not 'in the piece' at all. The box is now shaken, and of course the die which is not secured is heard to rattle within it. Finally, the hand is turned round so that the mouth of the box is downwards and the backs of the fingers rest upon the table. [Illustration: FIG. 53.] After the box has thus been turned upside down, then comes the crucial point of the whole operation. If the fingers are not carefully removed the secured die will not fall upon the face intended. The proper method of 'boxing' the dice upon the table is to remove the fingers in the following order. Firstly, the second and third fingers are opened, allowing the loose die to fall upon the table. Then the first and second fingers are gently opened, easing the secured die, as it were, into its position of rest. Lastly, the forefinger is moved to the edge of the box, at the same time withdrawing the second finger entirely, and the box is let down over the two dice. It is immediately lifted up and the score is recorded. There is nothing at all suspicious in any of these movements; they are quite the usual thing, or appear so when quickly performed, the only difference between the genuine shake and the false being the retention of the one die. Of course, it is necessary that the entire operation should occupy the least possible time, the hands being kept somewhat low and the dupe seated upon the right-hand side of the operator. The secured die naturally falls with the six uppermost, whilst the loose one cannot show less than one. Therefore the sharp cannot throw less than seven with two dice. That is the lowest score possible for him to make, whilst the dupe may throw only 'two.' Now, in an infinite number of throws with two dice 'seven' is the number of pips which will be the average for each throw. Sometimes, of course, only two pips will be thrown; sometimes both sixes will come uppermost, making twelve pips together. But with one die secured in such a manner as to fall six, the average of an infinite number of throws is necessarily very much increased, because it is impossible to throw less than seven. The chances of the two players bear no comparison, and the dupe is bound to be beaten. For instance, the chances of throwing twelve by the player who secures one die are as one to six--that is to say, they are six to one against him, whilst the chances against the player who goes to work fairly are _thirty-five to one_. This will serve to give the reader some idea of the value of one secured die out of two in use. Passing on to the use of unfair dice, we find that there are three kinds employed at the present day. Firstly, there are those whose faces do not bear the correct number of pips, and which are known as 'dispatchers.' Secondly, we have those which are weighted at one side, and tend to fall with that side downwards, such being the well-known 'loaded dice.' Lastly, there is the variety bearing the name of 'electric dice,' which are the most modern development in this department of cheating. We will take the varieties seriatim. 1. _Dispatchers._--These are of two kinds, called 'high' and 'low' respectively, in accordance with the fact of their having an aggregate of pips either higher or lower than should be the case. They owe their origin to the fact that it is impossible to see more than three sides of a cube at one time. In making a high dispatcher, then, any three adjacent sides are taken and marked with two, four, and six pips respectively. That side of the cube which is immediately opposite to the one with six pips, instead of being marked with one, as it should be, is marked six also. The side opposite the four is marked four, and that opposite the two is marked two in a similar manner. Therefore, no two sides which bear the same number of pips are ever seen at one time, the duplicate marks being always on opposite sides of the die. In a low dispatcher the process is precisely the same, but the sides are numbered with one, two and three pips, instead of two, four, and six. It is evident, then, that a high dispatcher cannot throw less than two, whilst a low one cannot throw higher than three. Therefore, if the sharp throws with one genuine die and one high dispatcher, he cannot throw less than three, and the chances are 17·5 to 1 against his throwing anything so low. If, in addition to using a high dispatcher himself, he gives his dupe a low one[11] and a genuine die to use, the throw of the two dice cannot be higher than nine, and the chances are 17·5 to 1 against its being so high. In fact, in an infinite number of throws, the sharp will average over thirty per cent. better than his opponent. This being the case it is obvious that the game can only go in one way, and that way is not the dupe's. 2. _Loaded dice._--These commodities are found to be thus described in one of the price-lists:-- '_Loaded dice._--Made of selected ivory loaded with quicksilver, and can be shaken from the box so as to come high or low, as you wish. With a set of these you will find yourself winner at all dice games, and carry off the prize at every raffle you attend. Sold in sets of nine dice, three high, three low, and three fair. Price per set, complete, $5.00.' These are the most superior kind of loaded dice. They are made by drilling out two adjacent spots or pips at one edge of the die, filling in the cavity with mercury, and cementing it up fast. The commoner description of these things are made by filling the holes with lead instead of mercury. As before mentioned, these dice have the disadvantage that they will not spin upon one corner as genuine ones will; consequently a person who suspects that they are being used can easily discover the fact, if he is knowing enough to try them. This defect led to the invention of the third kind of false dice, which we are about to investigate. 3. _Electric dice._--These will be found quoted in one of the catalogues, together with the special tables to be used with them. [Illustration: FIG. 54.] The dice themselves are made of celluloid, and their construction will be readily understood with the aid of the illustration given at fig. 54. The first operation in making dice of this kind is to bore out a cylindrical cavity almost completely through the die, the mouth of this cavity being situated upon the face of the die which will bear the six pips, and the bottom almost reaching to the opposite face, upon which is the ace. At the bottom of the cavity, and consequently immediately within the die above the single pip or ace, is put a thin circular disc of iron. The greater part of the cavity is then filled in with cork, leaving sufficient depth for the insertion of a plug, which effectually closes up the aperture, and upon the outer side of which are marked the six pips appertaining to that face of the die. Before this plug is fastened into its place, however, a small pellet of lead, of exactly the same weight as the iron disc, is pressed into the upper surface of the cork, and there fixed. Finally, the plug bearing the six pips is cemented into its place, and the die is complete. Apparently, this plug is cemented in with celluloid, the same material as that used in fabricating the die itself, and the joint is so well and neatly made that it is invisible, even though examined with a powerful lens. The _rationale_ of this construction is as follows. The iron disc and the leaden pellet, being immediately within opposite faces of the die, will exactly balance each other, and thus the die can be spun or thrown in exactly the same manner as a genuine one. The lead and iron, however, being so much heavier than the material of which the body of the die is supposed to consist, would cause the weight of the die to be very suspicious, were it not for the fact that the interior is almost entirely composed of a still lighter material--cork. Therefore, the completed die is no heavier than a genuine one of the same size and appearance. In fact, these dice will bear the strictest examination, in every way--except one, viz. the application of a magnet. The word magnet gives the key to the employment of these so-called electric dice. The technical reader will at once grasp the idea thus embodied, and will need no further description of the details of working. For the benefit of those who are unacquainted with electricity and its phenomena, however, it is necessary to explain the nature of an electro-magnet. If a bar of soft iron is surrounded by a helix of insulated copper wire, and a current of electricity is passed through that wire, the iron instantly becomes converted into a magnet for the time being. But directly the contact at one end of the wire is broken, and the current is for that reason no longer permitted to flow, the iron loses its magnetism and resumes its normal condition. If, therefore, a bar of this kind is connected with a battery in such a way that the current can be controlled by means of a push, similar to those used in connection with electric bells, the otherwise inert bar of iron can be converted into a magnet at any instant, and allowed to resume its former state at will. Now, the table with which these electric dice are used is so constructed that, immediately below its surface and within the thickness of the wood itself, there are concealed several electro-magnets such as have been described. At some convenient spot in the table, at the back of a drawer or elsewhere, the battery supplying the current is hidden. The key or push controlling the current takes the form of a secret spring in the table-leg, so placed as to be within easy access of the operator's knee. The result, then, is obvious. Among the dice in use are one or more of the 'electric' variety. When the dupe throws them, he has to take his chance as to how they will fall, and as long as the sharp is winning he will do the same. _But_ directly he begins to lose, or to find that he is not winning fast enough to please him, the sharp presses the secret spring with his knee when it is his turn to throw, and--click!--the false dice turn up 'sixes.' The magnets, of course, attract the iron discs, drawing them on to the table, and the sixes being upon the opposite sides of the dice naturally fall uppermost. The operator has only to trouble himself with regard to two points--he must press the spring at the right moment, and release it before trying to pick up the dice afterwards. Should he neglect this latter point, he will have the satisfaction of finding the dice stick to the table. In all other respects, he has only to 'press the button,' and electricity will 'do the rest.' The publication of this book, however, will once and for all render the use of electric dice unsafe under any conditions. The moment the outer world has any idea of their existence, the game is too risky to be pleasant to any sharp. A little mariner's compass, dangling at the end of a stranger's watch chain, or carried secretly, will serve to reveal in an instant the true nature of the deception which is being practised upon him by his host. It is sad that the diffusion of knowledge should be accompanied by such untoward consequences; but we can hardly hope that the sharps will die of disappointment or despair, even though dice were undoubtedly doomed to detection and disaster, and had dwindled into disuse. (Alliteration is the curse of modern literature.) Unfair dice are seldom submitted for inspection, as may well be imagined, particularly those of the dispatcher kind. The greatest donkey in existence would at once find that the number of pips upon the faces of these latter was incorrect. Therefore they are always introduced into the game whilst the play is occupying the dupe's undivided attention, and the manner of their introduction is that embodied in the process known as 'ringing-in.' This is done at the moment when the dice are taken up in order to throw them into the box. It is only possible to change one die, the others are allowed to fall into the box in the usual way. Supposing that two dice are being used, two fair ones will be employed, and with these the dupe will throw. The sharp, however, has a false die concealed in his right hand, and held in the thumb joint. He picks up the two fair dice from the table, in the manner described in 'securing,' and allows one of them to fall into the box. Then, of course, he has still two dice in his hand, one genuine one between his fingers, and one false one held by his thumb. In figs. 55 and 56, _a_ is the genuine die and _b_ is the false one. [Illustration: FIG. 55.] [Illustration: FIG. 56.] At the same instant that the first die is allowed to fall, the false die _b_ is dropped into the box also (fig. 56). [Illustration: FIG. 57.] Immediately the false die is released the two fingers holding the second genuine one are turned inwards (fig. 57), and the die is taken into the thumb-joint, in the position formerly occupied by the false one. The whole of this manipulation is performed in the act of throwing the dice into the box. The false die is dropped into the box, and the genuine one put into its place at the root of the thumb in one movement only, and the exchange is instantaneous. The fingers are well bent before any of the dice are dropped, so that the second genuine die has the least possible distance to travel in its movement towards the thumb-joint. From the manipulations outlined above, the reader will observe that the skill required is less in the case of dice than in that of cards; but he must not run away with the idea that, because the methods of swindling with dice are comparatively simple, the dice-sharp requires but little practice to enable him to carry out his operations successfully. That is by no means the case. It is frequently the amateur's lot to find that those things which appear simplest in theory are the most difficult in practice. The sharp who seeks his fortune by manipulation of the 'ivories' has to devote many weary hours to the acquisition of deftness in the manoeuvres which he intends to employ. We may now proceed to consider the application of the foregoing principles to the purposes of cheating, and see how they are employed in actual practice. In this we cannot do better than follow the sharp's operations in connection with one or two games which are commonly played. This will serve to give the reader a more adequate conception of the manner in which this style of cheating is conducted. The games selected for this purpose, then, are: 'Over and under seven,' 'Yankee-grab' or 'Newmarket,' 'Sweat,' and 'Hazard.' _Over and under seven._--This is a game which is played with a 'layout,' or painted cloth, upon which the players place their stakes. The form most generally used is divided in the following manner:-- [Illustration: +-------+----------+-------+ | | 3 to 1 | | | Under | | Over | | | against | | | SEVEN | | SEVEN | | | SEVEN | | +-------+----------+-------+ FIG. 58.] The players having placed their stakes upon either of the three divisions they may individually choose, the 'banker' shakes two dice in the box and throws them out upon the table. If the throw proves to be over seven, those players who have put their money upon 'over seven' in the layout receive the amount of their stakes, whilst those who have bet upon the other squares will lose to the banker. In the same way, if the throw is under seven the players who have backed 'under seven' will win. If, however, the throw should prove to be exactly seven, those players who have staked upon the centre square of the layout will receive three times the amount of their stakes. A little reflection will show that even in a fair game, if players can be found to back the '3 to 1 against seven' square, the bank has a large percentage of the chances of the game in its favour. Indeed, in an infinite number of throws, the banker stands to win two-fifths of all the money staked upon the centre square. The chances against seven turning up are really 5 to 1, and not 3 to 1. Cheating at this game may be done either by the banker or the players, although at first sight it would appear that the players can have no opportunities for cheating the bank as they have nothing to do with handling the dice. When the bank cheats the players the methods employed are as follows. The banker notes the disposition of the bets upon the layout and reckons up the amounts upon the various squares. His policy, of course, is to let that square win which has the least staked upon it. If he can always do this his gains must obviously be always greater than his losses. If the 'under seven' division has the least stakes he will secure one of the dice to fall with the ace uppermost. Then the throw must prove to be either seven or under. If the division of the layout which has least money on it is the 'over seven,' a die is secured in such a manner as to fall with the six uppermost, and in this case the throw must be either seven or over. If the bets upon both 'under' and 'over' squares are equal he has no need to trouble, as he can neither win nor lose with those squares. If either of them turns up, the money simply passes across the table from one side to the other, whilst the bank takes whatever may have been staked upon the centre square. Even though the players always staked an amount which should equalise the bets upon the 'over' and 'under' divisions, they would lose to the bank one fifth of their stakes in the long run because the seven would turn up on the average once in six times, and then those two divisions would both lose. The banker always shakes the box quietly, so as not to give any indication of the fact that only one die is rattling about within it. At the same time he keeps up a running fire of remarks such as, 'Any more?' 'Over wins!' 'Under pays the over,' 'The little seven wins!' &c. This is the approvedly professional way of conducting the game, all others are spurious imitations, and cannot be recognised by true 'sports.' Another method of cheating the players is to ring in a loaded die which will fall six. If the highest betting is found to be over seven, this die is secured so that it shall fall ace uppermost, and then the throw can only be seven or under. If on the other hand the highest betting is 'under seven,' the dice are simply shaken without securing, and the result must be seven or over. If there is heavy betting upon the 'seven' or central division of the layout a two or a three is secured upon the genuine die, and this will make the throw necessarily over seven. As a rule, however, the central or '3 to 1 against' square does not require much attention from the sharp. The chances are always five to three in his favour. If the players persistently bet upon the high square of the layout, the sharp will just ring in a loaded die that falls with the ace up, to save himself trouble. When this is done, the throw can manifestly never be _over_ seven. In cases where the players cheat the bank, it generally happens that the banker is not a professional, but a novice who has been put up or persuaded to accept the position for the time being. A party of sharps will always get a 'mug' to take the bank if they can. Securing, in an instance of this kind, is impossible; the cheating must be done by contriving to introduce into the game either a dispatcher or a loaded die. The latter is the safer thing to do, because a dispatcher will not bear even a moment's attentive examination. The ringing-in is done by officiously picking up the dice for the next throw, tossing them carelessly into the box, and handing the whole over to the banker. If well done, the exchange is imperceptible, and it is highly improbable that it will be noticed. The bets, of course, will be made according to the nature of the die which has been rung in. If it is made to fall high, the bets are put upon the 'over seven' division; if it falls low, they are put on 'under seven.' Naturally, the players allow the bank to win occasionally, in order to avoid suspicion. Finally, and before quitting the game, a genuine die is rung in, replacing the false one. There are not many chances in favour of the bank with this method of playing. _Yankee-grab or Newmarket._--This game is played with three dice, and the object in view is to get nearest to an aggregate of eighteen pips; or in the English Colonies, where the 'ace' or single pip counts seven, to throw the nearest to twenty-one. Each player has three throws. At the first throw he picks out the highest number thrown, and puts that die aside. Then he throws with the two remaining dice, puts aside the higher as before, and throws again with the remaining one. The number thrown this last time, together with the numbers shown by the dice which have been put aside from the two former throws, will constitute that player's score. This is done by all the players in rotation, and the highest score wins all the stakes. Any player may, however, elect to throw with one die only for each throw if he chooses. Cheating at this game is obviously easy. It may be done either by securing, by the use of loaded dice, or by ringing in dispatchers. It is of course necessary to have some means of distinguishing the dispatchers from the fair dice if the cheating is done by those means. In picking up the dice from the table, the sharp whose turn it is to throw will change one of them for a high dispatcher. When the throw is made, the false die is very likely to be the highest; but if it is not, so much the better for the sharp, as he has it available for the next throw. Supposing it to be the highest, he will apparently toss it carelessly aside, but in reality, he changes it again for the genuine die which has meanwhile been held in his thumb-joint. The genuine die is turned over to show the same value as that given by the dispatcher in the throw. The other players will not mind the careless handling of the die, as the value has already been called; the only object in putting the dice on one side being to act as markers, and prevent any dispute as to the value of the previous throws. The same thing is done in the succeeding throws; the dispatcher going into the box all three times. At the conclusion of the throws, the false die is exchanged for the genuine one it has replaced for the time being. If the sharp prefers to use securing instead of false dice, he may secure a six upon one die at each of the first two throws; but the third throw must be left to chance. If the last die were to be secured, there would be none left to rattle in the box. A case has been known where a man even secured the last die; but he had an arrangement sewn into his coat-sleeve, to counterfeit the noise made by the die in the box. In using loaded dice at Yankee-grab, the best plan is to have three which will all fall 'sixes.' In order to avoid the suspicion which must inevitably be created by the fact of the three dice turning up six each at the first throw, a low number is secured upon one of them in the first and second throws. This puts the other players off the scent, at the same time insuring three sixes for the sharp. This is a very ingenious expedient. A good way of finishing a game, where the sharp has been securing and where the dupe has had ample opportunities of assuring himself that only fair dice are being used, is for the sharp to palm a dispatcher in the right hand, and deliver himself thus:--'My dear fellow, you have lost a lot.' (Here he pats the dupe on the shoulder with the hand which has the dispatcher palmed within it.) 'I will tell you what I will do. I will go double or quits with you, on three throws each, with one die.' The dupe usually jumps at the chance of thus winning back what he has lost; the sharp rings in his dispatcher, and of course the 'mug' loses. In using a dispatcher the sharp always puts the box down with the left hand; this leaves his right hand free to ring the changes. Whatever manipulation he may be engaged upon, he does everything slowly, easily, and deliberately. When tossing the selected die on one side after a throw and ringing in a square one to replace the loaded die or dispatcher, he takes care of course to turn it with the same side up that the other fell. This prevents any dispute as to the score, when all three throws have been made. At all times he gauges the mental calibre of his dupe, and operates in the manner which is most likely to be successful. Above all, he never neglects the golden rule of his profession--'Always work on the square as long as you are winning.' _Sweat._--This is a game which is almost as charmingly artistic as its name, and one which is particularly lovely for the banker. It also has the merit of extreme simplicity, and although cheating is hardly necessary as a rule, still there are times when it may be resorted to with great profit to the sharp. It is played with a layout arranged in the following manner:-- [Illustration: +-----+-----+-----+ | 1 | 2 | 3 | |-----+-----+-----| | 4 | 5 | 6 | +-----+-----+-----+ FIG. 59.] The banker shakes up three dice in the box, and the numbers thrown win for the players. Those who have staked their money upon the numbers which have turned up receive the amount of their stakes; the bank takes all that has been laid upon the figures not represented in the throw. If two dice fall with the same number uppermost, those who have staked upon that number will receive twice the amount of their bets. If all three dice turn up the same, that number is paid three times over. It does not require a great mathematician to see that even at the best of times there is an overwhelming percentage of the chances in favour of the banker. It is five to three that he wins any individual bet; the player has only three chances--those provided by the three dice, whilst the bank has the chances resting upon the remaining five squares of the layout. If we suppose, for example, that the bets upon all the squares are of an equal amount, which is just about the most unfortunate arrangement for the banker, the worst that can happen to him is that all three dice turn up differently. Then the players who have staked upon the winning numbers will receive the stakes of those who have lost, the bank gaining and losing nothing. If two of the dice turn up the same number, the banker receives four shillings, say, and pays three. If all three dice turn up the same, he pays three shillings and receives five. Cheating is introduced into this game by the banker in the case of a player persistently backing a high number time after time, the method being to ring in a dispatcher which will fall low. This will materially lessen the player's chances. If in addition to this a low number is secured upon one of the other dice, the chances against the player become five to one. If the player should happen to be backing a low number, of course a high dispatcher would be used and a high number secured upon the other die. _Hazard._--This is a game in which the electric dice are particularly useful to the sharp. It is played with four dice, only two of which, however, are used at one time. The player has the option of throwing with any two of the dice, or exchanging them for the other two whenever he pleases. There are two kinds of throws which must be specially mentioned in connection with this game, viz. those which are called respectively 'crabs' and 'nicks.' A player is said to throw a crab when the dice turn up either 'pair sixes,' 'pair aces,' or 'deuce and ace.' These throws instantly lose the stakes or 'set-money.' A nick is thrown when the aggregate number of pips turned up amounts to eleven or seven. Either of these numbers being thrown, the player throwing wins the set-money. Apart from a nick or a crab, the first throw made by the player is called the 'main,' and he must go on throwing until one of three things happens. Either he eventually throws a crab and loses, or he throws a nick, or he throws a number corresponding to that of his main. In the event of either of the two latter events occurring, he wins the stakes. In the case of a player winning with a nick, however, he still goes on throwing; when he wins or loses in any other way, the throw passes to his opponent. When the main is either four or ten, the chances against his throwing it again before either a nick or a crab turns up are in the ratio of two to one. Against five and nine the chances are as six to four. Against eight and six the probabilities are six to five. Obviously, then, the best main to throw is either eight or six, and if the sharp can contrive to make his main either of these two numbers, he stands a better chance of winning than one who does not. He may therefore, for instance, ring in a loaded die to fall four, and secure the other die to fall two, leaving the following throws to chance. Having thrown a main of four or ten, he might secure a six in the latter case or an ace in the former; this would render his chances of throwing the same number again about equal. The most certain method of cheating, however, and that which leaves no uncertainty as to the result, is to ring in a loaded die to fall six, and secure either an ace or a five upon the other. This obviously results in a 'nick,' and wins the set-money. Where electric dice are used, cheating at this game is the simplest thing imaginable. One pair of dice being made to fall six and the other one, they may be combined to give any desired result. If the sharp uses a pair, one of which will fall six and the other turn up one, the application of the current will cause him to throw a nick whenever he pleases. If he gives his dupe a pair which can be made to fall both sixes or both aces, the sharp can force his opponent to throw a crab every time if he chooses to do so. And yet there are some who will argue that science has conferred no real benefit upon humanity. Those people are certainly not sharps--they are undoubtedly flats of the first water. Before concluding the present chapter, it behoves us to attend, for a moment, to the methods of falsification connected with that well-known little device, the 'dice-top' or 'teetotum.' It deserves just a slight mention, although the fact that it is not of great importance is evidenced by the very terse reference made to it in the various catalogues. This is what one of them says upon the subject:-- '_Dice Tops._--For high and low. Sure thing. Made of best ivory, $4. Black walnut, just as good, $1.25.' From even this scanty information, however, we may gather two things. Firstly, that the top can be made to fall either high or low, as required--consequently there is some trick in it; and, secondly, that the trick, whatever it may be, does not depend upon the material of which the top is made, since black walnut is just as good as ivory. Better, in fact, because cheaper. The little instrument itself is shown in the adjoining illustration. [Illustration: FIG. 60.] Here then we have a little hexagonal top, with dice-spots upon its sides. It is spun with the thumb and finger, and the number of spots which fall uppermost in the genuine article, at the time of its running down, depends entirely upon chance. Not so, however, with the tops advertised as above. They can be made to fall in any desired manner. The spindle, instead of being fixed, as it should be, can be turned round within the body of the top. Attached to one side of the spindle, within the top, and revolving when the spindle is turned, there is a small weight which can be set to face either of the sides. The side opposite which the weight is allowed to remain is the one which will lie upon the table when the top comes to rest. These teetotums are largely used in the States to 'spin for drinks,' and a very favourite way of working them is as follows. A man will enter some bar whilst the bar-keeper is alone, custom being slack. He produces one of the little articles referred to, and having initiated the bar-keeper into its capabilities, induces him to purchase it. In all probability the bar-keeper sets to work with his new toy, and wins many a drink in the course of the next few weeks. After awhile, however, two accomplices of the man who 'traded' the top will present themselves at the bar, pretending to be more or less intoxicated. Naturally, the bar-keeper thinks he has a safe thing, and tries the dice-top upon them. They lose a few bets, then pretend to lose their temper, and want to bet heavily upon the results given by the top. To this, of course, their dupe has not the least objection; he is only too ready to fall in with their views. But in the meantime, one of them, under pretence of examining the top slightly, contrives to ring in another of exactly similar appearance, but which is set to fall low when the spindle is turned to face in the same direction as that given to the other when intended to throw high. The bar-keeper thus falls an easy victim to the snare. Turn the spindle as he may, the top absolutely refuses to fall in the direction he requires. This, then, exhausts all we have to consider with reference to dice and their manipulation. If we have not learnt very much in this branch of the art of cheating, it is because there is not very much to learn. Simple as the devices are in this kind of sharping, they are largely utilised, even at the present day, and notwithstanding the fact that 'palming' and kindred methods of concealing small articles are so generally understood. The great point in the sharp's favour, in this as in all other manipulations, is that his dupes are not expecting trickery, and consequently do not look for it. It is highly probable that as much money has changed hands over games of dice as in connection with any other form of gambling, horse-racing, perhaps, excepted. Years ago, of course, the dice-box was a much more familiar object than at the present day; still even now it flourishes with undiminished vitality in many parts of the world. Well, those who deal with the dice will always pay dearly for experience, which may be bought _too_ dearly sometimes. _Caveat emptor._ CHAPTER XI _HIGH-BALL POKER_ The game of 'high-ball poker' is one which is essentially American, both in origin and character. It is somewhat simpler than the proper game, but possesses no particular advantages over poker, as played with cards, beyond the fact of its comparative simplicity. On the other hand, the appliances required for playing it are more expensive, and not nearly so convenient. Possibly the original idea of its introduction arose from the fact that the fraudulent manipulation of the cards, in the other game, had become notorious, and it was hoped that this kind of thing would be obviated by using balls instead. It is far more likely, however, that this variety of the game presented certain advantages to the sharp which the other did not possess, and hence its popularity in certain quarters. It would be unwise, however, to hazard an opinion one way or the other. All we need trouble ourselves about is that cheating at this game is both simple and tolerably safe. No special skill is required on the part of the sharp, and very little special apparatus, to enable him to win whenever he pleases, and as long as he can get people to play with him. The game is played with a leathern bottle, something like those used in 'pool,' but smaller in the neck. Into this bottle are put twenty-four balls about an inch in diameter, each of which is numbered upon a facet, the numbers running from one to twenty-four consecutively. The players sit round the table, and the bets are arranged in the same manner as at poker. The player whose turn it is to deal shakes up the balls in the bottle, and deals one to each player, himself included, no player being allowed to see the balls which are dealt to the others. The players look at the balls they have received, each one noting the number which has fallen to him, and coming in or declining to play accordingly, stake their bets. This being done, a second ball is dealt to each player, and the two balls thus received constitute his hand. The betting now proceeds as at poker, the rules being precisely the same, except that the balls rank according to their numerical value, and that the complications arising from 'pairs,' 'threes,' 'fours,' and 'flushes,' cannot arise. Those who have bad hands will fall out of the game for the time being, sacrificing the stakes they have put into the pool, whilst those who consider their hands good enough to bet on will remain in and 'raise' each other. If one player can so increase the stakes as to drive all the others out, he will take the pool without showing his hand; or a player may be 'called,' and then the hands are shown, the best one winning the whole of the stakes. The reader will perceive that cheating might be practised in connection with this game in a variety of ways. The dealer, in putting the balls into the bottle, might contrive to secrete a high number, which could be held out for a time, and afterwards rung in to his own hand, in place of a low one. In a conspiracy of two or three players, nothing could be easier than for them to signal to each other the value of their hands, and thus arrive at a fairly approximate knowledge of what hands they might have to contend with. They could then act in accordance with the information thus gained, and either stand out or raise the other players, as the nature of their hands may dictate. If, in addition to this, each of the conspirators was provided with duplicates of two or three of the highest numbers, the one who had the best hand could substitute for the lower number in his hand the highest number in either of the hands held by his accomplices, and thus, in all probability, constitute himself the winner, the accomplice meanwhile substituting his best number for that discarded by his partner in the conspiracy. They would not require many duplicate balls each; just two or three of the highest numbers would be quite sufficient. There are, however, great objections to any manipulation of this kind; more particularly since cheating can be accomplished, by mechanical means, in a much more simple and effective manner. The method of cheating usually adopted, therefore, takes the form of a 'bottle-holdout,' which can be caused to retain any of the highest numbers and to deliver them to either of the players, at the will of the dealer. [Illustration: FIG. 61.] This holdout is, of course, within the bottle itself, and is operated by pressure upon the slightly flexible sides. Fig. 61 is an illustration of a bottle of this kind, part of one side being cut away to allow the holdout to be seen. A represents the position of the various parts at such times as the holdout may be either inoperative or containing the balls. B will serve to indicate the position they assume when the sides are pressed, and the holdout is either receiving or delivering the balls. The holdout itself consists of a kind of scoop, pivoted to a bracket in such a way that it will either turn up against one side of the bottle, or lie open beneath the neck. This scoop _a_ has a projecting tail-piece or lever, against which a spring _d_ constantly presses, and retains the scoop in contact with the side of the bottle. To the end of this lever is jointed a rod _c_, the further end of which just reaches across to the opposite side of the bottle. It is obvious, then, that if the bottle is squeezed by the dealer, the pressure being applied to the point of contact with the rod, and to some point behind the bracket to which the scoop is pivoted (between _b_ and _d_, in short), the end of the lever will be pressed towards the side of the bottle, and the scoop will consequently be turned down into the position shown at B. The whole of the working parts, together with the inside of the bottle, are painted black, in order to prevent any possibility of the device being seen by looking down the neck. In returning the balls to the interior of the bottle, the dealer carefully notes their value. The low ones are allowed to fall in the proper manner, but when a high one is dropped inside, the bottle is squeezed in the manner above indicated, the scoop comes down, and that ball therefore falls into the holdout. Then in dealing the device is utilised in the same way. The low balls are dealt to the dupes, but in the act of dealing to a confederate, or to himself, as the case may be, the bottle is pressed and high balls only are dealt. As a rule one ball only is held out. There is not very much in this game beyond the ingenuity of the holdout employed, and the money which may be won by its means. But since the necessity of including it among the explanations given in this book is obvious, and since there is no definite section of the subject to which it can be referred, it has had to receive, however unworthily, the distinction of having a chapter to itself. FOOTNOTE: [11] This would be far too risky a proceeding for a sharp to indulge in as a rule. He _might_ do so, however, if he got hold of a very great flat. CHAPTER XII _ROULETTE AND ALLIED GAMES_ Roulette, and the various modifications of the game, which have been introduced from time to time, have all had, to a greater or less extent, a fascination for the gambler. That roulette itself still maintains a prominent place among the multitudinous methods of dissipating wealth to which gamblers are addicted, can be fully vouched for by those who have visited the gaming-tables of such a place as Monte Carlo. Despite the efforts of civilisation, 'the man that broke the bank,' or is said to have done so, is still prominent among us; but the bank that broke the man is, unfortunately, much more in evidence. The methods of play adopted by the great gaming establishments of the world are unquestionably as fair as the nature of things will allow them to be. No man can run an establishment of any kind without profit, and the profits of these gaming-houses result from the apparently small chances in favour of the bank which are universally allowed. The fact that the _apparently_ small chances against the players as a body are not generally recognised as being in reality great, cannot be said to be the fault of the bankers themselves. They build palatial edifices, lay out luxurious gardens, pay their crowds of retainers handsome salaries, and still have profits sufficient to bring them in princely incomes, the entire expenses of the whole being defrayed at the cost of the players, and through the medium of those insignificant chances in the bank's favour. It is strange that the players cannot see it, but they do not seem to realise that it is they themselves who pay for these things; or, if they do see it, they play with the wild hope of being among the few fortunate ones and sharing in the plunder. Taken as a whole, it may be estimated that the profits of these places amount to five per cent. or over of every pound that is staked upon the tables. That is to say, every player who places a sovereign upon the green cloth puts, definitely and unmistakably, at least a shilling into the pockets of the proprietors, who have, in the long run, absolutely no risk whatever. They have merely to furnish the accessories, and the players will provide all the rest, simply paying their money to the bank and taking all the risk themselves. No player can gain at the expense of the bank; if one should happen to make his fortune at play, he can only do so by the ruin of some other player. That is the plain state of the case, and there is no getting over it. It is not, however, with the so-called genuine gambling concerns that we have now to deal, but with the little hole-and-corner dens which may be found in various parts of the world, and particularly in the two continents of America. In such as these the roulette-table is frequently a familiar object, and very often it is not quite such a genuine piece of apparatus as it appears. Those who may not happen to be acquainted with the arrangement should understand that it is an oblong table, having a circular cavity at one end, in which the roulette revolves. The roulette (literally 'little wheel') is simply a revolving disc surrounded by a number of cavities into which a ball is allowed to roll. These cavities are numbered, and those who have staked upon the number of the particular hole into which the ball finds its way receive their stakes back, together with an amount equivalent to the money they have staked multiplied by the number of holes remaining vacant in the roulette, _minus_ a certain percentage which is reserved in favour of the bank. This is the essential principle of the game, though in reality it is played with many complications of chances, into which it is not necessary here to enter. Cheating in connection with the roulette-table is accomplished by means of a 'faked' or falsified roulette. This is arranged so that the numbers around the periphery are not consecutive, but alternately high and low. Indeed, this is the usual arrangement, therefore there is nothing suspicious in that fact. The numbered divisions into one of which the ball eventually rolls are formed by equidistant copper bands, set radially from the centre of rotation; and, in the false roulette, the copper partitions are so constructed as to be movable in two sets, one moving one way, and the other in the opposite direction. Each alternate partition belongs to the opposite set to its two immediate neighbours, consequently the movement of the partitions alternately in opposite directions tends to widen one set of cavities and narrow the others. If, then, the original width of the cavities was only just sufficient to allow the ball to drop into either of them, a very slight movement in one direction or the other will serve to prevent the ball from falling into any cavity of one set, whilst allowing it readily to enter either of the other set. Before spinning the roulette, then, the man whose place it is to do so notes the disposition of the bets. If they are principally staked upon the high numbers, he just gives a little twist to the centre of the roulette, in the direction which slightly closes the high numbers and correspondingly opens the low ones. Then the high numbers are bound to lose. Should the bets, on the other hand, be principally upon the low numbers, the spindle is turned in the other direction, thus closing the low numbers and opening the high ones. In this way the bank can never lose by any possible chance. The movement given to the alternate partitions is, of course, very slight, one-sixteenth of an inch being ample for the purpose. To enable the reader to better understand the principle involved in this system of cheating, we will investigate its application to a simple modification of the roulette which is sometimes used, and which affords great convenience for the method of falsification we have been considering. This is a wheel composed of a circular centre-piece, with two flat circular plates larger in diameter than the centre or 'hub,' one being fixed above and the other below it. Radially between these flanges, and at equal distances apart, are fixed partitions, which thus convert the periphery of the wheel into a number of chambers or divisions. A (fig. 62) represents the plan of a wheel of this kind, and B shows the same in elevation. [Illustration: FIG. 62.] Now, these radial partitions mentioned above are not all fixed to the wheel in the same manner. Each alternate one is attached to the centre or hub, and the others are fixed to the flanges or cheeks. C in the illustration represents the latter, and D the former. The two halves of the wheel C and D being put together, they appear to constitute a genuine wheel such as A. It is obvious, then, that if these two halves can be made to move just a little in opposite directions around their common centre, each alternate division will become slightly narrower or wider than its immediate neighbours, as the case may be. Then, if the divisions are numbered alternately high and low, it stands to reason that the high numbers can be closed and the low ones opened, or _vice versa_, at will. In the illustration, E represents the wheel after the two sections have been turned one upon the other in this way. It will be seen that _n_ is a narrow division, and _w_ a wide one; whilst right and left of these the divisions are alternately wide and narrow. A wheel of this kind would be mounted upon a spindle, in the centre of a circular depression in the table-top. After it has been set spinning, a ball is thrown into the circular hollow, down the sloping sides of which it rolls, and finally arrives in one of the divisions of the wheel, in this case entering by the periphery. In order to give the thing more the appearance of a game of skill, a wheel of this kind is sometimes mounted at one end of a sort of bagatelle-table, and, whilst it is spinning, the players are allowed to drive the ball into it with a cue from the far end of the table, each player in succession taking his turn at the ball. Needless to say, however, this plan presents no particular advantage to the player. If he has backed a high number, and the high numbers are closed against him, it is evident that he cannot possibly cause the ball to enter the division he requires, do what he may. It should also be noted that in the roulette the divisions, in addition to being numbered alternately high and low, are also alternately coloured red and black, and the players have the option of betting upon either colour. That is to say, if the ball rolls into a red division, irrespective of its number, those who have staked upon the red will receive the value of their stakes, whilst those who have wagered upon black will lose their money. Even in this case, however, the chances in favour of the bank will tell in the long run, because the 'zeros,' the numbers reserved for the bank, are neither red nor black, and if the ball enters a zero neither red nor black will win. The alternate arrangement of the red and black divisions will indicate, at once, that the same device which controls the entrance of the ball into the high or low numbers can also be made to cause either red or black to win, at the pleasure of the bank. In that case there is not much need to trouble about the effect of 'zero' one way or the other. A gentleman, well known in artistic circles, has favoured me, through a mutual friend, with the following interesting account of a swindle perpetrated in connection with roulette here in London. He entitles it 'A True Gambling Experience'; and it is here given as nearly as possible in his own words. 'Some time ago, a friend of mine wrote to me, asking if I would like to go to a gamble at the rooms of a Mr. X----, who had acquired a certain notoriety by gaining large sums at Monte Carlo. Indeed, his name was mentioned almost daily in the London Press. I went, and the game of roulette was played, the guests being regaled at about midnight with a most excellent supper and "Pol Roger" _ad lib._ 'The company was mixed--a few men from club-land, a well-known money-lender, and two fair ladies. One lady was our hostess, the other was the celebrated Baroness ----. The game was played quite fairly, the board being one of those ordinarily used in England, with one "zero." The stakes were limited to 20_l._ upon the even money chances. 'At the end of the evening, our host--the much-talked-of gentleman of Monte Carlo--who had won about 1,000_l._ during the sitting, appointed another evening, and asked me if I would mind taking the bank. I consented, provided that I might stop when I had lost as much as I cared to risk. This was acceded to, and I took the bank on the following week, when I arose a loser of some 300_l._, but had such consolation as was to be derived from partaking of a supper similar in character to the first, everything being absolutely _en prince_. A game of baccarat followed, and a friend of mine was fortunate enough to win some hundreds from our host. I myself, having settled up all my losings at roulette, was a gainer of fifty sovereigns or so. At the end of the evening, our host excused himself from payment, on the ground that he had had a very bad week racing, and had a very heavy settlement to make on the Monday, "I know," he said, "you and your friend will not mind waiting until next week, when we will have another evening." Of course we agreed to wait until the next meeting. 'Some days after, I had a letter from Mr. X----, stating that he had much pleasure in sending me a cheque (enclosed), and remarking that he intended having an evening at the rooms of a friend of his, near Charing Cross. The evening arrived, and I duly wended my way to the address Mr. X---- had given me. I found about twenty people assembled, among them my friend and another man I knew. I went up to the former and asked him if Mr. X---- had paid up the money he owed him. "Oh yes," he said, "he has paid me in those," pointing to a heap of counters in front of him. The game had commenced when I arrived, and I noticed that the limit of the stakes was double that of the former occasions, viz. 40_l._ upon the even money chances. I further noticed that a Frenchman (who could not speak a word of English) was turning the wheel, and Mr. X---- was acting as "croupier." The board was not similar to that used on former occasions. 'The game proceeded, the Frenchman rolling the ball, and Mr. X---- raking in the losing and paying out the winning stakes. Every now and then a man would retire hard hit, whilst others were constantly arriving. Business was brisk, a good trade was being carried on, but nobody knew how certain the bank was of winning. A Rothschild could not have stood against that board, as I afterwards discovered. 'Presently, one of the players got up and said, "I think that is seven hundred I owe you, X----," and proceeded to try and write a cheque for the amount upon a blank sheet of paper; but finding he could not write distinctly, he called to the money-lender, who filled in the body of the cheque, and then the half-tipsy punter signed it and left. Several large cheques were paid to X---- upon various players taking their departure; and I, having lost 10_l._ punting in sovereigns, wrote a cheque for that amount. In the meantime, my friend who had been paid by X---- some hundreds in counters, as before mentioned, had lost them all, and had a debit of about 400_l._ against him. He was staking the maximum each time on either red or black. Sometimes he had a maximum on one of the other chances. The luck (?) was dead against him, and he only won once in every three or four coups. He came into the next room with me and had a brandy and soda. "My luck is terrible," he said, "awful! but I am going to sit it out. The chances must average up presently." Such, however, was not the case. He lost more and more, whilst beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead. 'Relaxing for a moment my attention from my friend and his play, and glancing at the roulette revolving, I noticed the ball roll into division No. 3, red. Strange to say, however, when the roulette came to rest, the winning number proved to be No. 26, black. Even then the thought did not occur to me that there was anything wrong; but shortly afterwards a similar event occurred, and _then_ I felt sure there was a swindle somewhere. I went into the cloak-room where we had left our outer apparel, and putting on my opera hat and cape, returned to the scene. I pulled my hat well over my eyes and watched the board. Having a quick eye, and being used to roulette, I soon fathomed what is possibly the most beautiful swindle ever invented. The partitions which form the divisions into which the ball runs were constructed in one piece and movable, altogether apart from the numbers between which they were situated. In pressing upon the roulette to stop its motion in the usual manner, a sort of ratchet movement could be actuated which would turn the whole of the divisions round, carrying the ball with them, from one number to the next. Thus red could be turned into black, manque into passe, or pair into impair, according to the manner in which the stakes were placed. 'I was so completely upset by my discovery of this colossal swindle that I unfortunately committed a _faux pas_ which enabled the gang to escape punishment. After I was thoroughly certain of the _modus operandi_, I looked round the room to see what help was at hand in the event of a tussle; but, not liking the look of the crowd, I decided to obtain assistance from the outside. Before doing so, I felt that my clear duty was to speak to the host, who had lent his rooms to Mr. X----. I motioned him apart, and on telling him that I wished to speak to him privately, he took me into his bedroom. "Mr. Z----," I said, "I think it my duty to tell you that this game is a gigantic swindle. The men who have lost have been cheated out of their money," and I described the process to him. "It cannot be true," said he, "I have known X---- for years, and have been engaged in several large financial transactions with him, and I would stake my life upon his integrity." "Well," I said, "that may be so, but I am certain of what I say, and I shall prevent all the payment I can. As for my cheque of 10_l._, I shall stop it at the bank." (That cheque has never been presented from that day to this). 'I went out into the passage, leaving Z---- in his bedroom, and at that moment the well-known Mr. ----, F.R.C.S. was admitted at the door. I whispered to him, "Play small and watch it," and went off for a detective. I was afterwards informed by my "sawbones" friend that play was stopped directly I left. 'The rest of the tale is soon told. I met my unfortunate friend outside his house, and found he had ended in losing 1,300_l._ His state was truly pitiable, and his relief was great when I told him that he need not pay a penny, as he had been duped. 'The next day private detectives were busy; but, unfortunately, the mechanical board had escaped them, and Mr. X---- and his confederates had cleared out of London. 'Would you believe it? X---- went to a well-known firm of solicitors, and wanted to commence an action against me; but they advised him to refrain from so doing. 'I traced many of the punters who had lost money that evening, and stopped the payment of very much that would otherwise have found its way into the pockets of the swindlers. The men whose interests I thus protected never thanked me. All I contrived to do for myself was to make many enemies. For the future I intend to leave the exposure of swindlers to those who are accustomed to that kind of work.' Under the general term of 'spindle-games,' a great variety of revolving wheels and pointers is sold. In all cases the 'game' consists of betting against the bank, upon the chances of a ball rolling into a certain compartment, or of a pointer coming to rest opposite a certain number or division upon a dial. Countless are the dodges and devices resorted to with the object of controlling the chances or of removing them altogether. Things of this kind are commonly used for the purposes of cheating at race-meetings and horse fairs 'out west.' We have already seen how anything in the nature of a roulette can be sophisticated so as to give the bank every advantage, and insure certain loss to the players; and from this we may judge that something similar is possible in the case of a pointer or 'spear.' Indeed, the possibilities in this direction are endless, and all sorts of brakes and such devices for bringing the pointer to rest at a given spot have been invented. As an example we will investigate one system, which is in all probability the most ingenious ever devised, and which is but little known. Some years ago, the head of a well-known firm of electricians and experimentalists in Manchester was approached by an American, with a view to their undertaking the manufacture of a piece of apparatus, part of the drawings for which he submitted. The firm agreed to make what was required, and the work was commenced. As to what the apparatus could possibly be, or for what use it was intended, the manufacturers were completely in ignorance. Never having had experience of anything of the kind before, the whole thing was a mystery to them: all that they could infer from the utterances of their customer was that it was something in the nature of an experiment, and one which was of the greatest importance. Expense was absolutely no object whatever; all they had to concern themselves with was to see that the apparatus was thoroughly well and accurately made, and in accordance with the drawings given them. The contrivance itself was a sort of circular table-top; but, instead of being made of one solid thickness of wood, it was constructed in three sections or layers. The top and bottom pieces were simply plain discs, whilst the central one was a ring. These, being fastened together, made a kind of shallow box, the interior of which could be reached by removing either the top or bottom of the whole arrangement. Into this internal circular cavity was fitted a disc of such a size that it was capable of turning freely within the table top without rattling about. Radially from the centre of this disc were cut about six or eight slots, at equal distances from each other, and sufficiently large to contain each a bar-magnet. The magnets being fixed into their respective slots, the disc carrying them was placed into the cavity prepared for its reception, and the outer wood-work was firmly glued together. To all outward appearance, then, the thing became simply a table-top, made in three thicknesses, the 'grain' of the middle thickness crossing that of the other two; an arrangement often adopted in cabinetwork to prevent warping. In the under side of the table-top, however, there was cut a small slot, concentric with the outer edge. This gave access to the movable piece within the interior, and a small stud was fixed into that piece, projecting a little beyond the under surface, so that by its means the inner piece could be revolved a short distance to the right or left. This incomprehensible scientific instrument having been completed to the satisfaction of the American gentleman, it was taken away by him, and the firm expected to hear nothing more of it. In this, however, they were mistaken. A few days afterwards their customer again called upon them, bringing with him another drawing, and requesting them to make this second device in accordance with his instructions. The drawing presented for the inspection of the firm this time was a representation of a very heavy iron pointer, so constructed as to revolve upon a pivot at its centre. Strange to say, the length of the pointer was just about equal to the diameter of the internal disc of the table-top previously made. The head of the firm began to 'smell a rat.' That pointer had served to point out to him the solution of what was previously inexplicable. Having formed his own conclusions, he openly taxed the American with having lured him into making an apparatus for cheating. Perfectly unabashed, the man admitted the soft impeachment, and quite calmly and collectedly revealed the full particulars of his system, as though it were nothing at all unusual, and quite in the ordinary way of business. It appeared that this innocent form of amusement was intended to be taken 'out west,' and brought into action principally at horse-fairs. The table-top which the firm had made was destined to be covered with green cloth, in the centre of which a circle was marked out, its circumference being divided into spaces coloured alternately black and red. The number of these spaces was twice that of the magnets within the table. Thus, by moving the stud projecting below the table-top the magnets could be made to lie beneath either colour whilst the proprietor _lied_ over the whole. Obviously, then, the iron pointer would always come to rest above one of the magnets, and in this way the colour at which it was allowed to stop could be decided by the operator. His plan of working was simply to note which colour had the most money staked upon it, and set his magnets so as to cause the pointer to stop at the other. Using an apparatus of this kind, the man had already made thousands of dollars; and he only required this improved and perfected machine to enable him to go back and make thousands more. The Americans are pretty generally regarded as being a smart people--but are they? In some ways, perhaps. All this being explained to the head of the Manchester firm, the natural exclamation which fell from him was, 'But suppose anyone among the bystanders happened to bring out a mariner's compass?' It appeared, however, even in that case, that all was not lost, and that the swindler would be equal to the occasion. Quietly putting his hand between his coat-tails, he drew out a neat little 'Derringer,' about a foot long, and observed, 'Wal, _sir_, I guess that compass would never git around _my_ table. You kin bet on _that_.' That's the sort of man _he_ was. CHAPTER XIII _SPORTING-HOUSES_ We now come to a consideration of the so-called 'sporting-houses,' otherwise, the firms who supply sharps with the appliances and tools of their craft. These places are many, and, as a rule, prosperous. Their dealings in 'advantage goods,' as these things are called by the fraternity, are of course 'under the rose,' and the real nature of their business is covered by the fact that they are supposed to be dealers in honest commodities of various kinds. Some of these people keep 'emporiums' for the ostensible sale of genuine gambling appliances, such as faro-tables, billiard-tables, dice, cards, &c. Others will run businesses which are far removed from anything in the nature of gambling. The cheating business is, of course, kept in the background, although no great secret would appear to be made of it; the inference being, one may suppose, that it is not criminal to sell these things, although it is undoubtedly so to use them. Until quite recently it was no uncommon thing to find advertisements in certain of the American newspapers, to some such effect as 'Holdouts and other Sporting Tools.--Apply to Messrs. So-and-So,' giving the name and address. An advertisement of this kind would, of course, be simply Greek to the majority, although the sharps would understand its meaning readily enough. Upon applying to the advertiser, a sharp would receive a voluminous price list, setting forth the manifold beauties and advantages of the wares at his disposal, and showing conclusively that no other dealer had things so good to sell, and that the advertising firm was the most fair dealing and conscientious in the world, if their own account of themselves might be trusted. The first specimen of these literary and artistic productions to which we shall refer is a very exhaustive affair; so much so, in fact, that space will not allow it to be reprinted in its entirety. Besides cheating appliances it quotes all kinds of genuine gambling tools, which are of no importance to us in our present inquiry. Such parts, then, as have no reference to cheating have been excised, to avoid crowding these pages with unnecessary matter. The reader who has conscientiously followed, and taken pains to understand the explanations contained in previous chapters, will have no difficulty in arriving at a very fair notion of the various items given, and the significance of much that, otherwise, would possess no meaning for him. This catalogue is issued by a firm in San Francisco. THE ONLY SPORTING EMPORIUM ON THE PACIFIC COAST. (_Name_) & (_Name_), COMPANY. _DEALERS IN AND MANUFACTURERS OF_ Sporting Goods. (_Address_) STREET, SAN FRANCISCO, CAL. _READ THIS! OUR TERMS ARE STRICTLY CASH_. All orders MUST be accompanied by a deposit, and no order will be entertained unless the deposit is indorsed or sent with the order, to show a guarantee of good faith. On small orders send the full amount, and thus save the double charges. Goods sent C. O. D. ONLY where a deposit comes with the order or guarantee from the Express Agent. All remittances can be sent by Express, Mail, Post Office Order, Stamps, or Registered Letter. All business strictly confidential, and all inquiries answered by return mail. _WE WILL NOT DEVIATE FROM THE ABOVE TERMS_. _Always say whether you want Letters and Goods sent by Mail or Express._ (_Name and Address_.) FARO TOOLS DEALING-BOXES, plated $10 00 square, heavy German silver 16 00 " " " " plated 20 00 plated, sand tell 15 00 heavy German silver, sand tell 20 00 " " " plated, sand tell 25 00 side lever, heavy plated 50 00 square, size-up 60 00 end squeeze, plain 75 00 " " and lock up 100 00 " " plain, to squeeze top and bottom 85 00 " " lock-up, to squeeze top and bottom 100 00 balance top, plain 75 00 " " to lock up 100 00 end squeeze, lock-up and size-up 125 00 " " " " needle 125 00 latest style combination box, to work in four different ways, size-up, end squeeze, and needle, to lock up to a square box 175 00 shuffling board with needle 12 50 needle for table 2 50 very latest combination box to work in five different ways, size-up, sand tell, end squeeze, and needle, lock-up to a square box 200 00 In ordering, state exactly the kind of top that is desired, also if the box is to have bars inside or to be without bars. Our boxes are made with a view to simplicity, durability, and finish, are guaranteed to work perfectly, and pronounced by experts to be the best in the United States. Boxes of any style made to order and repaired. We are constantly making improvements in this line. Lever boxes altered into end squeeze. TRIMMING SHEARS, metal block $40 00 metal block, to cut, size-up, and the odd 50 00 latest improved, with extra set screw 65 00 LEVER PATTERN, metal block 40 00 to cut, size-up, and the odd 50 00 latest improved, with extra set screw 65 00 metal block, small size, suitable for travelling 35 00 " " " " to cut, size-up, and the odd 45 00 latest improved, to cut, size-up, and the odd, with extra set screw, and attachment, to hold monte cards while trimming 75 00 In ordering shears or lever-pattern trimmers, state what kind and style you want. TRIMMING PLATES (new style), our own design, to cut any size card, rounds or straights. A knife, razor, or any other sharp instrument can be used $7 50 CUTTER, for cutting round corners on cards (something new), our own invention 20 00 for the odd only 20 00 Trimming shears sharpened and squared equal to new at short notice. You can do more and better work with our shears and trimmers than any other manufactured in the United States. They are made of the very best materials, and under our personal supervision. The cutting parts are made of the finest steel, and forged by hand, making them all that could be desired. SHUFFLING BOARDS, very thin iron, broadcloth cover $3 00 for the odd 15 00 FARO DEALING CARDS, best quality, either squared or unsquared, per dozen 15 00 per deck 1 25 best quality, cut for size-up 1 75 cut in any form, either wedges, rounds, and straights, end strippers, or any other kind, ready for use, per deck 2 50 In ordering cards cut, always send a king or ace that fits your box, or if your box is numbered, send the number, and state particularly how you want them done. Cash is required with all orders for trimmed cards. HIGH-BALL LAYOUTS, 3 by 4 feet $6 00 Other sizes and styles painted to order. HIGH BALLS, walrus ivory, each 20 boxwood 10 HIGH-BALL BOTTLES, leather, two in set, one square, $2 50, one holdout $7 50 10 00 CLUBROOM FURNITURE FARO TABLES $75 00 to $100 00 POKER TABLES, our own invention 250 00 DICE TABLES, electric, complete, our invention 150 00 POKER and DICE TABLE combined 350 00 GRAND HAZARD DICE TABLE, electric, complete, our own invention 175 00 ELECTRIC DICE, 1/2 inch, each 2 50 IVORY DICE TOP, to throw high or low as required, and one square to match 7 00 IVORY DICE, 1/2 inch, round or square corners, each 25 9/16 inch, round corners, each 35 5/8 " " " " 45 3/4 " " " " 80 IVORY DICE, 7/8 inch, round corners, each 1 25 1 " " " " 2 00 Horse for crap game, 1/2 inch, per pair 50 for top and bottom and 3 fair 1 00 3 high, 3 low, and 3 fair loaded (Eastern), per set 6 00 loaded, our own manufacture, 1/2 inch, each 2 50 " " " " 5/8 " 2 75 " " " " 3/4 or 7/8 inch, each 3 00 In ordering dice, please state which side you want to come up; also state if you want a square set to match. All kinds of ivory dice made to order. BONE DICE, per dozen 25c. to 50c. DICE BOXES, leather 25c. and 50c. smooth inside $1 00 KENO OUTFITS KENO, consisting of globe and stand, 100 cards, pegging boards, 100 pegs, ball board, 90 walrus balls and buttons, very fine $70 00 with boxwood balls, very fine 60 00 with walrus globes, plain globe 50 00 with boxwood balls, plain globe 40 00 INDICATORS, for registering cards sold 10 00 PULL-UP PEG BOARD, for 100 cards 20 00 KENO CARDS, 9 rows, 5 in a row, 100 cards 15 00 KENO GLOBE, for holding out extra balls 65 00 SHORT GAMES VEST HOLDOUT, our own pattern $25 00 SLEEVE HOLDOUT $25 00, 30 00, 50 00, and 150 00 TABLE HOLDOUT, to work with the knee 15 00 THE BUG, to hold out extra cards from the table 1 00 TABLE REFLECTOR 5 00 REFLECTOR, in seven half-dollars 7 50 " in one half-dollar 2 50 REFLECTOR, in one dollar $3 50 " in pipe 5 00 " to work on any ring 2 00 " to fasten to greenbacks 2 00 " plain 1 50 " attached to machine, can be brought to palm of hand at will 25 00 DUMMIES, to imitate a stack of twenties, used to show in bankers' or money-brokers' windows, to represent $100 $2 75 to represent $200 3 25 " " $300 3 75 " " $400 4 00 " " $500 5 00 NAIL PRICKS, each 50 ACID FLUID, for shading cards, 3 colours, very fine and entirely new, complete with directions, per set, 6 bottles 5 00 single bottle, any colour 1 00 MARKED CARDS Per dozen 1 0 00 Per deck 1 00 Glazed backs, round corners, per dozen 1 4 00 " " " " " deck 1 25 By mail, 5 cents per deck extra. STRIPPERS, cut to order for any short game, per dozen 7 00 cut to order for any short game, per deck 75 By mail, 5 cents per deck extra. In ordering these cards, state what kind of card preferred, and be particular to give full directions--just what you want them for, and what cards you want stripped. * * * * * The next catalogue to which we refer hails from the State of New York, and is that from which extracts have been made during the progress of this book. It is particularly amusing, and deserves careful perusal on that account. THE LATEST SLEEVE HOLDOUT The finest machine in this country. All late improvements, better made than some machines that are sold for $300. A better machine than the Kepplinger, of San Francisco, holdout. Made of fine and light pen steel, and works as well in shirt sleeves as with a coat on. The machine is fastened in a double shirt sleeve. The cards go in between the wristband and cuff. The wristband and cuff closes up when the cards are in, and anyone may look up your sleeve to your elbow and cannot see anything wrong. The holdout is worked by spreading your knees. The string runs through steel tubing that has capped pulley wheel joints. The string cannot bind or catch, and will work smoothly, easy, and noiselessly, every time alike. Give length of arm and size of shirt worn when ordering. Price, $100. Will send one C. O. D. $75, with privilege to examine, on receipt of $25. KEPPLINGER VEST, OR COAT MACHINE New, never before advertised. Made on same principle as the sleeve holdout, and works by spreading knees. String goes through adjustable tubing. Vest closes up tight when cards are in, and looks to be all buttoned up tight. Works equally well in coat. (This is almost a nickle-in-slot machine, and I will guarantee perfect satisfaction to anyone that wants a first-class vest or coat holdout.) Sent in vest all ready to put on and work. Price $75. Will send one C. O. D. $60, privilege to examine and try in express office, on receipt of $15. STUD POKER HOLDOUT Very light and compact, works under any ordinary cuff. Cards come out to palm of hand and go back out of sight. Works automatically by resting arm on edge of table. Also a good machine to cap the deck with. Price $30. Sent C. O. D. $20, privilege to examine, on receipt of $15. ARM PRESSURE VEST MACHINE This machine weighs about three ounces, and is used half way down the vest, where it comes natural to hold your hands and cards. The work is done with one hand and the lower part of the same arm. You press against a small lever with the arm (an easy pressure of three-quarters of an inch throws out the cards back of a few others held in your left hand), and you can reach over to your checks or do anything else with the right hand while working the holdout. The motions are all natural, and do not cause suspicion. The machine is held in place by a web belt; you don't have to sew anything fast, but when you get ready to play you can put on the machine, and when through can remove it in half a minute. There are no plates, no strings to pull on, and no springs that are liable to break or get out of order. This machine is worth fifty of the old style vest plates for practical use, and you will say the same after seeing one. Price $15. Will send one C. O. D. $10, with privilege to examine, on receipt of $5. Will send one by registered mail on receipt of price, with the understanding that you may return it in exchange for other goods if not perfectly satisfactory. ARM PRESSURE SLEEVE MACHINE Same price and style as the arm pressure vest machine. (This holdout is the lightest and smoothest working arm pressure sleeve holdout made.) TEN DOLLAR SLEEVE HOLDOUT Light and compact, can be put on or taken off in two minutes, works by raising and lowering your arm. A good machine for small games. Sent by registered mail on receipt of the price. AUTOMATIC TABLE HOLDOUT Lightest made, fastens by patent steel claw. Can be put under a table and taken off instantly, as there are no screws or anything to fasten permanently. Works by knee, and brings the card up on top of the table. Price $20. Sent C. O. D., privilege to examine, on receipt of $5. _Notice._--I can make this holdout or my stud poker holdout, either one, to work a fine reflector for reading the cards, at same price. TO SMART POKER PLAYERS I have invented a process by which a man is sure of winning if he can introduce his own cards. The cards are not trimmed or marked in any way, shape, or manner. They can be handled and shuffled by all at the board, and, without looking at a card, you can, by making two or three shuffles or ripping them in, oblige the dealer to give three of a kind to any one playing, or the same advantage can be taken on your own deal. This is a big thing for any game. In euchre you can hold the joker every time, or the cards most wanted in any game. The process is very hard to detect, as the cards look perfectly natural, and it is something card-players are not looking for. Other dealers have been selling sanded cards, or cheap cards with spermaceti rubbed on, and calling them professional playing or magnetic cards. I don't want you to class my cards with that kind of trash. I use a liquid preparation put on with rollers on all cards made; this dries on the cards and does not show, and will last as long as the cards do. The object is to make certain cards, not prepared, slip off easier than others in shuffling. You can part or break the deck to an ace or king, and easily 'put up threes,' no matter where they lay in the deck. This fine advantage works fine single handed, or when the left-hand man shuffles and offers the cards to be cut. These cards are ten times better than readers or strippers, and they get the money faster. Price $2 per pack by mail, $20 per dozen packs. If you order a dozen, I will furnish cards like you use. CUFF HOLDOUT Weighs two ounces, and is a neat invention to top the deck, to help a partner, or hold out a card playing stud poker; also good to play the half stock in seven up. This holdout works in the shirt sleeve, and holds the cards in the same place as a cuff pocket. There is no part of the holdout in sight at any time. A man that has worked a pocket will appreciate this invention. Price, by registered mail, $10. RING HOLDOUT Fits under any ring worn on third finger. A fine thing to top the deck. You can hold as many cards as you wish in your hand, and no one will mistrust you, as your fingers will be at perfect liberty, and it is not necessary to keep them together as you have to do when palming. Price, by registered mail, $3. TABLE HOLDOUT Very small and light. It can be put under and removed from any table in less than half a minute. Works easily from either knee. It will bring three or more cards up into your hand, and take back the discards as you hold your cards and hands in a natural position on top of the table. It is the best table holdout made. Price, by registered mail, $10. Will send one C. O. D., with privilege to examine, on receipt of $3. THE BUG A little instrument, easily carried in your vest pocket, that can be used at a moment's notice to hold out one or more cards in any game. Simple, yet safe and sure. Price 50 cents. NEW MARKING INK For line or scroll work. Any one can apply it with a fine steel pen or camel's hair brush. This ink dries quickly and does not require any rubbing. Will guarantee it to be the best ink made. Price $3 per bottle. Two bottles, red and blue, $5. Best shading colours, $2 per bottle. REFLECTOR Fastens by pressing steel spurs into under side of table. A fine glass comes to the edge of table to read the cards as you deal them off. You can set the glass at any angle or turn it back out of sight in an instant. Price $4. MARKED CARDS First quality cards, hand marked, $1 50 per pack, $14 per dozen. First quality cards, shaded plain or fine, $11 per dozen. I can mark any style card you use if ordered by the dozen packs. Strippers cut just as you want them. Price $1 per pack. LOADED DICE Made of selected ivory loaded with quicksilver, and can be shaken from the box so as to come high or low, as you wish. With a set of these you will find yourself winner at all dice games, and carry off the prize at every raffle you attend. Sold in sets of 9 dice, 3 high, 3 low, and 3 fair. Price, per set complete, $5. DICE TOPS For high and low. Sure thing. Made of best ivory, $4 Black walnut, just as good, $1 25. Eagle claw, to hold out cards in shirt sleeve. Price $5. Knee holdout, to hold out cards from edge of table. Price $2 50. Prong, improved, to use as cuff pocket. Price $4. New method of marking cards like scratch work. This work leaves a white line or mark on the card that cannot be shaded. Price of material, tools, and full directions, $10, This is the kind of work good men have been trying to get for some time. NOTICE It will _pay_ any man that plays cards to come and see my work. I will meet you at Chatham, New York, and will pay all expenses if I don't show you the _best_ goods made. If you want any reference regarding my standing, write to ---- Bros., merchants, or any business firm of this town. They don't recommend advantage goods, but they will tell you that I am good for all I advertise to do. If you want to get a holdout or anything in the sporting line that you have ever seen used or advertised, write to me about them and see how my prices compare with others. I know all about every kind of advantage ever advertised, and am getting new ones every day, but only advertise those I know to be practical. If you send me an order, no matter how large or small, I shall try to give you the worth of your money, so that you will send again. I am the only manufacturer of holdouts in this country. I am the only man who makes the holdouts he advertises for sale himself. I will bet $500, ---- to hold the money and decide the bet, that no other dealer advertising advantage goods can make a sleeve or vest machine themselves as good as either of mine. If you play cards it will pay you to come here and see my machines work. I will pay all expenses if I cannot show you the best holdouts made. Send money by registered letter, postal note, or money order on Chatham, New York. Send all orders to ----. * * * * * The educated man who does not smile at the bombast and 'Yankee-brag' contained in the above, surely cannot have his risible faculties developed in any degree whatever. The next catalogue we shall notice comes from New York City itself, and is couched in the following terms:-- OUR LATEST MARKED BACK PLAYING CARDS Round corners, big squeezers, first quality linen stock, warranted. Price, per pack, $1 25; six packs, $7; one dozen packs, $12. TO CARD PLAYERS These cards are by far the finest-marked cards ever printed, and are fully equal in every way, quality of stock, print, and finish of both back and face, to any first quality square card made. This fills the long-felt want among the sporting fraternity, and it is the best offer ever made to club-rooms and private parties. They are new, and never before this season been placed on the market. They are especially adapted for fine work, and great care has been given to the marking of both size and suit, and it is almost an impossibility to find the marks and earn the combination without the key and complete printed instructions which we send with every pack; but when learned they are as easily read from the back as from the face. Nos. 1, 2, and 5 are marked in all four corners alike, so as to be readily played by either right or left-hand players and are marked on an entirely different principle than old style stamped cards. Attention is requested to our 'Montana,' No. 3, and to our 'Star,' No. 4. We furnish them in the colours mentioned and used in all games throughout the entire country. Order the cards by the numbers directly over them. Price, per pack, $1 25; six packs, $7; one dozen packs, $12. We can furnish square cards to exactly duplicate Nos. 1, 2, and 5, at $3 per dozen, by express. Strippers of all these cards, for poker and all games, furnished with either fair or marked backs. For prices and particulars see our circulars. Address all orders to ---- * * * * * The following is a hand-bill issued by the same firm as the last, and specially addressed-- TO FARO DEALERS We handle, and keep constantly in stock, all the latest and best combination boxes, both end squeeze, top balance, lever and side movement, etc., etc., but we make a speciality of our own boxes, and recommend them to any one needing a _good reliable box, that can be depended on at all times_. These boxes are simple, durable, and by far the best boxes ever placed on the market. We make them up perfectly plain, without bars, have the bottom movement (entirely new), and they can be locked to a dead square box by a table movement which cannot be detected. We make our boxes up to lock by three combinations, and we _guarantee them in every way_. End squeeze, three combinations $100 to $125 " " without bottom movement 100 Top Balance, bottom movement, three combinations 100 Needle or 'spur tell' for the odd, bottom movement 65 " " " " without bottom movement 50 We also make an end squeeze that no one can tell from a square box, as the end of box is immovable, the metal of the end being thinner than rest of box, being able to spring or give as it is pressed, and doing the work. This is one of the finest boxes ever made. Price $100. We also make plain tell boxes, without bars, _which can be charged_ [query '_changed_'] from a square to a tell box in an instant without the possibility of detection, and we will guarantee that no one can find the combination. (Do not confound these with the ordinary lock-up sand tell box.) Our boxes are perfect in every particular, and will do the work. The cards for these boxes are specially prepared by a machine which takes the place of sand and all kinds of preparation. They are by far superior to any cards sanded or prepared by hand. Our manner of preparing cards for these boxes is by having the twelve paint cards prepared, so by playing in the high card _the money is won without creating suspicion_, by being always actually on the card with the work on. Price $25 With six packs prepared cards 35 * * * * * These are the instructions sent out with the fluids used for marking cards. The spelling must not be criticised. It is similar to that of the original:-- 'DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING AND USING OUR COLORS. 'Take the color that comes nearest to the color of the card you want to use it on, put a few drops in an empty bottle, and dilute with Alcohol untill you get a Shade as near like the Card as possible. To avoid spilling, as sometimes happens in trying to pour or drop, the dye may be lifted out of the bottles with the brush, by repeatedly dipping the brush into them, and then wiping the brush on the mouth of the empty Bottle. It is better to put the Alcohol into the empty bottle _first_, then when you lift the dye out on the brush you can dip the brush right in the Alcohol, and tell better when you have the right shade. As you mix the colors, try them on a surface like that on which you may intend to use them, in this way any shade may be obtained. Always bear in mind that the Colors show _deeper_ when _moist_, (as is the case when they are first put on), and become fainter as they dry, and when dry if they are _too light_, go over them again. Eveness is more apt to be obtained by using a little lighter shade of color after the first application. 'A little care and practice will enable any one to handle these colors satisfactorily. 'In marking you can pick out any number of figures from four to six, having them as near the upper left hand corner as conveneient, a Flower which has 5 leaves is best, or the right number of figures in a circle. 'Shade all the figures except No. 1, leaving it light or natural for the Ace, No. 2 light for King, No. 3 light for Queen, No. 4 for Jack, No. 5 for 10 spot, 1 & 2 light for 9 spot, 2 and 3 for 8, 3 and 4 for 7, 4 and 5 for 6, 5 and 1 for 5, 2 and 5 for 4, 2 and 4 for 3, and 3 and 5 for 2. In doing _very nice work_ we shade the entire back of the card _except_ the _figure_ which denotes the size and suit. 'For suit pick out two figures near those you use for size, and have _both dark for Clubs_, and both light or natural for Diamonds, have one of them dark for Spades; and the other dark for Hearts. With six figures the combination runs similar to the five figures which we have ezplained, and a four figure runs the same down to the seven spot. After a little practice you will see many ways of marking your cards. 'The Dyes we use are the Diamond Package Dyes, and can be had of most any Druggist. Make the Dyes according to Directions on the package, using only one _half the quantity of water_ directed, and strain through a cloth, if there is any sediment in the dye after adding the Alcohol strain it again as it is necessary to have it as clear as possible. Do not try to use the dyes without the Alcohol, or it will be a failure, as it is the Alcohol which causes the Dye to strike into the card. Always keep the bottles well corked when not using them. Brushes and bottles should be kept clean, and if the brushes are washed in water, they must be thoroughly dried before using, as water will blister smooth, calendered surfaces. Never let your brush get dry when using, but dip it occasionally, care being taken not to have too much on the brush, and use immediately, if the alcohol evaporates from the dye it makes a much eifferent colour.' * * * * * The foregoing price-lists, &c., as may be expected, are all printed. It is not always, however, that the dealer in 'advantages' goes to the expense of print in connection with the documents he issues; he sometimes uses the cyclostyle or mimeograph, particularly in the case of directions for use accompanying the various articles in which he deals. When, in this way, he has no longer the friendly aid of the compositor or the printer's reader, his vagaries of grammar and construction are revealed in all their primitive innocence. To commence one of his sentences is like embarking upon an unknown sea, or following a half-beaten track through a desert. Onward the course runs, apparently for ever, and no man can tell when the end is coming, or what it is likely to be. Pelion is piled upon Ossa, and Parnassus is over all. A few days ago two or three of these documents were sent to be copied out in type, so as to be somewhat legible for the printer; and, as an evidence of their singularly explicit nature, it may be mentioned that the typist was under the impression that they were all parts of one document, and copied out the whole as one, without break from beginning to end. Such a thing, of course, was quite excusable under the circumstances, as the reader may judge from the following example of how not to do it. The entire manuscript consists of one sentence only, so far as punctuation is concerned, and is supposed to contain directions for the use of the prepared cards mentioned upon pp. 223-227. It runs to this effect:-- 'Directions.--When you part the pack to shuffle press down a trifle and the cards will part to an Ace (the Ace will be on top of the lower part) put that part with the Ace on top and part again to another Ace now shuffle in all but the four top cards, part the cards again to the third Ace and shuffle in all but the top four cards, then put three cards on top of the last Ace (this puts up three Aces with three cards between them and three on top and is for a four handed game) if one more or less than four are playing shuffle in one more or less cards, (always have as many cards between and on top of the Aces as there are players excluding yourself) when the left hand man deals and offers the cards to you to cut you can shuffle them up in the same way (but you must put "one less" card on top of the three Aces to get the Aces yourself)' Presumably this is the end of the 'instructions,' as there is no more matter to follow; but one cannot be surprised that an unhappy typist, endeavouring to make sense of it, should follow straight on to the next, under the impression that the general effect of disjointedness thus produced was part and parcel of the whole occult scheme. The directions sent out with the 'Jacob's Ladder' vest machine are very similar in character to the last. There is, however, one 'full-stop' in this case, probably the one which the typist was looking for. This is the manner in which the dealer instructs the purchaser in the use of his machine:-- 'DIRECTIONS FOR VEST MACHINE 'Fasten the Belt around your waist so that the Machine will come on left side far enough from the edge of Vest to let the cards go back out of sight. Pin the under lap of Vest on the edge to the belt opposite the third or middle button, if you are a large man or if you want the mouth of the M- to come out farther, turn down the screw on front part of Lever, to hold out 3 cards place them back of a few others held in left hand with a break or opening between them on the lower ends, press against the lever with the lower part of arm and as the mouth of the M- comes out to the edge of Vest put the cards in (let your little finger come against the lower side of the mouth) this will be a guide and you can put the cards in without looking down, (a good way is to reach over to your checks or to "put up" with right hand while working the Machine) less than a 1/2-in. pressure will throw out the cards' The instances above quoted will be sufficient to give the reader a fair notion of the barefaced manner in which these nefarious dealings are carried on. There is no beating about the bush in any instance; no hiding away of the real intent with which the goods are supplied. They are not called cheating-tools in so many words, but no attempt is made to smother up the actual nature of the articles. The dealer does not say 'Special Cards,' or 'Comical Cards,' or anything of the kind. He puts the matter plainly before his customers, and says, 'Our Latest Marked Back Playing Cards!' There is no mistaking his meaning; he is proud of it, and likes to let the world know the kind of things he has to sell. 'And where are the police all the while?' you ask. Echo answers 'Where?' and that is the only reply which is forthcoming. They must know of these places where the implements of robbery are made and sold; yet, as a rule, they appear to take no notice of what is going on. Now and again, in those places where the regulations are particularly strict, they have a spasmodic burst of activity; and then the dealers lie low for awhile, until all is quiet again. Occasionally it may happen that some dealer, whose advertisements have become too flagrantly palpable, is pounced upon and compelled to desist; but even when such a person is obliged to close his business altogether, he simply migrates to the next State, and supplies his former customers through the medium of the Post Office. Very little hardship is entailed upon him, as those who deal with him are necessarily scattered far and wide in various parts of the world, and the stock is not very difficult to remove. The 'Express Offices' in America must surely know all about this kind of traffic, since they allow the swindling machinery to be tried in their depôts. The C.O.D. system is ample evidence of their connivance. In sending marked cards through the post, a whole pack is seldom despatched in one parcel. As a rule they are sent a few at a time. This proceeding avoids the payment of duty upon them, effecting a considerable saving sometimes. Other articles are described as sample parts of machinery, and duty is paid upon them in accordance with their value. The system upon which the business of these firms is conducted shows that not only have they sound commercial instincts, but also that they know their customers particularly well, and have had experience of the class of people with whom they have to deal. They are prepared to send their goods on approval at any time, but on condition that they receive a certain amount of cash with the order, or at any rate the equivalent of cash, and a guarantee of payment of the balance on delivery. The fact is, they take good care to let no article go out of their hands until they have been paid a little more than it is really worth; and, therefore, if the sharp who purchases it should prove so forgetful of his obligations as to neglect payment of the remainder, the dealer still makes a profit. As one firm states upon the cover of its price-list, _We will not deviate from the above terms_--and they don't. Cash on delivery is what they require, or, as it is usually abbreviated, 'C.O.D.' There is a good deal of C.O.D. about these transactions, in more ways than one. In spite of their supposed 'cuteness' one often finds that sharps are as apt to be inveigled into the purchase of worthless articles by means of bogus advertisements as any of their dupes. In certain of the American papers the following advertisement was at one time often seen:-- 'Electric cards, as used by professional gamblers. $1,00, &c. Apply--.' On sending his money to the dealer, the sharp would receive a common pack of cards, with the same instructions as those sent out with the varnished cards which slip at the aces (p. 304). A separate slip was enclosed, however, which informed him that these cards would only retain their electricity for twenty-four hours. He was, therefore, advised to buy a battery wherewith to recharge (?) them; for the sum of $30.00. When he had made this additional purchase, he found what a little knowledge of electricity would have told him at first, that he had been 'had on toast.' Honour among thieves, again! Among the dealers in 'advantages' there are some humourists. One man who kept an 'emporium' for the sale of these things in New York City, but who was moved into an adjoining State by the police, used to have his envelopes embellished by the semblance of a bull dog, and the motto 'We still live.' Not bad, is it? The price lists issued by this same individual were in the form of pamphlets, and contained very exaggerated descriptions of his apparatus and the results produced thereby. Interspersed with the more prosaic details of his wares, one found now and again wise saws or proverbs, altered to suit the tastes of his patrons. Some of the choicest of these 'modern instances' ran as follows:-- 'A bug is far above rubies.' 'A holdout in the vest is more use than snide jewelry in the pocket.' 'Get proper tools and use them with discretion, and you will win and last.' And so on. This kind of thing exhibits the lighter and brighter side of the sharp's nature with much vividness. The reader may have noticed, at the end of one of the price-lists, that the dealer is able to give references as to his trustworthiness to respectable firms 'who don't recommend advantage goods.' This will not be a matter for surprise when it is understood that the man is supposed to be an honest tradesman carrying on a reputable business. In all probability his referees would have no idea as to the sort of person to whose _bona fides_ they are attesting. On the other hand, of course, they may know all about it, in which case they are manifestly no better than the man they are recommending. Still, even in that event, the reference is quite good enough for the sort of people who are likely to be buyers of swindling apparatus. The author has a few dollars' worth of this kind of thing; so perhaps the reader may be inclined to observe that 'Dwellers in glass houses,' &c. However, that's another matter. This book would never have been forthcoming if the author had any objection to a few pounds finding their way into the pockets of those who don't deserve them. The end must justify. The fact that these people should be allowed to carry on their trade in the way they do is nothing short of a standing disgrace to America and a satire upon civilisation. All men have an admiration for America, though some may only half express it. Let her only be true to herself, true to her traditions, and true to her _origin_; let her deal firmly with those who mar her fair fame; let her learn to cherish that which is best and brightest among her children, and she will one day become the glory of the world--but that day is not yet. CHAPTER XIV _SHARPS AND FLATS_ Now that we have reached the final stage of our inquiry, the reader having been put in possession of all the facts which are material and of importance in connection with it, nothing more remains than to take a brief review of our position, as it were, and see precisely how we stand--to regard the question of gambling as a whole, in fact, and see what conclusions we may arrive at with regard to it, when it is viewed with the eye of common sense, and in the light of the knowledge we have obtained. Every subject, of course, has many aspects, and gambling may be regarded from many different standpoints. In this last chapter, then, and with the reader's permission, I will take the liberty of regarding it from my own; and, no objection being raised to the proposal, I should prefer to regard these concluding remarks as being made confidentially, so to speak, between the reader and myself. If, in delivering myself of what remains to be said, I should appear to speak either egotistically or dogmatically, I crave pardon beforehand, and beg the reader to believe that, if I am inclined to emphasise any particular point bearing upon the matter in hand, it is because I feel strongly with reference to it, and not because I wish to pose in the eyes of the world as a champion of right and an opponent of wrong. Fear has been expressed, in some quarters, that the publication of the secrets contained in this book will be the means of increasing the number of sharps; that I am simply providing a manual for the instruction of budding swindlers. This may appear very cogent reasoning to some; but, for all that, it is very poor logic, in reality. In fact, a more groundless fear could not be entertained. It would be as reasonable to say that the manufacture of safes and strong-rooms, and the increase of safeguards against thieves, will tend to augment the number of burglars. Or, to come nearer to the point at issue, one may as well assert that the exposure of spiritualistic frauds has increased the number of 'mediums.' The subject of spiritualism affords a most striking proof of the absurdity of such a contention. Contrast the state of affairs twenty-five years ago, before the crusade against spiritualistic humbug, with that of the present day. Then, dozens of impostors were doing a thriving business. The medium was as much in demand as the most popular society entertainer, and could command larger fees. Spiritualism was a fashionable amusement; the drawing-rooms of the aristocracy were constantly being darkened for séances. Now, only two or three miserable rogues, without ability to earn a living in any other way, are dragging out a wretched existence in the East End of London, giving séances in back parlours, and charging a fee of a shilling a head. Even in America things are not much brighter for the medium. Compare Dr. Slade's success in London with his sad end in America, a few weeks ago. In fact, the business is utterly ruined; those who have sufficient ability have become conjurers and 'exposers of spiritualism'; others have become gambling sharps and 'hypnotic subjects.' These facts constitute a complete answer to the assertion that this book will tend to increase the practice of sharping. I maintain that no young man's education should be considered complete without some knowledge of the capabilities of trickery; for, without it, he may be imposed upon by any charlatan. Apart from the question of sharping, and with reference to the fallacies indulged in by gamblers at large, there are, among a multiplicity of others, three which demand our special attention, and with which I particularly wish to deal. These three mistaken, though very commonly entertained notions, constitute the very basis of what is called fair gambling. They are these:-- 1. That gambling is essentially honest. 2. That a bet may be fair to both parties. 3. That betting on fair odds, the chances of each bettor will, in the long run, so equalise themselves that neither can win nor lose, in an infinite number of bets. Now, what I undertake to show may be summed up in three statements, which can be put _per contra_ to the others, viz.:-- 1. That gambling is essentially dishonest. 2. That a bet may be _unfair_ to both parties, but cannot possibly be fair to more than one, and that only at the expense of gross injustice to the other. 3. That a protracted run of betting gives the gambler no more chance of winning, or of recouping his losses, than he has in making a single bet. Here, then, I bring the whole gambling fraternity--sharps and flats alike--about my ears. But, having courage of my opinions, I stand to my guns, and am prepared to hold my own against all comers. I will even go so far as to back my opinion in 'the good old English way' (why English?) to the extent of sixpence--beyond which I never go. Stay, though, I am speaking hastily. I did once back a horse for the Derby to the extent of a guinea. When I say that the horse was 'Maskelyne, by Magic--Mystery' (I believe that was the formula given by the sporting papers), perhaps I may be forgiven the extravagance for once. I have less compunction in mentioning the circumstance because the horse was 'scratched.' 'Maskelyne' was a rank outsider, and I did not even have 'a run for my money.' But to return. I have said that gambling is essentially dishonest. This is no new statement, I am aware; but it is one upon which too much stress cannot be laid. A bet is almost universally considered to be a fair bargain. But is it? A _fair_ bargain is one in which each person receives something which is of more value to him than that with which he has parted, or, at any rate, something which is of equal value. If either receives less value than he gives, that person has been swindled, and the fact of winning a bet signifies that one has deprived another of money for which no due consideration has been given. The gambler, of course, will argue that he _does_ give an equivalent return for what he wins, in that he allows his opponent an equal chance of depriving him of a similar amount; that is to say, he purchases the right to cheat another by giving his opponent an equal chance of depriving him of a similar amount. In short, a bet is simply a mutual agreement to compound a felony. The fact that both parties to the transaction are equally in the wrong cannot possibly justify either. But it may be argued that no loser of a bet ever considers that he has been unjustly deprived of his money. That again is quite a mistaken notion. No man ever lost a bet who did not consider that he had every right to win it, otherwise he would never have made it. Therefore he is just as much robbed as though he had had his pocket picked. Because another will cheat me if he has the chance, that does not justify me in cheating him if I can. If a man seeks to take my life, I may be justified in killing him, as a last resource, in order to protect myself; but, in a transaction involving merely pounds, shillings and pence, there is no necessity to fight a man with his own weapons. The act of cheating is not the weapon with which to combat the desire to cheat; yet this is what actually takes place even in so-called fair gambling. It must be obvious to any one who will take the trouble to think over the matter, that chances which are fair and equal are a question of proportion rather than of actual amounts and odds. At first sight, however, it would appear that if a man stands an equal chance of winning or losing a certain amount, nothing fairer could possibly be imagined, from whatever point of view one may regard it. I venture to say, nevertheless, that this is not so. Suppose for the moment that you are a poor man, and that you meet a rich acquaintance who insists upon your spending the day with him, and having what the Americans call 'a large time.' At the end of the day he says to you, 'I will toss you whether you or I pay this day's expenses.' Such a proposition is by no means uncommon, and suppose you win, what is the loss to him? Comparatively nothing. He may never miss the amount he has to pay; but if you lose, your day's outing may have to be purchased by many weeks of inconvenience. A bet of a hundred pounds is a mere bagatelle to a rich man, but it may be everything to a poor one. In the one case the loss entails no inconvenience, in the other it means absolute ruin. It must be granted, then, in matters of this kind, that proportion is the chief factor, not the actual figures. If you are with me so far, you are already a step nearer to my way of thinking. Let us proceed a step further, and see how it is that a bet is necessarily unfair to both parties. The simple fact is that no two men can make a wager, however seemingly fair, or however obviously unfair, without at once reducing the actual value to them of their joint possessions. This can be proved to a demonstration. We will take a case in which the chances of winning are exactly equal, both in amount and in proportion to the wealth of two bettors. Suppose that your possessions are precisely equal in amount to those of a friend, and that your circumstances are similar in every respect. There can be, then, no disparity arising from the fact of a bet being made between you, where the chances of winning or losing a certain amount are the same to each. To present the problem in its simplest form, we will say that you each stake one-half of your possessions upon the turn of a coin. If it turns up head you win, if it falls 'tail up' your friend wins. Nothing could possibly be fairer than this from a gambler's point of view. You have each an equal chance of winning, you both stake an equal amount, you both stand to lose as much as you can win, and, above all, the amount staked bears the same value, proportionately, to the wealth of each person. One cannot imagine a bet being made under fairer conditions, yet how does it work out in actual fact? You may smile when you read the words, but _you both stand to lose more than you can possibly win_! You doubt it! Well, we shall see if it cannot be made clear to you. Suppose the turn of the coin is against you, and therefore you lose half your property; what is the result? To-morrow you will say, 'What a fool I was to bet! I was a hundred per cent. better off yesterday than I am to-day.' That is precisely the state of the case; you were exactly a hundred per cent. better off. Now, the most feeble intellect will at once perceive that a hundred per cent. can only be balanced by a hundred per cent. If you stood a chance of being that much better off yesterday than you are to-day, to make the chances equal you should have had an equal probability of being a hundred per cent. better off to-day than you were yesterday. That is obvious upon the face of it, since we agree that these questions are, beyond dispute, matters of proportion, and not of actual amounts. Then we will suppose you win the toss, and thus acquire half your friend's property; what happens then? When the morrow arrives you can only say, 'I am fifty per cent. better off to-day than I was yesterday.' That is just it. If you lose, your losses have amounted to as much as you still possess, whilst, if you win, your gains amount only to one-third of what you possess. The plain facts of the case, then, are simply that the moment you and your friend have made the bet referred to, you have considerably reduced the value of your joint possessions. Not in actual amount, it is true, but in actual fact, nevertheless; for whichever way the bet may go, the loss sustained by one represents a future deprivation to that one far greater than the future proportional advantage gained by the other. The mere fact of one having gained precisely as much as the other has lost does not affect the ultimate result in the least. The inconvenience arising from any loss is always greater than the convenience resulting from an equal gain. No man in his senses can be excused for making a bet of this kind, even if one merely considers the injustice inflicted upon himself; whilst in the case of a man who has others dependent upon him, such a proceeding could be nothing short of criminal. If by this time you do not see that gambling, in any form, means a possible loss of more than can be gained, all I can say is that you should turn socialist, being totally unable to protect or even recognise your individual interests. Civilisation is wasted upon you. Properly speaking, if you gamble fairly you are a flat; if you gamble unfairly you are a sharp: one or the other you must be. To be a wise man, and an honest man, you cannot gamble at all. Some of course will meet me half-way, and admitting the truth of all I have put forward, will say, 'Yes, that is all very well, but no gambler ever does stake half his possessions upon a single bet; therefore the proportion which any individual wager bears to his entire property is infinitesimal.' That, again, is perfectly true; but I cannot see nor have I ever met with any one who could show me what difference can possibly exist between a small number of bets for a large amount, and a large number of bets for small amounts. Then comes in the third fallacy I have mentioned. 'The chances,' some will say, 'are bound to equalise themselves in the long run, and then one can neither win nor lose.' Dear, good, simple-minded souls! The _proportion_ of gains to losses, I grant, will become more equalised in an infinite number of bets where the probabilities are always equal; but the amount which may be lost, and the proportion it bears to the belongings of the bettor, may ever _increase_ with the infinity of the bets. Suppose, for instance, two men toss up a coin ten times, and stake a pound upon the result of each toss. We will say that one of them loses nine times, and wins only once. He has lost four-fifths of the amount he has staked in the aggregate; but what does it amount to? Merely eight pounds. But suppose they go on tossing for ten thousand times, and that the same player loses only a hundredth part of the amount he has staked during the whole time, he wins ninety-nine times for every hundred losses. The proportion lost is infinitely less than in the former case, yet the actual amount is one hundred pounds. Let the throws be continued to a million times, and suppose the player loses only a thousandth part of what he has staked from beginning to end, his losses will amount to exactly _one thousand pounds_. To talk of an infinite number of bets equalising the chances is sheer nonsense; it simply equalises the _ratio_ of the gains to the losses. The actual amounts won or lost may increase indefinitely. At the same time the player's original wealth does not vary; and the man who has a thousand pounds may as well lose it in one throw as in a million--better, in fact, as he will waste less time over it. I have tried to make this point somewhat clear, because it is one upon which even the most scientific gamblers--if one may use the term--are more or less befogged. They all think that, if they only keep on long enough, they are sure to win, or at any rate to recoup their losses: but the life of any man is too short to be certain of any such result, even in fair gambling--and most gambling is not fair. The punter, of course, after the manner of his kind, will differ from me in this last statement. He is of opinion that the odds in ordinary betting _are_ fair. Well, if that is so, I should like to know who keeps the bookmakers. I know _I_ don't, and I know the punter _does_. If he is satisfied, so are the 'bookies'; and certainly other people have no cause to complain. The bookmaker, above all people, makes an infinite number of bets, and therefore, theoretically, he should neither win nor lose; but somehow he contrives to 'live and move and have his being.' Those who assist in maintaining him should best know how he manages it, but they don't seem to realise it. The absolute immorality of gambling--the desire to obtain money to which one has no right--in any form is beyond dispute; and the sooner this fact is generally recognised, the better it will be for the world at large. There are some, of course, in whom the passion is ingrained, and from whose natures it can never be wholly eradicated. But everyone should clearly understand that the vice is as reprehensible in proportion to its magnitude as that, for instance, of either lying or stealing. In an earlier chapter of this book I have said that directly a man becomes a gambler he also becomes a person whose honesty is open to suspicion. This may appear to be a somewhat harsh and sweeping assertion, but I maintain that it is absolutely justified by the facts which come under my notice almost daily. As an example of the laxity (to use no stronger term) which gradually undermines the moral nature of the gambler, however conscientious he may originally have been, I may quote the following instance. A few days ago a friend of mine, who belongs to a West End Club, was discussing the subject of gambling with a fellow member. In course of conversation he put the query, 'If you detected a man in cheating at the Club, what should you do?' To this the other replied. 'I should back his play; and then, after the game was over, I should make him give me half his winnings.' This is what gambling had done for a presumably honest 'Club man.' With reference to the numberless systems of which one hears now and then, which are supposed to provide a certain means of enabling any gambler to win, despite the chances and changes of fortune, it may be as well to say a few words. These 'martingales,' as they are called, are always intended for use, more especially in the great gambling-houses of Monte Carlo and elsewhere.[12] Some of them, I should say, are as old as gambling itself; others are of comparatively recent invention; but, one and all, they are systems by means of which any amount of money may be won, and any number of banks may be broken--on paper. There is the trouble, they are useless in practice. They really look so promising, however, that it is very difficult to convince some people of their futility. But the fact remains that these systems have been in operation for generations, and never yet has a gaming establishment been ruined by their aid. This ounce of experimental proof is worth many pounds of reasoning. Sometimes, of course, the martingale will answer its purpose splendidly for a while; but, sooner or later, the inevitable crash comes, when the system breaks down, and the gambler is ruined. The great defect of all these devices is that, although they may promise a constant succession of comparatively small gains, there is always the chance of making a very heavy loss. This chance, of course, appears to the gambler to be so remote as to be unworthy of consideration; but, alas! that apparently remote chance is the rock upon which generations of punters have split. It always turns up eventually, and then the bank recovers all it has lost, and in all probability a great deal more. The simplest form of martingale, and one which is typical of them all, however much more complicated or 'improved' they may be, is the one which consists of the practice of doubling the stake after every loss. For instance, at rouge-et-noir the gambler may stake a sovereign and lose it. The next time he stakes two sovereigns, and, if he loses, his third stake will be four sovereigns. By pursuing this system it is obvious that, whenever he does win, he will gain a sovereign over and above his losses. Having won he will begin again with a sovereign and double his bets each time, until he wins as before. It would seem, then, that there must be a constant influx of sovereigns to the gambler; and so there may be for a time, but it will not last. In fact, he may be ruined at the very first sitting. This is how it happens. The success of the system depends upon the assumption that the chances must, sooner or later, turn in favour of the player; they cannot be against him for ever, so he must win in the end. That is what he thinks. But what he loses sight of is the fact that long spells of ill-luck are particularly common. It is quite an ordinary thing for a player to lose twenty times in succession; and meanwhile the amount of the stakes has been increasing after the manner of the familiar problem in arithmetic, wherein the nails in a horse's shoes play so prominent a part. The fact is, if the player has lost eleven times, his twelfth stake will amount to £2,048. Obviously, then, a very short run of bad fortune will either cause the player to lose all his available money, or bring the stake up to the amount beyond which the bank will not allow any single bet to be made. What becomes of the martingale then? Ask of the winds. And thus it is with all these systems. Their inventors fully believe in them, until they learn from bitter experience that they have overlooked the one weak point, the fallacy underlying the whole operation. Wherever there is a chance of making a number of small gains, there is always a chance of sustaining one great loss, which will swallow up many hundred times the value of any single stake. From this unfortunate circumstance there is no escape, no matter how ingenious the system may be, and notwithstanding any amount of infallibility it may appear to possess. A mathematician would demonstrate the folly of relying upon any martingale, and lay his finger upon the weak points in a few minutes. In short, these things one and all provide a means of winning which is just about as reliable as the advice given by the 'Old Pard' in 'My Sweetheart,' whose dying words were, 'Always copper the Queen on the last turn.' This, of course, was intended to refer to the game of faro. One may suppose that when the Queen remained in the dealing-box until the last turn, his experience had been that it always turned up for the bank, and hence his advice to 'copper.' Another person's experience might have been just the opposite, and in that case the advice would be quite the contrary. Everything of this kind hinges upon superstition, and a belief in good and bad luck. When a 'lucky' gambler wins, his acquaintances express no surprise; they consider his good-fortune to be part and parcel of his nature. When he begins to lose, they suffer not a whit more astonishment, because such luck as his could not possibly last. The theories in each case are utterly at variance with one another, but the absurdity of the position never seems to reveal itself to the gambling intellect. The ultimate fate of the confirmed gambler, however fortunate he may be for a time, has always been, without exception, ruin and destitution. That is the only result ever achieved by the punter in the end. So much, then, for 'fair gambling.' As to the blacker side of the question, as revealed in this book, what can be said of it, or what need be said of it? The reader may draw his own conclusions, which will doubtless vary according to the fact of his being either a sharp or a flat. The sharps will, unquestionably, be among those who are most anxious to see what disclosures are made herein; let us hope they will be satisfied with the thoroughness of the revelations. It would be a pity to disappoint them. On the other hand, the flats will find much food for thought in these pages. They must not run away with the impression that by mastering the details thus put before them they will render themselves proof against sharping. If they imagine anything of the kind they will become simply 'fly flats,' and that will not improve their chances very much if they fall into the hands of an expert. Apart from the impossibility of giving every device employed by all the sharps in existence, it must be remembered that fresh trickeries are continually being invented, though it may be many years before new means of cheating can be devised which will prove so effective as those enjoyed by the sharp at the present day. He is generally equal to the occasion, however, and has his own individual methods of working; very often methods of which even his brother-sharps are ignorant, and which die with him. We can only hope that this book will be the means of opening the eyes of his dupes, and of rendering the chances of success in cheating less than they have been hitherto. But we cannot hope that the sharp will find _no_ dupes in the future; that is altogether too much to expect. As long as the world is principally composed of rogues and fools, so long will there be 'sharps and flats.' 'Surely the pleasure is as great in being cheated as to cheat,' but the profit does not apportion itself in the same manner. The sharp continually profits by his experience, but the flat--never. At any rate, I have done the best I can to put forward a clear account of the methods of swindling at games of chance and skill which are adopted at the present day. At the same time I have tried to indicate the best means of avoiding being cheated. It only remains for the reader to make the best use of the information given. I have no fear that, in writing what I have, I shall be accused by sensible people of assisting those sharps who may not know all that is here published. The resources of these men are always equal to their necessities; they can only cheat, at the worst, and the sharp will always find means of cheating so long as he can find dupes. Besides, this book will tend to make his dupes as wise as himself, and should have the effect of rendering them scarce. Having published such information as I have been able to acquire, I have no intention of relaxing my vigilance in keeping a look-out for fresh developments and new devices. Having put my hand to the plough I shall not turn back; and, after me, I have every reason to believe that my son will continue the work. He has taken the liveliest interest in the production of this book; and, indeed, the whole of the illustrations are by him, with the exception of the frontispiece, which is by my esteemed and talented friend, Alfred Bryan. Here, then, I will leave the work for the present, trusting that I have, in some measure, succeeded in metaphorically flattening the 'sharps' and sharpening the 'flats.' FOOTNOTE: [12] A friend of mine, who has just recently paid a visit to Monte Carlo, describes a method of cheating the bank which came under his notice during his stay in that hallowed spot. He observed, one evening, a man standing by a roulette-table, who persistently put down a five-franc piece upon the winning number, after it had been declared. Of course, the 'croupier' never failed to detect the manoeuvre, and removed the stake. The fact which passed unnoticed, however, was that a gold coin, value twenty francs, lay hidden beneath the silver one as it was put down. Being commanded to take up the five-franc piece, the man did so without hesitation; but the gold piece remained on the table among the other stakes. When the winnings were paid by the bank, that particular coin was claimed by a confederate as being his stake, and was paid accordingly. In roulette, the winning number receives 35 times the amount staked; therefore the conspirators netted 700 francs each time they succeeded in this little operation. I should think the bank would not be long in discovering a robbery of this kind, if it were very frequently perpetrated. POSTSCRIPT Whilst this book is still in the press, an article on 'Science and Monte Carlo,' by Professor Karl Pearson, has appeared in the (monthly) 'Fortnightly Review.' This article deals with the game of roulette, and is one which may be commended to the perusal of all who may have any pet theories in connection with chance and luck. It constitutes, in fact, a very serious impeachment of the validity of all accepted theories of chance; so serious, indeed, that one stands amazed at the discrepancies which are revealed, and their having remained so long unnoticed. There appears to be no way out of the difficulty. Either roulette is not a game of chance, or the doctrines of chance are utterly wrong. It appears from Professor Pearson's investigations, that in a given number of throws the results shown by the "even-money" chances are fairly in accord with the theory as a whole. That is to say, the odd and even numbers, the red and black, turn up respectively in very nearly equal proportions. Also the 'runs' or sequences of odd or even are such as would not give rise to any conflict between theory and practice. But the astounding fact is that the 'runs' or successions of red or black occur in a manner which is utterly at variance with theory. Why this should be so, and why 'red and black' should thus prove to be an exception to the theory, whilst 'odd and even' is not, passes the wit of man to comprehend. In one of the cases quoted by Professor Pearson, 8,178 throws of the roulette-ball are compared with a similar number of tosses of a coin, and both results are checked against the theoretical probabilities. In tossing a coin or throwing a roulette-ball 8,178 times, theory demands that the number of throws which do not result in sequences--that is to say, throws in which head is followed by tail, or red by black-should be 2,044. Those are the probabilities of the case. But the actual results were as follows:-- Theory 2,044 Roulette 2,462 Tossing 2,168 There are too many single throws in each case, but the results given by tossing were much nearer the theoretical proportion than in the case of the roulette. Proceeding a step further, we find that the sequences of two work out thus:-- Theory 1,022 Roulette 945 Tossing 1,056 Here the figures given by roulette are far too small. This is found to be the case with sequences of three and four also. When we come to sequences of five, however, the numbers stand:-- Theory 128 Roulette 135 Tossing 120 In this case, the roulette is nearer the mark than the tossing; and from this point onward through the higher sequences, roulette gives numbers which are far too high. For instance, in sequences of eight, theory says that there should be 16, but roulette gives 30. In sequences of eleven theory says 2, but roulette gives 5. Arriving at sequences of twelve, the figures are:-- Theory 1 Roulette 1 Tossing 1 Here all the results are in accord. This is only one instance out of several recorded by Professor Pearson; in every case the results being similar. That only one instance of such abnormal variation should occur is, theoretically, well nigh impossible; but that there should be three or four such cases in the course of a single twelvemonth is nothing short of miraculous. The chances against the occurrence of such events are enormous; and yet every case investigated shows the same kind of result. Truly this must be another example of the malignity of matter. The practical outcome of these investigations is to emphasise the utter futility of any scheme of winning at roulette based upon the law of averages or the doctrines of chance. It is more than likely, in my opinion, that further analysis of the records of Monte Carlo would reveal similar discrepancies in other departments of the game. Personally, I fail to see how the devotees of the 'Higher Statistics' will contrive to meet the difficulty here presented. Why roulette should obey the laws of chance in some respects and not in others, is incomprehensible from any point of view whatever. One is driven to the conclusion that human experience and human statistics are upon too limited a scale to form a sufficient basis upon which to found either the proof or disproof of any universal theory. The only refuge appears to be that, given eternity, all events, however improbable, are possible. It is to be hoped that Professor Pearson will find an opportunity of continuing his researches in this direction, for the subject promises to be one of exceeding interest. Of course, it may be objected that the few instances given are insufficient to affect the theory materially; but, as the Professor says of one of his instances, had roulette been played constantly on this earth, from the earliest geological times to the present day, such an event might be expected to happen only once. Those who believe that an infinite number of bets, where the chances are fair and equal, can result in neither loss nor gain, should ponder this carefully. If the doctrines of chance can fail in one case, they can fail in others. At best, they are but a broken reed, and those who trust to them should beware the risk that is thereby entailed. Above all, the punter should bear in mind that, whatever theory may say or practice apparently demonstrate, the fact that any given event has happened so many times in succession makes not the slightest particle of difference to its chances of happening again. If one tossed a coin a hundred times, and it turned up 'head' every time, that would not in any way lessen its chance of turning up the same way at the next throw. The figures given in the article above referred to are neither more nor less than an illustration of this very palpable truth, extraordinary as they undoubtedly are when viewed in the light of theory. PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Author quoted some pamphlets and deliberately kept their spelling and punctuation errors; those have not been changed here. Other punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling inconsistencies have been standardized when a clear preference was used in this book, and left unchanged otherwise. 
47237	----	of the Digital Library@Villanova University (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) 128 Pages.] Published Semi-Monthly. [Complete. BEADLE'S [Illustration: DIME NOVELS UNITED STATES OF AMERICA ONE DIME] No. 21. The Choicest Works of the Most Popular Authors. SYBIL CHASE; OR, THE VALLEY RANCHE. BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. Author of "Malaeska," "Fashion and Famine," Etc., Etc. New-York and London: BEADLE AND COMPANY, 141 WILLIAM ST. N. Y. A. Williams & Co., 100 Wash. St., Boston Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1861, by BEADLE AND COMPANY, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York. AN ENTICING STORY. Beadle's Dime Novels Number 22. Will Issue Wednesday, May First, THE MAID OF ESOPUS; OR, THE TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS OF THE REVOLUTION. BY N. C. IRON. The era of the American Revolution is so fraught with romance that it ever will prove a chosen one to novelists. In this present instance the author has selected unusually stirring historic incidents, around whose facts he has woven a most beautiful and enticing story of love, devotion and patriotism. Such tales fire the love of our country in the hearts of all, old and young; while they fill, in the highest degree, the love for romance, which _all persons_ possess. The "Maid of Esopus" is a _purely historical_ fiction, written with a thorough knowledge of the men and women of those times which truly tried and tempered souls, and embodies all the interest which attaches to that most eventful era. It will be found not only unexceptionable as a novel, but _unusually_ good in its literary merits, as well as intensely exciting and absorbing in its narrative. It will become a household favorite. For Sale by all News Dealers. BEADLE AND COMPANY, Publishers, 141 William St., New York. [Illustration: THE VALLEY RANCHE.] SYBIL CHASE; OR, THE VALLEY RANCHE. A TALE OF CALIFORNIA LIFE. BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. [Illustration] NEW YORK AND LONDON: BEADLE AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, 141 WILLIAM ST., CORNER OF FULTON, N. Y. 44 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON. Entered according to Act of Congress, In the Year 1861, by BEADLE AND COMPANY, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. THE VALLEY RANCHE. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE BRIDLE-PATH. CHAPTER II. A FACE FROM THE PAST. CHAPTER III. HUSBAND AND WIFE. CHAPTER IV. TWO CONFEDERATES, IN COUNCIL. CHAPTER V. A SHORT RIDE AND A LONG WALK. CHAPTER VI. THE WELCOME THAT AWAITS RALPH HINCHLEY. CHAPTER VII. ARRIVAL OF THE GUEST. CHAPTER VIII. THE GAMBLER'S FATE. CHAPTER IX. A CANTER AND A FALL. CHAPTER X. THE GAME AT CHESS. CHAPTER XI. THE FEMALE IAGO. CHAPTER XII. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. CHAPTER XIII. HIGHCLIFF. CHAPTER XIV. THE JAIL. CHAPTER XV. THE DUEL. CHAPTER XVI. THE BATTERY. CHAPTER XVII. THE VALLEY RANCHE. CHAPTER I. THE BRIDLE-PATH. A small valley cutting through a range of mountains in California--a green oasis that looked strange and picturesque in the midst of that savage scenery. The cliffs rose in a solid wall on one side to the height of many hundred feet. Dwarfed fir-trees and dead cedars were scattered along the summit, stretching up their gaunt limbs and adding to the lonely grandeur of the scene. Great masses of broken rocks, which, in some conflict of the elements, had been wrenched from their bed, projected from the rifted precipices and lay in great moss-covered boulders in the lap of the valley. On the southeastern side a break in the heart of the cliffs was covered with thrifty verdure, and, over the rocks that obstructed it, a mountain torrent rushed thundering into the valley, dividing that cradle of verdure in the middle, and abruptly disappearing through another gorge, breaking to the open country somewhat lower down, where it plunged over a second precipice with the sound of distant artillery. Just above the spot where this mountain stream cut the valley in twain, a collection of huts, tents and rickety frame houses composed one of those new villages that are so often found in a frontier country, and half a mile above stood a small ranche, with its long, low-roofed dwelling half buried in heavy vines that clambered up the rude cedar pillars of the veranda, and crept in leafy masses along the roof. Beyond this, great oaks sheltered the dwelling, and the precipice that loomed behind it was broken with rifts of verdure, which saved this portion of the valley from the savage aspect of the mountains lower down. The sunset was streaming over this picturesque spot; great masses of gorgeous clouds, piled up in the west, were casting their glory down the valley, turning the waters to gold, and, flashing against the metallic sides of the mountains, changed them into rifts and ledges of solid gems. Standing upon the rustic veranda, and looking down over the beautiful valley dotted with tents and picturesque cabins, the waters singing pleasantly, the evening wind fluttering the greenness of the trees, that mountain pass appeared so tranquil and quiet, a stranger could hardly have believed the repose only an occasional thing. In truth, it is the heavenly aspect of the valley that I have given you, and that was truly beautiful. Only a few miles off, still higher up among the rugged mountains, the "gold diggings" commenced, and from this point, every Saturday night of that beautiful summer, came down crowds of wild, reckless men with their bowie-knives, revolvers, and the gold-dust which soon changed hands either at the liquor-bar, set up in some log-cabin, or the gambling-table, established in an opposite shanty. Before the gold excitement, that pretty ranche had been the abode of a quiet family, whose cattle were fed on the luxuriant herbage of the valley; but the reckless adventurers that crowded there soon drove the household into less turbulent quarters, and the dwelling changed its occupants many times. Thus its quiet walls soon became accustomed to scenes of strife and dissipation, which destroyed its respectable, home-like appearance entirely; and the place that had originally been a pleasing feature in the valley shared the general aspect of the neighborhood. Still, nature will assert her rights; and, amid the wild riot of the valley, vines grew luxuriantly as ever, flowers blossomed in the turf, and the water fall sounded loud and clear above the shouts of savage men, however turbulently they might be raised. By one of the upper windows of this dwelling stood a woman, leaning idly against the rude sill and looking down the sweep of the valley. Hers was no attitude of expectation; there was no eagerness in the great eyes that wandered slowly from one object to another, nor did the glance betray any enjoyment of the beautiful scene. The woman was evidently lost in deep and melancholy thought; each moment the lines about her mouth deepened, and the cold sadness of the eyes settled into a hard, bitter expression which gave something almost repulsive to the whole face. She looked very unlike the sort of woman one would have expected to find in that solitary place. She was tall and slender, and her form would have appeared almost fragile had it not been for a certain flexibility and force visible in every line even in that attitude of repose. She was young still; but from her face it would have been impossible to guess at her real age. At one moment it looked fairly girlish; the next the shadow of some heavy thought swept across it and appeared to accomplish the work of years upon the features. It was evident that her fate had been very different from that which met most of the women who followed husbands and fortune into the Eldorado of the New World. The hand which lay upon the window-frame was delicate and white; the colorless pallor of the cheek bore no evidence of hardship or exposure. She was plainly dressed, but her garments were made in a picturesque fashion, and the few ornaments she wore were heavy and rich. Her long, golden hair was brushed smoothly back from her forehead and gathered in shining bands at the back of her head, and made the chief beauty of her person. Only those who have seen the tress of Lucretia Borgia's hair, preserved still in a foreign gallery, can form any idea of the peculiar color which I desire to describe. I was wrong to call it golden; it was too pale for that. In the shadow it had the colorless tint one seldom sees, except in the locks of very young children; but when she moved, so that the sun struck its loose ripples, it flashed out so brightly that it crowned her forehead like a halo. The sunset deepened, but still the lady remained leaning out of the window and giving herself up to that gloomy meditation, which sometimes seemed to deepen into absolute pain. Suddenly a new object at the upper end of the valley attracted her attention, and she gazed with more eagerness than she had before manifested. Leading by the place where the mountain torrent had cleft its way through the rocks, there ran a bridle-path, worn by the miners' feet, from the gold diggings down the valley. It was toward that spot the lady's eyes were directed, as a small cavalcade wound slowly down the rocky path and took the grassy plain which led toward the ranche. An expression of displeasure disturbed the stillness of the woman's face. She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked eagerly toward the advancing group; but at that distance it was impossible to distinguish more than that it consisted of three men mounted on mules, followed by several persons on foot. She moved quickly from the window and passed into another room; in a moment she returned, carrying a spyglass which she directed toward the procession. After the first glance she drew a heavy breath and muttered: "It is not they! I shall have an hour more to myself, at all events." She still continued to watch the slowly approaching group, and saw that one of the equestrians was supported in his saddle by two of the guides, while another led the mule by the bridle. The rider had evidently met with some accident on the road. Slowly the party moved on; they were in recognizable distance from the house; by the aid of her glass, the lady could distinguish the lineaments of each face. Suddenly she grasped the glass hard in both hands and looked steadily at the injured man. A great change passed over her; she trembled violently and her face grew ashen. Her fingers shook so that she was obliged to support the glass against the window-sill. At length her hands fell to her side and a cry broke from her lips like the angry moan of some wounded animal. "Oh! I must be mad!" she exclaimed. "This can not be--I fancied it! This is one of my wild dreams!" With a powerful effort she controlled herself sufficiently to raise the glass once more. Nearer and nearer the group advanced; her eyes were fastened upon it with a look of unutterable fear and agony. "Laurence!" she exclaimed again; "Laurence in this place! Oh! I shall go mad! They are coming to the house--they mean to spend the night here!" The words broke unconsciously from her lips; all the while her strained gaze was fastened upon the group. "He has been hurt--he has fainted!" She dropped the glass and started to her full height, striking her forehead violently with her clenched hand, as if searching for some plan or device, which, in her agitation and terror, she could not find. "Fool!" she muttered, bitterly. "Is this your strength? Does it desert you now?" She walked hurriedly up and down the room, flinging her arms about, so overcome that any thing like connected thought was impossible. "He must not see me--I would rather be hurled over the precipice! He must not stay here. Oh! mercy--mercy! if Philip should come home!" She cast one more feverish glance through the window and hurried out of the room, nerved to action by the near approach of pain and danger. But directly she came back again, looking wild and frightened, like a bird coming back to the branch where it has been wounded. She took up the glass again, steadied it firmly. She was evidently doubtful still if she had seen aright. CHAPTER II. A FACE FROM THE PAST. The party of strangers were slowly winding their way across the plain, and had arrived within a short distance of the house. The woman gazed on them through her glass till the man supported on his mule became quite visible to the naked eye; she then dropped her hand heavily, and drew a deep breath. "How white he is! There has been violence. He has fainted. See how his head falls on the guide's shoulder," she murmured, sweeping a hand across her eyes as if some dimness had come over them. The lady was quite alone in her dwelling. The Indian women who acted as the household servants had gone to the hills in search of berries, and thus she was compelled to descend and open the door, when a summons was made by the party whose approach had given her so much anxiety. At another time, knowing, as she did, the lawless nature of the population around, she would have allowed the besiegers to knock unanswered, and go away at their leisure; but now she descended the stairs, trembling violently as she went. She had thrown a black silk scarf over her head, thus giving her dress a Spanish effect, and, unclosing the door, stood framed in the opening--and a more remarkable picture was never presented in the wilderness of any country. It was not that the woman was so beautiful, in fact, but the color of her hair and the wild anxiety in her eyes gave that to her person which no artist could ever have caught. The guide, who had come in advance of his party, stepped back in amazement as she presented herself, for it was seldom that the people of the region had obtained a glimpse of her person, and her presence took him by surprise. The party were now within a few minutes' ride of the ranche, and a weary, travel-soiled band it was. The mules were stained far above their fetlocks with yellow mud, through which they had floundered all day long; and the travelers, in their slouched hats, rude, blue flannel shirts, and heavy boots, engulfing the nether garments to the knees, were liberally bespattered with the same compound. The mules were huddled close together, for one of the riders was supporting the wounded man on his saddle; the other had dismounted when the guide left him, and was leading the sick man's mule, while his own tired beast followed submissively in the wake of the party. Before the guide had recovered from his astonishment sufficiently to address the lady, who seemed perfectly unconscious of his presence, the party halted in front of the veranda. The two gentlemen sprung forward to assist their companion, who lay helpless in his saddle, his head falling upon the shoulder of the man that supported him. With the assistance of the guides he was removed from the mule and carried up the steps of the veranda. They laid him upon a bench under the windows, then the two companions of the insensible man turned toward the lady. She had not stirred; her eyes were fastened upon the motionless figure over which the guides were bending with rough solicitude; the strained, eager look in her face seemed to demand an explanation which her lips had no power to frame. The two gentlemen moved toward her, struck, even in that moment of anxiety, by her appearance, and saluted her with the courtesy which proved their station and high-breeding. "We owe you a thousand apologies, madam," said the foremost, "for this abrupt proceeding; but our friend here had a hurt." She started at his words, instinctively drew the folds of the mantle more closely about her face, and said, quickly: "No apology is necessary; in this region strangers consider themselves at home in every house." "I thought you'd say so, ma'am," said one of the guides, approaching and looking curiously at her. "I s'pose Mr. Yates ain't to hum." "No; I believe he is at the mines," she answered; then added quickly, pointing to the injured man: "Has he fainted?" "You see he got a fall," answered the guide, before either of the gentlemen could speak, "a-coming over that rough pass on the mountain; but I think he's only stunted like." "I am afraid his arm is broken," said the elder gentleman. The lady hurried toward the injured man; her face was turned away, so that none of the party could see how ghastly it became. She bent over the still form, dextrously cut open the sleeve of his coat with a pair of scissors which she drew from her pocket, and took the injured limb between her trembling hands. "It is only a sprain," she said; "the agony and the shock have been too much for him." "He bore it very well at first," said the gentleman who had followed her; "but fainted quite suddenly, just as we got down into the valley." The lady made him no answer; she directed the guides where to find water and spirits. Going into the house herself, she brought out a large napkin, which she saturated with water, and bound upon the wounded arm. While she was bending over him, the man gave signs of returning consciousness. She started back, and shrouded her face completely in the mantle. "Laurence," called one of his friends, stooping over him, "are you better?" There was a faint murmur; the injured man raised his head, but it sunk back, and he was insensible again. "Is there no physician near?" demanded the gentleman. "I am very anxious. He is not strong, like the rest of us." "You will find one at Wilson's ranche," replied the lady. "How far is that?" "Good seven miles," answered the guide. "It will take so long to get him here," exclaimed the first speaker. "Your best way will be to go there," observed the lady, coldly. The whole party turned toward her in astonishment; hospitality is the chief virtue of wild countries, and it was an unparalleled thing in the experience of those old guides, to hear a woman so coolly turning a stranger, sick or injured, from her door. "My dear madam," pleaded the gentleman, "he can not ride; it will be dangerous--death, perhaps." "He will come to himself, shortly," she answered. "I assure you I have proposed the best mode. I do not mean it unkindly. Heaven knows how sorry I am." The eldest guide absolutely whistled, and the men stared at each other, while she busied herself over Laurence, although her whole frame shook so violently that she could scarcely stand. "Can't you give us a bed for our friend?" asked the gentleman. "The rest of us will sleep anywhere, or go away altogether." "No--no," she replied, hastily; "you must ride on, I say." "Wal, I'm shot if ever I heerd the beat of that!" muttered a guide. "The road from here is very good," she continued; "your friend will suffer little; these men can easily make a litter and carry him." "He's coming to," whispered the other gentleman. The woman stepped quickly back, and when she saw the injured man open his eyes, retreated into the room. "How are you now, Laurence?" asked his friends, bending over him. "Better, I think; I am dizzy, but my arm isn't so very painful. Did I faint?" While they answered his questions, the guides held a grumbling consultation, and finally summoned the elder gentleman to the conference. "What'll we do?" they asked. "It'll be pitch dark afore long, and that fellar can't set his horse." "I will speak to the lady again," he answered. "I am sure she can not turn us out." "It's a queer house," said the head guide, "and that's the fact. There ain't a place in Californy I wouldn't ruther stop at." "I s'pose that's Yates's wife," said the man who had first reached the house. "As often as I've passed here, I never seed her afore." "'Tisn't often she shows herself," replied the leader. "But will you go and speak to her?" he added, turning to the gentleman. "Certainly; of course she will permit us to stay." He went into the house, but the lady was not visible. He opened the door of an inner room, and there she stood, wringing her hands in wild distress. She turned at the sound of his footstep, and demanded, angrily: "What do you wish more? I have done all that I can for your friend." "I have come to urge you to give us one night's lodging," he said; "it seems impossible for us to go on--" "You must," she said, interrupting him passionately; "you must!" "This is very singular," he said, so startled by her manner that he was almost inclined to believe her insane. "In the name of humanity, I ask--" She stopped him with an impatient gesture, went close to him, and grasped his arm. "I tell you," she whispered, "this place is not safe for you; get on toward Wilson's as fast as your mules can carry you." "Surely you can not mean--" "No matter what! Sir, I ask you, for my sake, a poor, defenseless woman, to go! I have done all for your friend that is in my power; you only endanger his life--mine too, by staying here." He bowed, stupefied by her words. "Certainly," he said; "after that I can not urge you." "I knew you would not; only go--don't wait an instant!" She spoke with feverish haste, and her whole appearance was that of a person driven to the verge of distraction by fear and anxiety. "I can give you food," she added, "or spirits--" "Thank you; we have every thing with us that will be necessary." "Then go! Your road leads by the river--keep that napkin about his arm wet with water, and he will do very well." She motioned him away with wild energy. He saw the insane dread in her eyes, left the room without a word, and joined the party upon the veranda. "Do we stay?" demanded the guides. The gentleman shook his head, and, without waiting to hear their angry expostulations, moved toward his friend. Laurence was sitting up, and, although still very pale, looked stronger and greatly recovered. "Could you ride a few miles further, Ned?" he asked. "Possibly; but can't we stay here?" "No--no; there's a deuced mystery about the whole matter! But we must start, or I believe that woman will go crazy; don't let's wait a moment, if you can manage to get on to your mule." The lady's strange anxiety had infected him; he felt an unaccountable eagerness to leave that quiet old house far behind, and would rather have spent the whole night in the woods than again encounter the frenzied pleading of her eyes. In a few moments, their preparations were concluded. Laurence was seated upon his mule in the most commodious manner that could be devised, and the party rode slowly off down the valley, the guides looking back with muttered execrations as long as the old house was in sight. From an upper window the woman watched them start, shivering and white, with her hands pressed hard against her lips to keep back the moans that shuddered from her heart. As the cavalcade reached a turn in the road, and began to disappear from her sight, she extended her arms with a low cry: "Laurence! Laurence!" The words were pronounced in a whisper, but to her affrighted senses they sounded strangely clear. She cowered into a seat, and covered her face with her hands. No tears fell from her eyes; she could not even weep--could only sit there, trembling at every sound, looking eagerly out to be certain that the travelers had indeed disappeared, then glancing up the valley, as if expecting each moment to see some one approach by the path which led from the mountains. CHAPTER III. HUSBAND AND WIFE. Night had come on; the full moon was up, filling the valley with a flood of radiance and lending a mysterious beauty to the scene. As the silver beams shot against the mountain sides, the streaks of quartz and glittering minerals emitted long rays of light that shone so brilliantly the cliffs seemed encircled with flame. Above rose the jagged trunks of the fir-trees, looking like wierd shapes holding counsel upon the summit of the peaks. At length sounds from without broke the stillness--the tramp of horses, the loud, reckless conversation of coarse men. The watcher in that room only cowered lower into her seat, as if those tones had deprived her of the last gleam of strength which had been her support during the previous hours. There were voices from the room beneath--drinking songs chanted with such energy that the words were distinctly audible where she sat--the ring of glasses, rude toasts and the tumult in which heedless, hardened men are wont to indulge in the midst of a bacchanalian revel. Very soon there was a step upon the stairs, which made the woman spring to her feet and throw aside the mantle in which she had been shrouding her face. The door was pushed open and a man entered carrying a candle, which flared uncertainly in the draught from the passage. He did not at first perceive her, and called angrily: "Sybil! Sybil! where the deuce are you, I say?" "I am here," she replied, with a coldness and composure of which she had appeared incapable a moment before. "What do you want of me?" "What is a man likely to want when he comes home tired and hungry, I should like to know?" "The women are getting supper; it will be ready very soon." "And what are you doing up here in the dark?" "This is the room where I usually sit, and it certainly is not dark," she replied, quietly as before, although her hands trembled nervously, and the expression of her eyes betrayed something akin to absolute fear. "Sitting in the moonlight like a school-girl!" he sneered. "I should think you might have got over your romance by this time." She did not answer; he approached, and held the light close to her face, with a sneering laugh. "Who has been here to-day?" he asked. "Now, don't tell that lie you have ready on your lips. I know there was a party of men here about sunset." "Some people who wished to stay all night," she replied. "Why didn't you keep them?" "I did not suppose you would like it, as I knew you would be back with a party from the mines." "How innocent she is!" he exclaimed, laughing again. "By the powers, Sybil, I have made a mistake! I ought to have put you on the stage. That sort of talent would have made a fortune for us both." "It is not too late," she said, with a certain eagerness. "Oh, isn't it? Well, we can talk about that some other time. Just now I want to know what brought that Laurence here?" She tried to look at him with astonishment, but, actress as she was, her craft failed for once; the lids drooped over her eyes and her lips refused to utter the words she struggled to force upon them. "Now stop that," said he. "Just tell the truth, or I'll follow him, and he shall have a taste of my bowie-knife before morning. What did he want? Make a short story of it, for I am hungry." "He had been traveling among the mountains with some friends, and got hurt. They wanted to stay here, but I would not keep them and they went away." "So far so good! You was afraid I should kill him, eh?" "Yes," she answered; "but more afraid that he would recognize me." "Then you didn't speak to him?" "No; he had fainted. I was not likely to make myself known to any of my former friends," she added, bitterly. "As Phil Yates the gambler's wife? No, I suppose not. Well, he is gone, so let the matter rest. Come, you're a rather good girl. I want you to dress yourself and come down to supper--look your prettiest." "Who is there?" "Oh, mostly our set of fellows." "Then I shall not go down." "Indeed! I haven't time to make a scene. There are a couple of young chaps fresh from the mines with lots of gold-dust. Now will you come?" "Will you promise to conduct yourselves like men?" "Upon my word, she is making terms! Yes, I will. I tell you, Sybil, the gold we win from them to-night will help to shorten your stay here. Think of that, and come." "I don't wish any supper. I will come down afterward." "So be it. Put on the pink dress with all those flounces, that I brought you from San Francisco, and look young, and do try and be handsome again." "Shall we be able to go from here soon, Philip?" she asked. "Not a day before I please," he replied, irritated by the question. "Show any anxiety, and you shall spend your life here. I promise you it shall not be a pleasant one." "Have I complained?" she demanded, sinking her voice to a tone of singular sweetness. "Have I not clung to you as few women would have done? Can you blame me for longing to have another home than this?" "It is natural enough; but patience, Sybil, patience." "I have had patience," she muttered, while a dangerous light shot into her eyes, "so long--so long!" "You are a great woman, Sybil, I always admit that; but you know very well that if you left me I should have hunted you like a wolf--aha! my bird!" The gleam in her eyes died into a look of cold terror; she extended her hand for the light, saying: "Go down to your guests. I will follow very soon." He gave her the candle, laughing again in that mocking way. "Poor Sybil!" he said. "It is hard to have old memories stirred up as they have come upon you this evening." "Stop!" she said, with a quiet resolution. "You shall not worry my life out, Philip Yates! You know there is a point beyond which I will not bear a word or look. Reach it, and though you murdered me, I would desert you!" He gave her a glance of careless admiration, but did not annoy her further. Yates was a remarkable-looking man as he stood there in his rough mountain dress, which was sufficiently picturesque in effect to atone for the coarseness of its materials and make. He could not have been over thirty-five--very possibly not so much; but a life of reckless dissipation had long ago worn the youth out from his face. He had once been handsome--was so still, in spite of his heavy, undressed beard and the desperate expression of his features. He was tall and remarkably well formed, with sinewy limbs and a full, broad chest. The exposure and action which he had experienced in that wild California existence had increased his manly beauty in strength and proportion, to make amends for sweeping the delicacy and refinement from his face. The eyes were gray, not prominent, usually half vailed by the lids, with a cold, quiet expression which could warm into eagerness or flame with passion, but were utterly incapable of any thing like softness or sensibility. The lower part of the face was hidden by the flowing beard of a rich chestnut brown; but the massive contour of the under jaw, the firm-set mouth, betrayed enough to have justified a physiognomist in ascribing to him the hard, reckless character which in reality belonged to him. Without again addressing his wife, he left the room. She heard him whistling an opera air--some reminiscence of the old life--as he descended the stairs, and the notes carried her back to the pleasant existence which had been hers for a season, and from which that man had so ruthlessly dragged her. The light which kindled in her eyes was ominous; the expression of her face, could he have seen it, might have awakened a deeper distrust in his mind than had ever before troubled him. It would have justified a fear for his personal safety. There was all that and more in the single glance which she cast into the gloom. No murmur escaped her; she did not even sigh, as a weaker or gentler woman would have done; but, knowing her destiny, looked it full in the face and went forward to meet it without a tear! She took up the candle and passed into her chamber, proceeding to change her dress and follow her husband's commands in the adornment of her person. She knew very well what was required of her--a part that she had often before performed at his bidding, and one from which her moral sensibilities did not always shrink. This woman had simply to make herself pleasant and agreeable--to sit by and converse sweetly while those two strangers were cheated of their hard-earned gold at a card-table. She was to bewilder them by her smiles and conversation--nothing more; and, as I have said, she did not always shrink from this _rôle_. Sybil Yates was not a good woman, and yet there was something in her nature which, under other training and circumstances, might have dignified her into a very different person. Her phrenological developments would have puzzled the most devoted lover of that unsatisfactory science. She was capable of great endurance and self-sacrifice, not only to secure her own interests, but she was earnest in the service of any one for whom she felt affection or attachment. Her nature was essentially reticent and secretive; she had a faculty which few women possess, that of waiting patiently and for a long time, in order to attain any object which fastened itself on her desire. But it is useless attempting any description of the woman's character. It will best develop itself in the course of this narrative, in which it was her fate to act a prominent part. That she must have loathed the life to which she found herself condemned is certain. Sybil's heart was more depraved than her intellect or her moral character, and any thing like coarseness or open vice was essentially distasteful to her. It was this womanly refinement which had made the presence of her husband a torment. Probably hatred of this man had grown to be one of the strongest feelings in her nature; yet she was kind and forbearing--every thing that even a good and affectionate wife could have been in her domestic life. True, she stood in mortal terror of him--base, physical terror, for he had become degraded beyond belief, and had more than once raised his hand against her in his drunken wrath. Still she clung to him--put her old life resolutely aside, and looked only forward to the time when he would take her from that dreary wilderness and go out into the world where she had first keenly enjoyed the sweets of refined life. She had fine talents, a splendid education, and was well endowed for any station in which destiny could have placed her. Let me do her the justice to acknowledge that under better influences she would probably have been simply a far-sighted, diplomatic woman of the world, reducing all about her to obedience by the incomprehensible fascination which made all men who approached her admirers or slaves. Satisfied with her position and influence, the under depths of her nature would have been so little excited, that in all probability she herself would have been forever unconscious of the dark traits which lay hidden in her restless heart. But it was useless to speculate upon what she might have been. She was--alas! for her--Philip Yates's wife, far from any who could have aided her, even if she would have permitted the slightest interposition in her fate. Doomed to obey his commands, she was apparently ready enough to gratify him, and managed, even in that secluded spot, to win all the pleasure and cheerfulness out of her life which it was possible to obtain. She dressed herself, according to her promise. When her toilet was completed, it was astonishing to see how brilliantly she came out of the cloud which had appeared to envelop her. Her face caught its most girlish expression--the large eyes grew luminous--the smile about her mouth was playful and sweet. Those tresses of billowy hair, woven in luxuriant braids back of her head, would of themselves have relieved her face from any charge of plainness. This woman put out her candle and turned to the window. For many moments she stood looking out into the glorious night and watching every effect with the sensations an artist could have understood. Then, in spite of herself, back into the past fled her soul, and the chill waves of memory rushed over her. She flung her white arms aloft, and cried out in her pain. Once more that man's name died on her lips in a passionate echo, which frightened even herself: "Laurence! Laurence!" A burst of merriment from below recalled her to the present, and the hard destiny which lay before her. With the strong self-command acquired in her strange life, she banished from her features every trace of care; the soft light crept into her eyes again, the pleasant smile settled upon her lips. She took from the table a thin blue scarf, and, flinging it gracefully over her shoulders, as we see drapery in Guido's pictures, passed down stairs toward the room where her husband and his guests were seated, already, as she could detect by the broken words which reached her ear, occupied with the fatal games which had driven so many men to ruin within those very walls. CHAPTER IV. TWO CONFEDERATES, IN COUNCIL. Philip Yates and his wife were sitting upon the veranda of their house one pleasant evening, some time after the events described in the last chapter. He was in unusually good humor and fine spirits that night. Probably, during the past weeks, his successes had been numerous; and however much his wife might have deplored the cause had she been a woman to feel the sin and degradation, she could but have congratulated herself upon the effect which it produced. He was smoking and talking at intervals to Sybil, who sat in a low chair at a little distance, looking down the valley with the earnest, absent gaze habitual with her. "Sing me something, Sybil," he said, at last; "it's deuced dull sitting here alone. I can't see what keeps Tom." "Do you expect him back to-night?" she asked, indifferently, more as if fearful of offending him by her silence than from any desire of her own for conversation. "I did, but it is growing so late I begin to think he won't come; it's always the way if one wants a man." "You have no business on hand?" "Not to-night; I need him for that very reason. What's the use of a man's smoking his cigar and drinking his glass all alone." Sybil smiled, not bitterly even, with a sort of careless scorn, which would have irritated the man had he seen it--but her face was partially turned away; he saw only the outlines of her colorless cheek, which took a singular grace and softness in the moonlight. "Are you going to sing?" he asked, after a moment's silence, broken only by a malediction upon his cigar. "How many times must one ask you to do a thing before you condescend to pay attention?" She made no answer, but began at once a Spanish song, in a powerful contralto voice, which rung pleasantly through the stillness, as if a score of birds in the neighboring almond thicket had been awakened by the beauty of the night, and were joining their notes in a delicious harmony. When the song was finished she began another without waiting for him to speak, and for a full half hour she continued her efforts to amuse him, without the slightest appearance of distaste or weariness. Suddenly, another sound came up through the night--the tread of heavy feet and voices, evidently approaching the house. "Hush!" said Yates, quickly. "Somebody is coming." Sybil paused, with the words unfinished upon her lips, and both listened intently. "It must be Tom," exclaimed Philip; "nobody but he ever whistles like that." He listened for an instant longer, then called out: "Hello, I say!" The echo came back distinctly, then a human voice answered the salutation. "It is Tom," Yates said. "I hope to the Lord there's somebody with him. I'm frantic to be at work." Just then several figures became visible in a turn of the path; Yates went down the steps and walked forward to meet them, while Sybil leaned her cheek against the low railing and looked quietly down, humming fragments of the air which her husband had so unceremoniously interrupted. Yates joined the party, and they stood for a few moments in conversation; then the whole group moved toward the house, Sybil watching them still with that careless yet singular expression which few men could look upon without emotion. There was no one with the new-comer, except two or three of the men who were employed by Yates and his friend about the place, more probably by way of making a security of numbers than from any actual necessity that existed for their services. These men passed toward another entrance, while Yates and his companion ascended the steps of the veranda. "Good evening, Mrs. Yates," the man called out. She answered his greeting civilly enough, but without changing her attitude, and began even whispering the pretty song, as if she found something soothing in the simple words. "You haven't had any supper, Tom?" Yates asked. "None, and I am hungry as a wolf." Yates went to the house door and called vigorously: "Yuba! Yuba! you old fool, get supper ready at once." When an answering cry assured him that his summons had been heard and would receive attention, he brought from the hall a japan tray, upon which were placed several bottles and glasses. "You may as well wet your throat, Tom, while you're waiting for supper; it's deuced warm to-night." The man assented with a guttural laugh, the two seated themselves near the table on which Yates had placed the waiter, and filled their glasses, clashing them against each other. "Will you have a little wine, Mrs. Yates?" asked the stranger. "I know how you like it mixed." But she declined the offer, leaned her head still lower upon the railing, and looked away across the valley where the moonlight played, far off in the very center of the flat, lying so unbroken and silvery that it had the effect of a small lake hidden among the great trees and luxuriant vines. As the two men sat opposite each other, tilted back in their great wicker-chairs, it was curious to notice the resemblance between them. They might have been taken for twin brothers, yet it was one of those accidental likenesses which one occasionally sees in all countries. There was no tie of blood between them, or any reason for this look of consanguinity. The chances of their reckless lives had thrown them together, a similarity of tastes and a series of mutual benefits preserved the intimacy which had sprung up among the rank weeds of human life. Dickinson had not the claims to manly beauty which Yates had once possessed, yet his features bore the same type of countenance on a larger, coarser scale; but in form or movement they were so much alike, that when their backs were turned, it would have puzzled even a person who knew them well to have told one from the other. While they conversed, Sybil did not appear to listen, yet not a word escaped her vigilant ear, and sometimes she turned her face partially, and flashed toward them that strange look which so entirely changed the expression of her countenance. "But I haven't heard what kept you all this while up at the diggings," Yates was saying, as Sybil turned again toward the table. "I know you haven't been at work--you're too lazy for that, and too wise; fools work, and cute men, like you and I, catch gold easier." Dickinson laughed, and pulled out an old wallet, rattled the coins which it contained, and held up to view a shot-bag, apparently containing a large quantity of gold dust. "All from a quiet game under a clump of myrtle bushes," he said, with another laugh. "But that hasn't kept you all this time." "No; I was over to Sancher's ranche. I knew there was nothing going on here, and we are apt to get cross when it is stupid--eh, Mrs. Yates?" "Did you speak?" she asked, as if suddenly aroused by his voice. "I say Phil and I are not two angels for temper in dull times; do you think so?" "Oh, yes," she answered, good-naturedly enough; "fallen angels, you know, twice degraded." The men laughed heartily, and Dickinson gave her a glance of honest admiration; she was evidently a woman for whom he felt sincere respect--the sentiment which a dull rogue has for a clear-headed, acute person whom he is willing to acknowledge as his superior. "Ah, it's of no use to clash tongues with you," he said. "I learned that a great while ago." Sybil rose from her seat, and walked slowly down the veranda toward the door, paused an instant, flung back some mocking speech in answer to his words and Philip's laugh, and passed into the house. "That's a wonderful woman!" exclaimed Dickinson, when she had disappeared through the doorway. "I tell you what, Phil, there ain't three men in California with a head-piece equal to that on her handsome shoulders." "She's well enough," replied Yates, carelessly; "it would be odd if she hadn't learned a few things since the time she married me, and took to life." "You be blessed!" retorted Tom. "Her head is a deuced sight longer and clearer than yours. I tell you, a keen woman like that is more than a match for any man." "She had better not try any thing of that sort with me!" exclaimed Yates, sullenly. "Nonsense; she doesn't want to! I never saw a woman more devoted to a fellow, or so ready to help him along in every way. I tell you, I'm not very fond of chains or ministers, but I'd get married in a legal way to-morrow if I could find a female like her to yoke myself to." "Wait till she's my widow, Tom," Yates replied, with a laugh. "Sybil's well enough, but she'd play the deuce, like any woman, if she dared. She knows better than to put on any airs with me. If another sort of man owned her, he'd see stars!" "Oh, you're cross as a bear to her--I'll say that for you; and you never had any more feeling, Phil Yates--" "There, Thomas, that will do. Drink before supper never did suit your head--so just hush up!" "Nonsense; don't let's have any of your confounded sneers. A fellow can't speak without being treated to something of the sort, and I hate it!" He set his glass down on the table with an energy that made the bottles dance; but Yates only laughed, and Dickinson soon smoked himself into a state of reasonable tranquillity. Thus much of their conversation Sybil paused in the hall to hear. She lifted her hand and shook it menacingly toward her husband, while the fire kindled and leaped in her blue eyes, rendering them ten times more cruel and ferocious than anger can orbs of a darker color. But, after that momentary spasm of anger, she passed on; and, as she walked slowly back and forth through the silent rooms, the coldness and quiet came back to her face. "I've a bit of news, Phil," said Dickinson, after a few moments, "and it is worth hearing." "Tell it then, by all means." "This isn't just the place. Who knows how many listeners we may have?" "Fiddlesticks! The men are busy eating, and the women looking at them. There's nobody to listen unless it be Sybil--" "She never takes the trouble," interrupted Tom. "If we tell her a thing, well and good; if not, she never bothers her head about the matter." "I believe that is true. But what is your news?" Dickinson rose and walked toward the hall, to be certain that there was no intruder within hearing; then he returned to the table and drew his chair close to that of his friend. "It's that which kept me up at the diggings," said he. "I wanted to hear all I could." "Well?" "There's a chap over at Scouter's Point that's come on from San Francisco to attend to some claims for Wilmurt's widow. He's sold out her right, and he's got the stuff in his pocket--a good round sum it is, too!" "Yes," Yates said, quietly, holding his glass up to the moonlight, as if admiring the color of the liquor. "He is coming on with his guide and servant to our diggings on some business; and there's several chaps who know him mean to take that opportunity to send away a lot of nuggets and dust." Yates set the glass down quickly, and leaned toward his friend. "Does he touch these?" He made a motion as if shuffling a pack of cards; but Dickinson shook his head. "Not a bit of use. I saw a fellow that knows him well. He's a New York lawyer that came out here on some business, and took up this affair just for the fun of the thing, and so as to have a chance to see the diggings." "Then what's the use of talking about it," exclaimed Yates, angrily, "if he won't drink or play?" "I don't know," said Tom, artfully. "I told you of it because I thought you would like to hear. You are always complaining that we never have any adventure, and that you might as well be promenading Broadway for all the sport there is to be found." Yates whistled an opera air, from beginning to end, in the most elaborate manner. At the close he said: "When will he be at the diggings?" "Day after to-morrow, at the latest." "This is Monday, isn't it?" "Of course it is." "I wasn't certain. One fairly loses the day of the week in this confounded desert. Monday be it. On Wednesday he will reach the diggings." "Yes; he means to stay there a couple of days." "On Saturday, then, he will pass through the valley." "Exactly so, Philip. Your arithmetic is wonderful." "No doubt of it. I may be professor in a college yet!" "He will have to stop here all night, for he can't leave the diggings before noon. Old Jones asked me if I thought you would keep him." "What did you say?" "That you didn't keep a tavern, and that your wife was mighty particular. But if he was a gentleman, I didn't suppose either you or she would send him on after dark." "No," said Yates; "oh no!" "There'll be a crowd in the valley," continued Dickinson. "There's more gold been dug these last days than there has in months, and they'll be down to the tents and over here to get rid of it, you may bet your life." "So be it," returned Yates. "They couldn't dispose of it to more worthy people." Then they laughed immoderately, as if the words had covered an excellent jest. Before the conversation could be resumed, a dwarfish old Indian woman, who was a miracle of ugliness, appeared at the door and announced that their supper was waiting. "Come in, Tom," said Yates, rising with the utmost alacrity. "I couldn't eat any dinner for lack of company. You know Sybil picks like a sparrow--and I shall be glad of something myself." They passed into the house, and, at Dickinson's request, Sybil was summoned to grace the board with her presence. She complied with her customary obedience; but during the repast no allusion was made to the stranger or the ambiguous conversation which had been held on the porch a little while before. CHAPTER V. A SHORT RIDE AND A LONG WALK. Two days passed without any event worthy of record. Every thing at the ranche went on quietly enough, and a stranger happening there might have believed it an orderly and well regulated family as any that could be found in the State. The two men held long conversations in private. Even Sybil was not made acquainted with their cause; and although she was too acute not to have perceived that there was a secret from which she was excluded, she betrayed neither interest nor curiosity, evidently quite willing to allow affairs to take their own course, and await the pleasure of her husband and his confederate to hear a disclosure of the scheme which they might be revolving in their minds. On the third day the two made preparations to go up to the mines. Yates owned a claim which he did not work himself, for labor was not a thing he actually enjoyed, but he had hired men to work it, being able, even in that rage for gold which had taken possession of all, to find men who preferred secure daily wages to the uncertainty of working upon their own account. Yates was in the habit of making weekly visits to the place, so that Sybil received the information of the departure as a matter of course, and supper was prepared before sunset, that they might make their journey during the cool of the evening. The mules were brought out, and Sybil followed her husband and his friend out on to the veranda to see them mount and ride away. "You will have a beautiful night," she said. "The wind blows cool and refreshing." "You had better ride a little way with us, Mrs. Yates," said Dickinson. "I would, but I have a headache," she answered, sweetly. "Now, why can't you be honest and say you are glad to see us start?" returned her husband. "Because I never tell stories," she replied, with her pleasant laugh; "I was always taught to consider it wicked." "What heavenly principles!" sneered Yates. "I declare, Sybil, you are too good for this world." "Well," exclaimed Tom, "she's needed in it, anyhow! Smart, handsome women are too scarce for her to be spared." Sybil swept him a courtesy, and Yates laughed outright. "Tom waxes gallant," said he. "You ought to be grateful, Syb, for his compliments. He isn't given to flattering you women, I can tell you." "I am very grateful," she replied, giving Tom one of her flashing glances. "Admiration is as rare a thing in this region as Mr. Dickinson considers bright women." Tom was quite abashed; like many another bad man, he was never at ease in the presence of a well-bred woman--and that Sybil was a lady no one could have denied; it was perceptible in every word and movement. Yates had to go through his usual routine of maledictions upon his servants and mules; then he mounted his own particular beast, blew a kiss to Sybil, and called out: "Come, Tom, are you going to stand all night flirting with my wife, I should like to know?" "What abominable things you do say!" exclaimed Tom, coloring like a girl, and making all haste to get on to his mule, by way of covering his confusion. "Oh, Mr. Dickinson," said Sybil, "I would not have believed you so ungallant!" "As how?" questioned Tom. "You said that it was an abominable thing to admire me. Really, I am astonished!" "That wasn't what I meant," he replied. "But you know I never can say what I want to, I'm such a stupid fool of a fellow--always was, among women folks." "There, Tom, that will do! You have got out of the scrape beautifully," said Yates, lending his friend's mule a cut with his black whip. "You have danced attendance on the Graces long enough for one day." The mule started off with Dickinson, at a sharp canter, and deprived him of an opportunity to reply even if he had wished it. Yates gathered up his reins, nodded to Sybil, and prepared to follow. "When shall I expect you?" she asked. "To-morrow night, at the furtherest. I only want to see how the men get on." "Good-by, then, till to-morrow." He rode away, and Sybil stood watching them for some time; but her face had lost the sweet expression which possessed so great a charm for Dickinson. "How long must this continue?" she muttered. "Will there never be an end? Oh, Sybil--Sybil! what a weak, miserable fool you have been! This is the end of your art and talent--a home in the wilderness, a gambler's wife! But it shall change--oh! it shall change, I say!" She clasped her hands hard over her heart, gave one other glance toward the retreating riders, and entered the house. She went up to her own room, and remained there a long time. At length she rose and glanced out of the window. The sun had set, and the twilight would have been gloomy and gray but for a faint glory heralding the moon which had not yet appeared in sight over the towering mountains. "I must be gone!" she exclaimed. "I can not bear this any longer--I should go crazy!" She went to a chest of drawers that stood in a corner of the room, unlocked them, and took out a small and richly mounted revolver--one of those charming death trifles that Col. Colt has fashioned so exquisitely. It was so elaborate in its workmanship, and so delicately pretty, that it looked rather like a plaything than the dangerous implement it really was. But, small and fanciful as it was, the weapon would have been a dangerous instrument in the hands of that woman had interest or self-preservation rendered it necessary for her to use it. She loaded the several barrels with dexterity and quickness, which betrayed a perfect knowledge of her task, locked the drawers again, and hid the pistol in her pocket. She put on a pretty gipsy hat, threw a mantle over her shoulders, and went out of her room, locking the door behind her that any one who chanced to try the door might suppose her occupied within. Down stairs she stole with her quick, stealthy tread, passed through the hall, and saw the men-servants at their supper in the kitchen, with the two Indian women obediently attending to their wants. She gave one glance, retraced her steps, hurried out of the front door, and followed the path opposite that which her husband and his companion had taken an hour before. She was speedily concealed from the view of those within the house by a thicket of almond-trees, and passed fearlessly and rapidly along the path which she had trodden in many a long walk when the wretched isolation of her life had become unendurable. The night came on; the moon was up, giving forth a brilliant but fitful light, for a great troop of clouds were sweeping through the sky and at intervals obscured her beams completely, leaving only traces of struggling light on the edges of the clouds. The path was rugged and broken--a greater portion of the way led through a heavy forest; but Sybil walked quickly on, disturbed by none of the forest-sounds which might have terrified a less determined woman from following out the end she had set her heart upon. The wind sighed mournfully among the great trees over her head and dashed the swaying vines against her face; but she resolutely pushed them aside and forced for herself a passage. Lonely night-birds sent forth their cries, so like human wails that they were fairly startling; noisome reptiles, disturbed by her approach, slid away through the gloom with venomous hisses; but still Sybil passed on, upright, defiant, her hand clenching the weapon concealed in her dress with a tight grasp, and her eyes flashing with the fearful enjoyment which the scene produced upon her mind, to which excitement was necessary as oxygen is to the air. It would have been a singular study, the manner in which this woman's determination overcame her physical cowardice when any cause for prompt action was presented to her. Upon ordinary occasions nothing could have induced her to enter that wood after nightfall; but, under the influence of the insane desire which had been upon her for days, she trod its recesses as untremblingly as the boldest pioneer who ever crossed the Rocky Mountains could have done. The greater portion of her way led along the bank of the stream, which flowed in the woods after breaking through the heart of the valley and forcing its way between the narrow of the mountains, that gave it an unwilling egress. The waters rung pleasantly in the shadow, but Sybil did not pause to listen, although her rare nature contained enough of ideality to have led her away into many a romance, had she been thrown among these picturesque shades when her mind was at rest. It was a weary walk, but in her excitement Sybil thought little of the fatigue. She reached the end of her journey, at length. It was the ranche to which she had directed the party who came with that wounded man to ask shelter of her. Sybil did not go directly to the house. At a considerable distance from the dwelling was a rude hut where the family of one of the workmen lived. Sybil knew the woman; she had once taken a fancy to be very kind to a sick child of the poor creature, and that favor had never been forgotten. When Sybil knocked at the door, a querulous voice bade her enter, and she went into the miserable abode. The woman was nursing her baby, and two older children sat crouching at her feet, munching black crusts of bread with the sharp appetite which follows a long fast. The room was so bare that it could hardly be called untidy; but the appearance of the female and her children was famished and miserable enough. She started up--a haggard, raw-boned creature--with a cry at the sight of her visitor, exclaiming: "Mrs. Yates!" "Hush!" said Sybil, motioning her back. "I want to ask you a few questions, about which you are to say nothing to any living soul." "I will," replied the woman. "You were good to my boy. I don't forget that." Sybil waved that claim to consideration carelessly aside, and went on: "There was a party of strangers at the house one night last week?" "Yes," said the woman; "I was up at the ranche when they come in; they had been to your place, and said you wouldn't let them stop. I didn't believe it." "Go on," said Sybil, breathlessly; she had waited for nearly a week to gain information--waited with the patience which was one of her most remarkable characteristics; but now that the moment was at hand, she could hardly give the woman time to speak. "One of the gentlemen had a hurt--" "Was the doctor here?" "Yes; it wasn't nothing but a sprain." "You are certain?" "Sartin of it, ma'am. They staid here that night and the next; he was quite well by that time, and then they went on--that's all I know about them; I wish it was more, if it could oblige you." "That is enough," said Sybil. She appeared satisfied; she had walked five miles through the forest to obtain those meager crumbs of information--braved dangers from which even a man might have shrunk; but in that lonely, miserable life of hers, it was something even to have gained those brief tidings. A few more questions she asked: how the gentleman looked; if he had quite recovered; if the woman had heard him speak. "Pretty much, ma'am, and he seemed as full of fun as a boy; I guess he didn't mind. Oh, them that's rich can afford to be funny, and folks say he's got a mighty heap of gold." Sybil made no answer to the woman's remark, but sat for a time in silence, looking straight before her after her old fashion. "I wish I could give you a bite to eat or drink," said the woman, "but we hain't got a living thing." Sybil roused herself at once. "I am in want of nothing," she said; "I must go home now." "Dear me, you ain't rested; it's a hard ride." Sybil did not inform her that she had come alone and on foot. She placed some money in the woman's hand, and said kindly, but with emphasis: "You need not say that I have been here." "Nobody'll ask," replied the woman; "if they did, it wouldn't do no good--I hain't forgot! Oh, ma'am, I ain't a good woman; I'm a poor, ignorant, bad-tempered critter, that Joe often says would be better off in my grave; but God bless you, that can't do you no harm, forlorn as I be. God bless you, ma'am!" Sybil hurried away to escape the wound these words gave her. Her better feelings were aroused, and somehow that simple, uncouth benediction jarred upon her ear; it made her more nervous than she had been while threading her way through the lonely woods, and she hastened out into the night once more. A change had passed over the sky; great masses of heavy clouds were piled up against the horizon and scattered over the heavens, through which the moon rushed in frightened haste. The wind had fallen, and an oppressive sultriness superseded the cool of the woods which had been so apparent a few hours before. Once or twice distant peals of thunder rolled afar off, and the jagged edges of the precipice of clouds were colored with blue lightning. Sybil struck into the path and took her way homeward. The feeling which supported her had in a measure subsided, and the fears natural to a place and scene like that began to force themselves on her imagination. Since the day that Laurence and his party stopped at her house, she had been half mad to learn if his injury had proved of little consequence, and if he had been enabled to pursue his journey. There was no one at the ranche whom she dared to trust; for well she knew, although he had not again alluded to the subject, that her husband was watching every movement, and that the slightest show of anxiety on her part would be followed by a repetition of cruelties that since her marriage and removal to that wild place had been of frequent occurrence. She was afraid of this now, and fear took its usual result, craft and concealment. She had borne her fears and suffering in silence up to this time; but when Yates left home, so keen was her anxiety that she could not have lived another hour without starting forth to obtain such information as could be gathered; had the distance been quadrupled she would have undertaken the journey, for in that mood no danger or fatigue could have deterred her. Long before Sybil reached the edge of the forest the clouds had gathered force, and swept up to the very zenith; suddenly the moon plunged down behind them, and the woods were buried in darkness. The thunder pealed out again, rolling and booming through the heavens like parks of artillery; terrible flashes of lightning ran like fiery serpents through the clouds, and made every object fearfully distinct. Every shrub and tree took spectral shapes. The path seemed to lose itself in dizzy windings, and Sybil could only cover her face with both hands and rush blindly on, terrified but still courageous. Great drops of rain began to fall; the thunder increased in violence, and the lightning flashes succeeded each other in such rapid succession that the whole forest was wrapped in flame. Still Sybil hurried on, panting for breath, half crazed with fear, and keeping the path more from instinct than any thought or power of reason. The storm grew stronger, gathered its mighty powers among the gorges, and surged up into one of those fearful tempests which desolate mountain regions so suddenly. The wind howled through the forest, the thunder pealed and broke directly overhead, and renewed lightning leaped and blazed before her very eyes till she was blinded and stunned. There was no hope of shelter; the thickets which lined the path might conceal wild beasts, frightened into seeking refuge within their depths, but to her they threatened death; she could only totter on, feeling her strength fail with every gust of the storm beat against her. Many times her feet struck against fragments of broken rocks, or became entangled in the rank vines, which brought her heavily to the ground, tearing her garments and bruising her limbs; but in her fright and anguish she did not heed the pain, and, catching at the branches for support, would stagger to her feet again, and plunge on through the darkness, growing more and more desperate each moment. Her drenched garments clung about her form like a shroud--the cold touch made her shudder; and when, in a sudden pause of the tempest, a great owl rushed past her with his ill-omened cry, her senses almost forsook her in the fright. She heard the cracking of branches, the thunder of giant trees, as they came crashing to the earth, and their mangled boughs fell close to her as she tottered on. Long briars, blown out into the road, tore her face and pierced her arms; she shrieked with fear as she forced herself away from their clutches, that were like the talons of wild animals tearing at her life. The tempest was of short duration; suddenly as it had sprung up the wind died in the depths of the forest; the rain ceased; the black wall of clouds tottered and crumbled against the horizon, breaking away like mountains in a dream. As Sybil left the wood, the moon soared up again from the prison of clouds where it had been confined, and the night grew serene and quiet, as if no blast had swept through it. Feeble, weary and faint, Sybil toiled on until she reached her home. The lights were out, the doors fastened, but she had means of entrance, and made her way up to her chamber so stealthily that even the great dogs who bayed and kept watch upon the veranda were not disturbed by her tread. Once in her room, and feeling that she was safe, the desperation that had nerved her gave way, and she fell a dead weight upon the floor. She had not fainted, but it was a long time before she could find strength to rise; her limbs were stiffened--her very heart was chilled. She could only lie there, staring out at the moon, while her troubled senses heard still the roar of the tempest, and dismal shapes came out of the gloom to torture her more sorely than the storm had done--cold specters from the past that refused to lie quiet in their graves; painful memories, blighted hopes--every sight and sound from which her tortured soul strove to escape but had no power--she could only look through her strained, glaring eyes, and watch the pale procession in its course. She shook off the weakness and that terrible fear, at last; struggled to her feet, threw off her drenched garments, and crept into bed chilled and trembling, only to renew in sleep the mournful images from which she had tried to escape during her waking hours. CHAPTER VI. THE WELCOME THAT AWAITS RALPH HINCHLEY. On the appointed day, Yates and his companion returned home. Sybil went down to meet them as calm and smiling as though the season of their absence had been fraught with no incident of interest, or no terrible conflict had shaken her whole soul to its center. True, very little had happened in acts; but the greatest changes of life occur when all is still. Supper was over, and Sybil had gone up to her room, leaving the two men smoking upon the veranda. There was a low, eager conversation between them after her departure. At length Dickinson raised his voice: "You had better go now and talk to her." "Oh, these women," muttered Yates; "there's no telling how she may take any thing." "She'll take it as you would," replied Dickinson. "Be careful how you tell your story--don't frighten her at first. Why, you may bring a woman to any thing if you don't upset her nerves at the start." "You are wonderfully wise," mused Yates. Tom did not seem inclined to provoke a discussion, and after a little hesitation Yates went into the house and mounted the stairs. He entered Sybil's chamber abruptly, and found her, as usual, seated in a low chair by the window. "I want to talk to you a little," he said, "and I expect you to act like a sensible woman." "Let me hear," she answered. "It's a short story," said he, bluntly. "To-morrow night, then, a man will stop here loaded with money and dust enough to make us all rich for the rest of our lives." "Well?" The red lips lost their color, and shut hard together; that cruel light shot into the blue eyes. "It isn't well," retorted Yates, angrily. "He won't drink, and he won't gamble; so what's to be done? Tom talks about taking the fellow in hand." "No, no," interrupted Sybil, putting up her hands as if to shut out some horrible object. "I have not forgotten San Francisco--don't talk of it, Philip." "I knew that would be the way!" he exclaimed. "I was a fool to tell you of it. No woman can be trusted when it comes to the pinch; but that goose, Tom, said you would take it kindly, and be the first to hit on some plan that would settle every thing." "I will help you as I always have," she said, trembling violently; "but not that--oh! heavens, no." "There, there, you foolish child!" he replied, not ill-naturedly. "That wasn't your fault or mine; the men got to quarreling in the house, and we killed the other--" "But it was so terrible; that dying man's face has haunted me ever since--I can see his eyes glaring, and hear his breath struggling and gurgling yet--see him clutching and tearing at the bed--" "Don't, for God's sake!" he exclaimed, catching hold of her; "you'll drive a man mad!" She had risen from her seat, and was pointing wildly at the floor as she spoke, but his voice seemed to recall her to herself. She sunk back into her chair panting for breath, while Yates vainly endeavored to conceal his own discomposure. "You will go crazy in one of these abominable fits," he said, brushing his hand across his forehead, and sweeping the great drops of perspiration away. "Then don't bring such memories back," she shuddered. After all, the woman was the first to regain her usual manner, while Yates walked slowly up and down the room, his mind divided between the recollections her words had aroused and the plans which had been arranged during the past days. "So we must give it up," he said, at length, "and all for your confounded folly." "Do you call it folly?" cried Sybil, with a miserable specter of a laugh. "Yes, I do! There is one thing certain; your obstinacy and cowardice will lengthen your stay here by ten good years." "I am not a coward--" "Call yourself what you please! I say, before we can afford to leave this place, the youth will be gone out of your face, the brightning from your eyes--you'll be an old woman, Sybil." She did not appear moved by his threats, and, as was customary with him when thwarted, he began to pass into a violent rage. She did not answer the harsh words and maledictions which he heaped upon her; but once, when he made a movement as if to give her a blow, as had often happened before, she turned upon him with something in her face from which he shrunk in spite of himself. "Don't do that!" she exclaimed, in an awful whisper; "I warn you never to attempt that again!" The victory was more nearly won to her than it had been for many a day. Yates dropped his hand and turned to go out. "Well, let every thing slide," he said; "this comes of trusting a woman with secrets! I must sit in my chair and see sixty thousand dollars good slip out of my hands, and Ralph Hinchley go by without lifting a finger." Sybil sprung forward and clutched his arm; the face she bent toward him was like that of a corpse. "Speak that name again," she whispered; "speak it." "Ralph Hinchley," he repeated, pushing her aside with a feeling like absolute fear. "Confound you, what do you look like that for?" Sybil still held him fast, and her voice rung out hollow and unnatural: "Why, if you murder him, I will avenge it; so God help us both!" "What is he to you? Do you know him?" She forced back the whirlwind of passion, and stood up, cold and white. "I never saw him," she replied; "but if you wish his money, I shall not stand between you and him; his life you shall not take." "Are you in earnest?" She answered him with a look. "But we have not settled on that; I propose to follow him--" "Fools!" exclaimed Sybil. "To-morrow night the house and the valley will be full of mad and drunken men. There may be half a dozen robberies--will one more make any great difference?" "What a woman you are!" exclaimed Yates, with that sort of admiring dread with which a bad man watches a superior in coldness and courage. "It will be impossible to say who did it! What a mind you have when it works in earnest." "There will be a score of people here wanting lodgings to-morrow night; surely, your way is clear." She waved him impatiently off when he would have pursued the subject. "Go down stairs," she said; "I am tired of this. I am coming in a moment." He went out. She stood still in the gloom, while that terrible look of ferocity came back to her face. "Either of them, or both," she muttered; "I don't care! Hinchley is Margaret's cousin--Sybil Yates will save him; but not till they have gone far enough to prove the attempt. Then let them arrest Philip if they will--oh! I am sick of this life, and do so loathe him." She swept out of the room, cold and stern as a Nemesis, descending to the presence of those men who sat together whispering of things which they dared not speak aloud. They had excited themselves with drink; but Sybil was not afraid to look the reality in the face--her resolve was taken, she would not falter. If she reasoned with her conscience it was thus: "The plan is not mine--I could not help it. These men are false and desperate; I can guide but not defeat them. When it is done--oh, how my heart beats; its chains are falling off. His petty sins shall bind me here no longer." CHAPTER VII. ARRIVAL OF THE GUEST. It was Saturday evening; the moon rose upon a scene which utterly changed the whole aspect of the ranche. Since early in the afternoon the road from the mines had been filled with men, who poured down into the valley to seek relaxation after their week's successful toil, and relieve themselves, perhaps, of every ounce of the yellow dust which they had labored so hard to gain. About the tents and cabins were grouped scores of men from every nation of the civilized world. Long tables had been set out in the open air, covered with such food as the owners of the huts could procure; barrels of liquor were standing under the trees, ready broached, and moist at the tap from frequent applications. A great fire had been kindled near the cabins, at which quarters of beef, joints of venison, and groups of wild game were roasting with a slow success that filled the air with appetizing odors. In fact, the whole valley took the appearance of a political barbecue or gipsy encampment. The miners, in the slouched hats, red shirts, and muddy boots, gave picturesque effect to the scene which a philosopher would have condemned and an artist forgiven at the first glance. The ranche had its full share of visitors; food and drink were bountifully provided. Yates and Dickinson moved about among the men, excited by liquor and evil passions, and urging them on to every species of excess, like fiends seeking to drag down humanity to their own base level. Secure in her chamber, Sybil listened to the tumult and smiled quietly. She really had something in common with Lucretia Borgia besides the golden tint in her hair. She was neither shocked nor afraid; but had grown so accustomed to such scenes that they no longer had any power to affect her. She was sitting by her window, and looking toward the path which led from the mountains, so absorbed in thought that she scarcely heard the shouts and hideous din which ascended from below. At last she beheld two men on horseback coming down the declivity, preceded by a guide. No trace of exultation lit up her features; the face grew more hard and stern; the peculiar look which gave such age to her countenance settled over its whiteness--that was all. She clenched her hands on the window-sill, and watched their approach. "Margaret's cousin," she whispered, once; "well, hereafter in my dreams I shall be worthy her thanks--she was fond of him--shedding tears--yes, yes, it is my turn now!" The men rode slowly on, and as they reached the foot of the mountain, and the demoniac scene, lighted by the moon and the glare of the camp-fires, burst upon them, they simultaneously checked their horses, and looked at each other in horrified astonishment. "Great heavens, what a sight!" exclaimed Hinchley. "It's like going down into purgatory," muttered the domestic. "Shall we have to spend the night here, Mr. Hinchley?" "You can't do no better," interrupted the guide; "it's the same thing clear to Wilson's ranche. You'll do well enough at Phil Yates's; he promised you rooms and beds to yourselves--you'd best come on." The guide looked eagerly about as he spoke, his savage nature in a state of pleasurable excitement, and anxious to join the desperate crowds that were scattered through the valley. "I wish we had stopped at the diggings," Hinchley said. The guide had stepped away from them, and they conversed for a few seconds in private. "Luckily, nobody knows we've got the money and dust with us," said the man. "That is true. I dare say we are quite as safe in this crowd as we should be alone with the people that live at Wilson's house. You must keep a good look-out all night, Martin; I will see that our rooms are close together. If we are assailed we must do our best." There was no time for further conversation; the guide summoned them impatiently, and they rode on toward the ranche, passing several camp-fires about which were grouped evil-looking men drinking and gambling, some upon the ground, some upon the newly-made stumps from which the forest-trees had been cut. Nobody paid much attention to them, and they passed on up to the house, where Yates received them with a rough courtesy which was in a measure reassuring, compared with the appearance of the crowds they had seen. "You have hit on a bad night," he said, as he conducted them into the house; "but I will give you rooms up stairs--you will be quiet enough there." "Show us to them at once," said Hinchley; "I am fairly sick with this disgusting scene." "I used to feel so," returned Yates; "but a man gets accustomed to any thing in these regions." He led them through the hall and up the stairs, the servant carrying the saddle-bags and packages. They were shown into a comfortable room, which, in comparison with the scene they had left, appeared like a palace. "You will do very well here," said Yates. "That next room is for your man. I'll have some supper sent up to you. I don't keep a tavern, nay how, but those rascals below would tear my house down about my ears if I refused them admittance. It's nothing when you are acquainted with California life." "I'm blessed if I don't hope my acquaintance'll be a short one," muttered Martin. Yates laughed as he left the room, and Hinchley threw himself into a chair, wearied with many days' privation and hard riding. "I guess we're safe enough here," said Martin. "Oh, yes; I apprehend no danger at all." While they waited for their supper, and listened to the horrible din below, Yates went on to the room where Sybil was seated. "They have come," he whispered, going close to where she sat. "I know it," she replied, quietly. "You don't feel afraid, Sybil? You won't draw back?" "I?" she laughed, in her scornful way. "Stop that noise!" exclaimed Yates, with a menacing gesture; "you laugh like a ghost." Mad as he was with liquor and evil passions, there was something so unnatural in that sound that it half sobered him. While they stood eyeing each other, the door opened, and Dickinson reeled into the room. "Come down stairs, Phil," he said; "there'll have to be another barrel of whisky got out." "You are drunk," said the other. "A man needs to be," he shivered. "Good heavens, Mrs. Yates, how you look!" "Never mind that," she answered. "Go, both of you, and do your best to keep that crowd of demons occupied." "They are mighty good-natured with us," said Tom. "That idea of yours, Sybil, of giving them the liquor, has set us up wonderfully; hark! they're cheering Phil now." Sybil flung up the window, and leaned over the sill, as shout after shout arose like the yelling of fiends. Dickinson pulled her hastily back. "Don't let them see you--no woman would be safe! I have told everybody you had gone down to Featherstone's." "No, keep yourself close, Sybil," said Yates. "Do not fear for me; go down stairs, both of you. I want to be alone." "What time do you think--" It was Dickinson who began to speak; she checked the broken utterance with a look. "At the time I appointed; half past one." She looked from one to the other, but neither of those hardened men had the nerve to meet her eyes. They shrunk out of the room in silence, without another word being spoken, and once more Sybil was alone. The riot and confusion increased. Men rushed about like demons, singing, shouting, and clashing their cups together. The veranda and grass in front were covered with poor wretches, who had fallen there in their intoxication, and were recklessly trampled upon by their companions. Yells and shrieks went up, shot after shot was fired, knives gleamed in the starlight, more than one fierce contest occurred, but through it all that woman sat at her window and waited, appalled neither by the horror of the scene, nor the fearful thoughts which surged through her soul. CHAPTER VIII. THE GAMBLER'S FATE. It was long past midnight, and something of quiet had stolen over the valley; yet that very stillness, taken in connection with the scene, was more impressive than the riot and tumult had been. The lower rooms of Yates's dwelling were in a state of confusion beyond description. Glasses, dishes and broken food had been swept to the floor to give place to cards and dice, which began the instant the wolf-like appetites of the men had been satisfied. The floor was covered with broken bottles and saturated with liquor and costly wines; here and there darker stains gleamed in the moonlight, betraying where some deadly fray had ended just short of murder. Men lay stretched upon the tables in heavy slumber, huddled among the chairs and under the benches, either asleep or so deeply intoxicated as to be unconscious of their degradation. Here and there scattered gold shone out from the stains and pools of wine, and a few wretches groped about picking up stray nuggets or scraping together the saturated gold-dust and hiding it in their garments. In some of the rooms groups of men were still busy over the cards, but even these had relapsed into quiet; nothing was heard but the rattle of the dice or an occasional oath from the lips of some ruined gambler. Out of doors the scene was still different. The whole length of the valley could be commanded in one view--the smouldering camp-fires; men lying stretched upon the trampled grass; poor wretches, wounded in the quarrels, who had dragged themselves under the shadow of the great trees to bind up their wounds or seek the slumber of exhaustion and spent passions. Over all shone the moon, pouring down a cloud of silvery radiance upon the repulsive scene, and rendering it more horrible from the pure contrast. At one of the card-tables Yates was still seated, while Dickinson hovered about, unable to remain quiet for a moment, and, in spite of his partial intoxication, haggard and pale at the recollection of the deed yet to be performed. A meaning glance from Yates sent him out of the room. Very soon his confederate flung down the cards, and, relinquishing his place to some other sleepless desperado, made his way among the forms huddled upon the floor, and passed into the hall. No one was watching; the stillness deepened each instant. Up the stairs passed the two men, and entered the room where Sybil awaited them. Few words passed among them, but the woman was much less shaken than either of those bold men. They stood for a short time conversing in broken whispers; then Yates turned quickly aside, moved to the end of the room where a tall wardrobe was placed. A single touch upon a secret spring, and the heavy piece of furniture swung noiselessly out, affording admittance to the chamber beyond. Ralph Hinchley started from a troubled dream to feel a strange oppression upon his chest--a sweet, sickening odor pervading the atmosphere--and to see through the open door Martin lying upon the bed with a man bending over him and pressing a napkin close against his face. He started up in bed, unable to realize whether it was real or only another wild vision. A blow from an unseen hand dashed him back upon the pillow; but as he fell, with a smothered cry, he saw a white face bending over him, and in the doorway a woman enveloped in a mantle, which concealed her features and most of her person, uttering cries for help. He started up again with frantic violence, shrieking out his servant's name: "Martin! Martin!" He heard a cry from the woman: "Help! help!" Then his assailant sprung upon him. Hinchley grappled him with all the fury of desperation, and the two rolled over and over in deadly strife. The man who had kept guard by the servant's bed escaped at the first tumult; but those two men continued that fearful conflict. Hinchley was a brave man; the belief that his life was at stake gave him the strength of a tiger. He shrieked for help in a voice which rung through the house and roused even the intoxicated sleepers below. There was a sound in the halls of eager voices and rapid feet. Hinchley's assailant tried to dash him to the floor and escape; but those long, slender arms seemed made of iron, and held him pinioned. At that moment the servant woke from the stupor, which had only taken a partial effect upon his senses, and sprung up with a mad cry. "Help, Martin, help!" shrieked Hinchley, feeling his strength begin to fail. "Come, I say!" Half stupefied as he was, the man comprehended his master's danger, rushed upon their foe, and hurled him back upon the floor just as he succeeded in escaping from Hinchley's hold. This instant the door was broken open, and a crowd of infuriated men rushed into the chamber, roused by those shrieks for aid. A few quick words explained the whole affair. The troop pushed Hinchley and his servant back, seized the man and dragged him toward the window. The moonlight fell broadly on his terror-stricken face. "It's Phil Yates!" exclaimed a score of voices. The wretch had ceased to struggle; he felt that his doom was sealed, and lay panting and passive in their clutches. "This accounts for his good-nature," resounded on all sides. "This explains the general treat. He meant to stupefy us and then shirk the murder on some one." "Where's Tom?" called one of the number. A rush was made through the rooms, but the confederate had escaped. "At least we will serve this fellow out!" cried a hoarse voice. "Ay! ay!" they shouted, "down stairs with him! There's a blasted pine back of the house--just the thing!" They gathered about the shuddering man like wild beasts scenting their prey. Hinchley in vain attempted to speak a word which might gain the miserable man a reprieve. They pushed him rudely aside, dragged their victim down the stairs and out upon the veranda, the throng parting right and left, allowing those who held him free passage. In an instant the whole valley seemed aroused, and hundreds of fierce faces glared on the hapless creature as he hung powerless over the shoulders of his captors. There was a hurried consultation among those nearest the criminal; terrible words broke from their lips which were echoed in husky whispers by the whole crowd. "Hang him! hang him!" Again the crowd parted, and four stalwart men dragged the half insensible creature round a corner of the house and moved toward a shivered pine-tree that stretched out its blasted limbs between the dwelling and the precipice. "We want a rope," some one said. A man rushed out of the house, carrying a long crimson scarf, which he fluttered over the heads of the crowd. "This will do famously!" he called. "It belonged to his wife--she was huddling it over her face." "Where is the woman?" they yelled. "Let's exterminate every snake in the nest!" "She isn't on hand--twisted herself out of my hold like a cat, dashed off to the precipice, and the last I saw of her she was dragging herself up by the bushes." "Dickinson is gone, too." "No matter; we have this one safe. Gracious, how limpsy he is!" "Make short work of it, then, before he shows fight." "Never fear!" shouted one of his captors. "Say a prayer, you villain; it's your last chance." The hapless wretch only moaned; fear had drawn him beyond the power of speech. Closer gathered the crowd--he felt their breath hot upon his cheek; hundreds of fierce eyes glared into his own; innumerable voices roared out his death-sentence. It was a terrible scene. They seized the scarf and twisted it fiercely about his neck; scores of ruthless hands forced him toward the skeleton tree; the shouts and execrations grew more fiendish, and over all the sinking moon shed her last pale luster, lighting up that work of horror. The man had spoken truly. Sybil Yates had fled to the hill. With the first cries of Hinchley, she had attempted to escape from the principal entrance. But the valley was sprinkled with camp-fires which must betray her. In front of the house, lanterns swung from the knotted cedar-posts, and cast their unsteady light on a crowd of fierce men swarming toward the cries that still rung through the dwelling. One of these men saw her, and, leaping up the stairs, tore the scarf from her head, bringing a flood of hair down with it. She wrenched herself from the grasp he fastened on her arm, plunged down a back staircase, and, darting by the blasted pine, made for the precipice. The face of this rocky wall was torn apart near the base, and the fissure, which slanted across the face of the precipice, choked up with myrtle-bushes, grape-vines and trees, stinted in their growth from want of soil; but it was deep enough to hide that poor human creature flying for her life. She ran toward the broken line which betrayed the fissure, and, crushing through the sweet myrtle-bushes, fastened her foot in a coil of vines, and crept upward with that scared face turned over her shoulder, unable to tear her eyes from the crowd of men that came sweeping round the house and surged up to that gaunt pine-tree. They carried lanterns, and torches of burning pine, throwing a red light all around and illuminating the very foot of the precipice. Sybil crowded herself back into the fissure and dragged the vines over her. Then, shuddering till the foliage trembled around her, she looked through it, ghastly with fear but fascinated still. There was the man who had been her fate, the cruel tyrant whose breath had made her tremble an hour ago, lying across the shoulders of his late friends, already half lifeless, yet shrieking faintly from dread of the death to which they were lighting him. The woman was seized with dizzy terror. The lights flowed before her eyes in a river of fire. The specters of a thousand gaunt old trees danced through it, and among them swung a human form to and fro, to and fro, as it would sway through her memory forever and ever. She was pressed against the rock, her foot tangled in the coiling vines, her hands clenched hard among the tender shrubs--but for that she must have fallen headlong to the broken rocks beneath. All at once the tumult ceased; a frightful stillness came over that dark crowd; men shrunk away from its outskirts into the darkness, frightened by their own demon work. She clung to the vines, and looked down dizzily; a feeling of horrible relief came over her. She turned her face to the rock, and held her breath, listening, as if his voice could still reach her. It was near morning before the crowd around that tree dispersed. Then she crept feebly down the rocky fissure, and stood trembling on the trampled grass. One glance upon the pine, and she turned away, sick at heart. A fragment of her own red scarf fluttered there--and--and-- Shutting her eyes close, Sybil staggered on toward the house, entered the back-door, and descended the cellar-stairs. She took a lamp and some matches from a niche in the wall, and passed on into the cellar. She had been there once before within the last forty-eight hours, and every thing necessary for her flight was prepared. Connected with the cellars was a small natural cave, which had been used as a place to keep liquor-casks. Sybil and her husband alone knew of the real use to which this place was put. Only a few moments after, Sybil stood in that cave so metamorphosed that she might have passed unquestioned, even by her best friend. She was attired in the dress of a Spanish sailor, her delicate skin dyed of a rich, dark brown, her golden hair concealed under a slouched hat, beneath which were visible short, thick curls of raven hair. There was still other work to be done. Carefully shading her lamp from the draught of air, the woman moved toward a corner of the vault, pulled away several heavy casks, which it would have seemed beyond her power to lift, raised one of the flat stones with which a portion of the vault had been paved, and disclosed the lid of an iron chest. She unlocked it, flung up the top lid, and the lamplight struck upon a quantity of gold-dust and money which had been concealed there. Yates had collected that store without the knowledge of his confederates; even Sybil had discovered his secret by accident. "Oh!" she muttered, impatiently, "there is a fortune here. I can not carry it. No matter, it is safe--only let me escape this spot. Some other time. It can not be found. Some other time." She took out as many pieces of gold as she could manage to bestow about her person without encumbering her flight; but even in her distress and danger, her judgment and reason were capable of action. It was better to leave the money in safety, and return for it at some future time, than to overload herself so much that her flight would be impeded. She might become so weary of the weight as to be forced to fling it aside. Thus the woman reasoned only a few hours after that death scene. She closed the chest, locked it and replaced the stones, piled the empty boxes in their former position, and crept away. She extinguished the little lamp, flung it into a dark corner of the cellar, and bent her steps toward the opening, which was so overgrown with weeds that it was entirely hidden. She managed to raise herself along the broken wall, and forced her way through the narrow aperture into the open air. Her face and hands were bleeding from the wounds she had received against the sharp stones, but she felt no pain. She was completely hidden from the view of all those about the house by a dense thicket of cactus and flowery shrubs, which formed a thick wall for a considerable distance. Her pony was tied to a tree where she had herself stationed him early in the evening. For the first time a look of exultation shot into her face--she was safe now! Before mounting her horse, she crept along the edge of the thicket to a spot from whence she could command a view of the house. The crowd was still rushing wildly about--she could hear their murmurs and execrations. The moon had set, but the cold dawn cast a gray light over the landscape. Sybil turned her eyes toward the dwelling. She saw the pine-tree--that one projecting branch from which a fragment of the silk scarf fluttered yet. After that momentary glance she started up, mounted her pony, and rode rapidly away through the forest. So the day broke, still and calm. The first glow of the sun tinged the mountain tops, leaving the valley still in deep shadow. The excited throngs moved restlessly about, and at length group after group started away from the house, anxious to escape the sickening sight which met their eyes; now that their fury was satiated, they turned in dread away. The sun mounted higher in the heavens, shot dazzlingly against the sides of the mountains, colored the noisy torrent, and played softly about the old house. Not a living thing was in sight. The sun played over the grass, rustled the vines, and there, in the silence and amid the shadows, hung that still form, swayed slowly to and fro by the light breeze that struck the branches. An hour passed, but there was no change! Afar through the forest rode the fearless woman, seeking a place of shelter. The last fetter which had bound her to that horrible life was severed. Across the dark sea she could seek a new home, and make for herself another existence, untroubled by a single echo from the past. CHAPTER IX. A CANTER AND A FALL. It was a lofty, well-lighted apartment, fitted up with book-cases, yet, from its general arrangement, evidently occupied as much for a sitting-room as a library. The easy-chairs were pushed into commodious corners, the reading table, in the center of the floor, was covered with newspapers and pamphlets; but they had been partially moved aside to afford place to a tiny work-basket, an unstrung guitar with a handful of flowers scattered over it, and various other trifles--all giving token of a female presence and occupations, which alone can lend to an apartment like this a pleasant, home-like appearance. It was near sunset; two of the windows of the library looked toward the west, and a rich glow stole through the parted curtains, from the mass of gorgeous clouds piling themselves rapidly up against the horizon. But at the further end of the room, the shadows lay heavy and dark, and two statues gleamed out amid the gloom, like ghosts frightened away from the sunlight. In that dimness a woman walked slowly to and fro, her hands linked loosely together, her dress rustling faintly against the carpet, and her every movement betraying some deep and engrossing thought. For a full half-hour she had indulged in that revery, all the while moving slowly up and down, the fixed resolution of her face growing harder, and her eyes turned resolutely toward the shadows, as if there was something in the cheerful radiance at the other end of the room which caused her pain or annoyance. In that dim light, the countenance had an expression from which one entering unperceived would have shrunk instinctively; yet a portrait of the face, painted as it appeared among the shadows, would hardly have been recognized by those daily accustomed to a view of the features. Perhaps it was the gloom around which gave the face that look--cold, hard, unrelenting force--and lent the eyes that subtle, dangerous gleam. Some noise from without disturbed her reflections; she dropped her arms to her side, and passed quietly toward the middle of the room. As she stood for an instant by the table, the rosy light of the approaching sunset played full upon her face; it scarcely seemed possible it could be the one which looked so dark and cruel among the shadows only a moment before. An erect, well-proportioned figure, rather below the medium height, yet so graceful and elegant that at the first glance one would have pronounced her tall. She was still quite young, out of her teens possibly, but no one would have judged her twenty-one--in the twilight her face had appeared ten years older at least. The features were finely cut, the lips a trifle too thin, perhaps, but the complexion was wonderfully delicate; rich masses of light brown hair, which in the sunlight took a golden tinge, were brushed in wavy folds back from the smooth, low forehead, underneath which the gray eyes looked out as calm and cold as though deep emotion had never brought shadows or tears into their depths. It would have been a very acute observer that could have read that pale, secretive face. One might have lived years in daily intercourse with her, and never believed her any thing but a quiet person, yielding herself good-naturedly to the plans or amusements of others, and finding sufficient content therein. While she stood by the table, the tramp of horses sounded upon the gravel sweep without; she moved to the window, and remained watching the groom as he led a couple of saddle-horses up and down before the side-entrance of the house. Very soon there was a sound of opening doors, and a man's voice called from the hall: "Margaret! Miss Waring!" The lady started at those clear, somewhat imperative tones, but the summons was evidently not intended for her; after that involuntary movement, she resumed her former attitude, leaning against the window-sill with her eyes fixed absently upon the changing sky. In a moment the door of the library opened, and a gentleman advanced a step or two beyond the threshold, looking around as if in search of some one. When he saw the young lady standing there, he said, hastily: "I thought Margaret was here." She turned as if for the first time conscious of his presence. "I beg your pardon; what did you wish?" "I am looking for Miss Waring; I heard George bring up the horses several moments since." "I believe she is in her room; shall I call her?" "Pray do not trouble yourself, Miss Chase. I dare say she will be down immediately." "Here I am now," said a voice from the stairs, and a young lady very pretty and _petite_ entered the room dressed in a riding-habit. "I hope I have not kept you waiting, Mr. Laurence." "I am only just ready," he replied, carelessly. Miss Chase half turned from the window; the sunset rays fell upon her hair and forehead, and, partially shut in by the folds of the curtains, she made an exceedingly striking picture. Margaret was buttoning her gauntlets, but Laurence caught the effect, and was pleased, as any one with the slightest artistic taste must have been. "You have not put on your habit, Miss Chase," he said. "Don't you ride with us?" "I made my excuses to Miss Waring an hour ago," she replied, in the sweet, calm voice habitual with her. "She has a bad headache," said the young lady mentioned, looking up from her task, "and is bent on a solitary walk in hopes of curing it." "I thought you were never troubled with such pretty little female ailments," returned Laurence, pleasantly. "It very seldom happens," answered Miss Chase, indifferently, turning more toward the window, as if she did not wish any conversation to deprive her of a view of the sunset. "It seems a little selfish for us to leave you to a lonely walk," he continued. "So I told her," added Margaret; "but she would not be persuaded." "I would not prevent your ride for the world," she said, in precisely the same unmoved tone. "I shall only walk to the gates and back." "I am sorry you can not accompany us," Laurence said. "I suppose that wretched headache will prevent me taking my revenge at chess to-night." "Hardly, I think; it will go off in the cool of the evening." "You are very obliging--" "Oh, she means to beat you unmercifully," interrupted Margaret; "don't you, Miss Chase?" "If I can, of course," she replied, with a little deprecatory gesture, as if the attempt were likely to prove a hopeless one. "We shall see," returned the gentleman. "Come, Margaret, the horses will get restless. A pleasant walk, Miss Chase." She bowed, and watched the pair out of the room; when the door closed, she took her old station, saw them mount and ride swiftly down the avenue. Very quiet and still she stood there--there was no pulsation strong enough even to stir the lace upon her bosom. One hand fell at her side, the other was pressed hard against the marble sill, and once more the cold, fixed resolution crept slowly over her countenance. It must have been a full half-hour before she in turn left the apartment. She went up to her room, came down with her bonnet and shawl on, and walked out upon the broad veranda which ran the whole length of the house. She did not follow the avenue which led from the dwelling down to the highway, but took one of the numerous paths which wound among the shrubberies. Sometimes in the full glory of the waning sunset, anon a darker shadow among the other shadows that lay under the trees, she passed, walking rapidly, as if anxious to find quiet in bodily fatigue--then forgetting her purpose, if it had been present to her mind, and moving slowly along, deeply engrossed in thought as when she stood in the library an hour before. It was already twilight when Sybil Chase reached the ponderous iron gates which gave entrance from the road to the grounds. She seated herself upon a stone bench a little off from the avenue, and gazed quietly around with that observing eye which never lost the most minute particular. The air was soft and warm, the moon was already coming up and dispelling the dusky shadows sufficiently to distinguish objects at a considerable distance. The murmur of a little brook that traversed the grounds and came out of the thicket back of her seat was pleasantly audible, and the deafened cry of a whippowill sounded through the distance. The moon rose higher, the repose of the spring evening increased, and through the distance Sybil's quick ear detected the tramp of horses, faint but rapidly approaching nearer. She rose from the bench and looked up the road. She saw Margaret and Mr. Laurence cantering gayly over the nearest hill. While she looked, the girl's horse shied at some object by the road--started so violently that his rider, evidently taken by surprise, was thrown to the ground. Sybil Chase pressed her two hands hard together, a quick breath broke from her lips, and her eyes looked out large and wild; but she made no effort to go forward--never stirred from her attitude of strange expectancy. Before Mr. Laurence could dismount and go to his companion's assistance, a man rode rapidly up behind them. Sybil saw him stop, spring from his horse, and hasten with Mr. Laurence toward the lady. Before they reached the spot, Margaret had risen; through the stillness Sybil caught the echo of hurried exclamations, a gay laugh from the young girl, which seemed to give assurance that she had suffered no injury. At that sound the lady whispered a few words to herself; then, after an instant of hesitation, hurried toward the gates, pushed them open, and ran with all her speed toward the foot of the hill. Before she reached the first rise, the three had mounted and were riding toward her; she was plainly visible to them in the moonlight, toiling rapidly up the ascent, and apparently so overcome by agitation that nothing but a desire to be of service preserved her strength. "Are you hurt?" she called, wildly. "Not in the least," Margaret answered, while Laurence waved his riding-cap gayly in the air. Sybil clasped her hands, as if in involuntary thanksgiving, and sunk down upon the bank. They rode toward her; as they reached the spot, she rose and called again: "You are not hurt, Miss Waring?" "Not in the least, I assure you." "Not even frightened, I believe," added Laurence. "I thought she was killed," exclaimed Sybil. "Oh, that dreadful shying horse! Don't--don't ride him again, Margaret." The party drew rein near her. "He meant no harm, poor fellow," returned Margaret. "He might have killed you, nevertheless," said Sybil, with a sort of reproachful anxiety. She spoke rapidly, and appeared much alarmed; nevertheless, she found time to steal a quick glance toward the stranger who accompanied her friends. As her eyes fell upon him she gave a slight start, and her face grew pale; but, with a strong effort, she mastered the emotion, and turned indifferently away. CHAPTER X. THE GAME AT CHESS. A few more words passed, then Margaret said: "Miss Chase, let me present Mr. Hinchley to you." The lady bowed slightly in return to the stranger's salutation, looked keenly from under her long eyelashes, and turned again toward Miss Waring, who, in spite of her assertions, was greatly terrified and shaken, as Sybil plainly detected through all her forced spirits. "By the luckiest chance in the world, Hinchley rode up at the very moment Margaret fell," said Laurence. "I was very fortunate in being so opportune in my arrival," replied the young man. "We have not even asked how you happened to get here so unexpectedly," said Margaret. "I saw Dr. Thorne in town this morning, and he told me that Uncle Gerald had been quite ill again, so I took the late train up--luckily, Smith, at the depot, had a horse to lend me." "Uncle Gerald is better," Margaret said. "I am glad to hear it; those attacks get so much worse that I was quite alarmed." "He seems very much shaken by this one," Laurence said; "but the doctor thinks he will soon get better; the warm weather is coming on, and that always agrees with him, you know." "You will stay a week or so, Ralph," Margaret said. "As long as I can; it depends on my news from town." "Miss Waring looks pale," interrupted Sybil, whose head was still averted from Hinchley. "Are you really hurt, Margaret?" asked Hinchley. "Not in the least," she replied; but her voice trembled a little. "She is frightened, of course," said Sybil; "who could help it? I am sure she will not ride again this season." "I think she is cured of such fears," returned Laurence. "Oh yes," answered Margaret, hastily. "But let us ride home; it is getting late, and uncle will want to see Ralph before going to bed." The three rode through the gates, which Miss Chase had left open, while that lady followed at a little distance. "We are leaving her all alone," said Margaret, in a low voice, to Laurence. "That is true; and it scarcely looks civil," he replied. "Ride on to the house, Margaret, with Hinchley, and I will walk with her." "Very well," Margaret said, unable longer to conceal her nervousness, and not sorry that she could have an opportunity to recover herself before again enduring her betrothed husband's somewhat impatient scrutiny. The pair rode on; Mr. Laurence dismounted from his horse, and stood in the avenue as Miss Chase approached. "You look in this moonlight pale and melancholy as a knight-errant," she said, playfully. "I am waiting for you," he replied. "Indeed, there was no necessity." "Does that mean you prefer to walk alone?" "I am not much given to incivility, you know; I did not wish to detain you from your friends." "Oh, they will take care of each other," he replied. "I wonder you don't say something about him--you are less susceptible than most young ladies. Hinchley is a great favorite." "Please do not slander my sex, Mr. Laurence, or we shall quarrel at once." "And you will conquer me, as you always do at chess! But at all events, you can not be offended at my saying that you are different from youthful females in general; almost any other would have asked twenty questions in a breath about the stranger." "But Mr. Hinchley is hardly a stranger," she replied. "Oh, that is true; but I believe you have never met him before." "No; but I have heard Miss Waring talk so much of her favorite cousin, and Mr. Waring is always sounding his praises." "He is almost like a brother to Margaret; I wonder you never saw him when you were here before." "He was in Europe," replied Sybil, indifferently. "I am sorry Margaret received that fright." "I wish she had a little of your courage." "I have been accustomed to ride from childhood--" "And are the best horsewoman I ever saw." "I ought to deny it, but shall not. At all events, I am not in the least afraid of Robin Hood nor of Sir Charles here;" as Sybil spoke, she offered the horse one of the roses she held in her hand. "That is a treat which the baronet appreciates," she added. "He isn't often fed with roses." "What a waste of sentiment," he replied, "to feed a horse on what any man would covet." "He is grateful for them, at all events." "Perhaps his master would be more grateful still; you have not tried him." She laughed, selected a beautiful bud from the bunch, and looked at it for a moment. When he reached forth his hand, she drew back the flower with a gesture too pretty to be called coquetry. "No; Sir Charles shall have that, and Miss Waring will like the rest." He was a little annoyed; any man would have been treated with this seeming indifference whether he cared for the person or not. "You are determined never to be friends with me," he said. "On the contrary, I have to thank you and everybody here for a great deal of kindness." "I am sure both Margaret and Mr. Waring feel much obliged to you; her health is so delicate, that the house would have been in hopeless disorder except for your attention, and the old gentleman considers you perfection." "It is very pleasant to be appreciated," she answered, gayly. "At least, you ought to thank me; I kept Miss Waring from dying of regret during your absence." "Margaret would never die from any such feeling," he replied, impatiently. "I think where she loves, all her feelings are centered." "Ah, Miss Chase, romance fades rapidly during a long engagement." "So all engaged people tell me," she answered; "I shall take warning from this experience of others. But we must walk faster; Miss Waring will think us lost, unless Mr. Hinchley is charming enough to make her forget our absence." "I think Margaret does not care much for the society of gentlemen." "Not in general, I believe." "Nor in any particular case, I should hope," he said, quickly. "We quarrel a great deal, as you know, Miss Chase, but I have never thought coquetry among her faults." "Nor I." "Hinchley is greatly admired by young ladies," pursued Laurence; "but he seems to care very little about it." "He is very handsome--" "Why, you hardly looked at him." "I was quoting Miss Waring--incorrectly, however." "What did she say?" "That he had a very noble face--something above mere beauty." "She was quite eloquent," he said, dryly. "Oh no; but we were alone, and could not be silent." "And so you talked of Ralph Hinchley?" "Naturally enough, as he is her nearest relative. Are you blaming Miss Waring or me?" "Neither, I assure you." "Mr. Hinchley is dependent upon his profession, I believe." "Yes; I fancy he is not rich at all." "There I can sympathize with him." "Have you come to that?" "Don't make me appear silly! If Margaret were here, I should say something that you might construe into a compliment." "You have never paid me one--" "I never do compliment people whom I respect; that may account for it." "But what would you have said?" "That the men I have been in the habit of meeting since I came here have made me difficult to please, so that quite young gentlemen seldom strike me favorably." "Oh, that is flattery--" "It would have been to Miss Waring." "How so?" "A compliment to her taste in selecting you as a husband." By that time they had reached the veranda, and as she spoke the last words, Miss Chase ran up the steps, humming a song, and entered the hall just as Margaret descended the stairs, after having exchanged her habit for a dress more suitable to the house. "Are you better?" Sybil asked. "Yes; but I was terribly frightened, though I would not have Mr. Laurence know it for the world--my timidity annoys him so much." "He is coming," whispered Miss Chase. "Please come and make the tea," said Margaret; "my hands shake yet." Mr. Laurence joined them in the hall. "Well, you are not frightened, now it is all over?" he asked. "No, not much; anyway, I am unhurt." Miss Chase threw back the hood of her cloak, and accompanied them into the library; a glance at the hall-glass had convinced her that her appearance was picturesque. She stood a second in the door, took off the pretty blue mantle and laid it on a sofa; the breeze had given her a color, and her hair an added wave, particularly becoming. Margaret ensconced herself in an easy-chair near the fire, which had been kindled to give an appearance of comfort to the room, although the night was too warm to render it necessary. Miss Chase seated herself by the tray, while Laurence turned to Margaret: "Where is Hinchley?" "Gone up to see uncle; he will be down in a moment." The gentleman entered as she spoke. Sybil Chase was occupied, and did not look up. He gave her a quick glance, started, and a perplexed look passed over his face as if he fancied that he had seen her before, and was trying to remember where; then it faded, and he sat down near his cousin. "Uncle has gone to bed," he said; "he looks very ill to-night." "But he is better, I am sure he is," she replied, anxiously. "I hope so," he answered; and, remarking her agitation, changed the subject at once. "Have you been trouting, Laurence?" he asked. "I remember your old passion." "I was out the other day, but we will go again--an expedition for the ladies. Are you fond of trout-fishing, Miss Chase?" "Yes; I must plead guilty to the weakness and cruelty." "And you, Margaret?" "I shall like to go; but I never have any success." "And you think it wicked, I believe?" he replied, carelessly, and with a little irony, such as was often apparent in the conversations between the two lovers. "No matter what I think," she replied, smiling pleasantly enough, although displeased at his manner; "I will not force my private convictions upon any of you." "But you will have a cup of tea?" said Miss Chase. Mr. Hinchley went to the table, and taking the cup from Sybil, carried it to his cousin. "Hester has treated us to marmalade," said Laurence, laughing, as he approached the table. "Which I am morally certain you will spill on the carpet--won't he, Miss Waring?" "Of course; do keep him at the table, for the sake of the new carpet we both admire so much." "Then the whole dish of marmalade will be in danger," said Laurence. "Miss Chase will wisely move it," added Hinchley. "I think I must," added Sybil, "but there, you shall have a very large spoonful; it is better than roses." She put the conserve upon his plate, took up her flowers that lay on the table, and added: "I picked these for you, Miss Waring; they are from your favorite bush." She gave them to Hinchley to carry to Margaret; Mr. Laurence ate his marmalade and looked a little vexed. "They are beautiful roses," Hinchley said. "Very," Margaret replied, putting them carelessly in her hair; "you shall have a bud to reward you for not having purloined the whole bunch." She selected a half-open rose and handed it to him. Miss Chase smiled imperceptibly. "May I have a cup of tea, Miss Chase?" asked Laurence, adding, as he bent toward her: "You were over fastidious, you see." Not a word answered Sybil--just the slightest elevation of her eyebrows, the least possible expression of surprise about her mouth; yet, by that mere nothing, she contrived to show that she disapproved of the innocent and thoughtless act, but meant to keep any such feeling to herself. The evening passed pleasantly enough. Mr. Laurence forgot his momentary vexation, the cause of which he could scarcely have told. He challenged Miss Chase to a game of chess, and she consented. While the two played, Margaret and Mr. Hinchley sat by the fire, and talked of their uncle, the pleasures of old times, new books, and the thousand other trifles, about which people who have no deep feelings in common converse together. Miss Chase lost the game, because she had made up her mind to be defeated; but the next she won. Still, during the whole evening her attention was not sufficiently fixed upon either board or moves to prevent her hearing and seeing every thing that passed around her. CHAPTER XI. THE FEMALE IAGO. The engagement between Laurence and Margaret Waring had been a family affair, brought about principally by the romance of a maiden aunt, with whom the young man was a favorite. Edward had been under this relative's charge after the death of his parents, which occurred during his childhood, and she had petted and spoiled the boy as only a spinster could have done. Mr. Waring, the uncle of Margaret, was one of Miss Laurence's nearest neighbors, and the girl had been almost as great a favorite with the spinster as her own nephew. Indeed, it was said that Mabel Laurence had loved Margaret's father in her youthful days; but how that might be nobody really knew, for the old maid wisely kept her own secrets, as women, after all, are apt to do when there is nothing to gratify the vanity in them. But it happened that the boy and girl were reared almost like brother and sister, and the two houses were almost equally homes to both. Mr. Waring was a confirmed invalid, whose life seemed to hang upon a thread, and Miss Laurence had always been in yearly expectation that the girl would soon come entirely under her charge. People are generally mistaken in such calculations, and Miss Laurence was no exception; for when Margaret Waring was sixteen, the spinster died in her arms after a short but violent illness. Edward, then a youth of twenty, was traveling in Europe, and by one of the old lady's last commands was to remain there at least a year longer. When the will was opened, it was found to contain a singular clause--one common enough in novels, and as the spinster had been an insatiable devourer of light literature, it is quite probable that she derived from thence the idea which was expressed in her testament. Her fortune, which was a very large one, was divided equally between her nephew and Margaret Waring, on condition that they became husband and wife; otherwise, no provision was made for Margaret, a small annuity was left Laurence, and the rest of the property was to be employed in founding a hospital for old maids. Now, I am not drawing upon my imagination for these details; this was the will as it was actually written. Miss Laurence was convinced that Margaret and her nephew had loved each other from childhood, so that she believed herself acting for their happiness; besides, she had English blood in her veins, and could not resist the true British desire to display her own power and authority, even after death. The year passed. Edward Laurence returned home when Margaret was seventeen; the engagement had been regarded as a settled thing. The young people loved each other--there could be no doubt of that; but, after a time, the very certainty that their destinies had been settled for them in a fashion so compulsory, led to all manner of disagreements and quarrels. Two years before the commencement of this record, Mr. Waring had been obliged to go South for his health, and it was necessary to provide a companion for Margaret during his absence. Some friend had introduced Sybil Chase, and she spent the winter in the family. From the time of her entrance into that house could be dated the first real unhappiness of the young pair. Sybil had been brought up by a bad, unprincipled mother, educated far beyond what the woman's means seemed to permit, and for what end only her own erratic mind ever knew. Soon after she left school, the young girl quarreled with her mother, and for several years earned her own living as best she might. We will not inquire too closely into the records of that Bohemian life. It is sufficient for our story that she at length took up her residence with Margaret Waring, just as that young lady's engagement to young Laurence became known. How it came about, Margaret could never have told; but before she had been many weeks in the house, Sybil Chase had made herself of the utmost importance there. She quietly relieved Margaret of every duty; she read to her, she talked with her--not at all with the manner of a dependent, which, in a certain sense, she was not, but as an equal and friend. When Margaret had time to think, she felt a certain unaccountable repugnance to Sybil; yet in her society there was a charm which few people could have resisted. Against her better judgment, contrary to her principles and her common sense, Margaret acquired a habit of talking freely with her. Sybil knew all the disagreements and troubles which disturbed the house, understood perfectly Margaret's character, and had studied Laurence himself with still more subtle criticism. With all the wild fervor of her passionate youth, Sybil Chase became fatally attached to young Laurence; yet so firm was her self-command, so deep her powers of duplicity, that she gave no sign of the passion that consumed her. In the depths of her soul she was resolved that the man she loved should never fulfill his engagement; but just as she was beginning to weave her meshes around him, Mr. Waring came home, broke up his establishment, and proceeded with his daughter on a long tour through the West Indies and Southern States. Once more this singular young creature was thrown back upon her mother's support. An imperfect reconciliation took place between them, and she sunk gradually into her old life, which became more and more irksome from contact with persons so unlike those with whom she had been recently associated. While her mind was in this restless state, she heard that young Laurence had followed his betrothed to Cuba, in which place the marriage had taken place. The news stung her to madness. In the first paroxysm of wounded affection and mortified pride, she fell in with Philip Yates, married him privately, and went away. In two years she came back to her mother again, but to be the protector, not the dependent, now. She had money, which was shared generously with the old woman; but, in a short time, this constant companionship with an unrefined and evil-minded woman became unendurable. Sybil was in no state of mind to accept the dull life presented in this companionship. She had rested long enough, and now felt that keen hunger for excitement which follows prolonged inaction. While this fever was strong upon her, she met Laurence in the street. Little suspecting the passion that drove the blood from her cheek, or that they had met before in far distant mountains of the golden State, he upbraided her kindly for keeping aloof from her old friends, spoke regretfully of Mr. Waring's still infirm health, and of Margaret's protracted feebleness. She choked down the passion that swelled in her throat, and inquired kindly if his wife had been seriously ill. Laurence laughed. "Wife?" he answered, coloring a little. "Oh, Maggie and I are not married yet. The old gentleman says that we are young enough to wait." Sybil's heart bounded in her bosom. Her eyes flashed--she could not altogether conceal the triumph of her joy. "Are you never coming to see Margaret?" he said. "Margaret--Margaret Waring? Oh yes." "The old gentleman is seriously ill again. You ought to come. He often says no one ever proved so good a nurse as you." "The good old man. I will go to him." She went to Waring's house the next day, and stayed there. Mr. Waring was ill and selfish; he would not let her go away. She yielded with apparent reluctance, and quietly commenced her work. By her soft words, broken sentences, and subtle looks, Margaret and Laurence had become almost completely estranged, and nothing but the persuasions of mutual friends prevented their breaking the engagement which bound them. Sybil looked on and waited, fostered their difficulties, and watched for the moment which should secure the victory to her love. She was greatly aided by the manner in which their betrothal had been brought about, the consequences of which had been exactly those a wise person would have anticipated. The romance of an involuntary engagement wore rapidly away. Both were pained, and each blamed the other for things which were at once the fault and the misfortune of a forced position. Margaret was proud and exacting, morbidly sensitive, and her high spirit revolted at the idea of submission, often prevented her yielding to her lover's wishes when she knew herself to be in the wrong. These feelings rendered her fearful of betraying her fondness, and in numberless ways brought pain to her own heart and that of the man who loved her. On the other hand, Edward was as passionate and imperious as she could possibly be; his temper was violent, and when that was roused, he gave way to every reckless word that anger could suggest, forgetting them entirely when his temper cooled. Margaret could not forget; she remembered them all, treasured up every cruel word, every scornful sneer, like poisoned arrows wherewith to pierce her heart anew in her lonely hours. The young girl grew cold and unsympathetic, careless of exciting his rage, but often taking refuge in an icy impassibility, which excited him more than any recrimination would have done. A stubborn, obstinate will developed itself in her character, against which the waves of her lover's passions beat in vain; but that very resolution separated them still further. All this had been the growth of Sybil's subtle influence. For the first period of their engagement they had been very happy. What caused their first quarrel, neither could have told; the source was probably as slight as it usually is in such cases; the effect had been fraught with many evil influences, such as are apt to follow similar misunderstandings. They had reached a point where each looked back on the past with angry, defiant feelings. It was like gazing across a troubled sea upon a fair landscape--to glance from the present back into the beautiful past. Had they been older and wiser, both parties might have done much toward changing the state of things. A single honest effort would have swept aside the heavy clouds which loomed darkly in the future. But neither of them understood this, or would have made any effort of the kind had it been pointed out. So they quarreled openly and avowedly, and the fact that in each heart lay a great well-spring of affection, made their quarrels more bitter and implacable. Margaret was made to believe that her lover had ceased to care for her, and wished to continue his engagement only that he might tyrannize and command. Her health had become more delicate than ever, the bloom of early girlhood was fading, and although still very lovely, she had learned to think her beauty gone, and decided that with it all affection had departed from the heart of her betrothed. Those feelings and suspicions made her colder and more unyielding, until Edward wondered he could ever have thought her winning or gentle. He was irritated by the indifference with which she treated every attempt at a reconciliation, and the violence of his temper increased in proportion to the pain of his position. They suffered greatly, those poor, blind creatures! Daily the cloud which had descended upon their home grew blacker and swept them still further apart. Indeed, they had reached that point where it would need but a little thing to bring the tempest down in its wild fury--the terrible tempest which should wrench from them all hope of happiness or peace, which must desolate their after lives, and leave them stranded upon a desert with no hope left, no memory unstained, no love in the future. The marriage of this young couple had been deferred from various causes, the principal ones being Mr. Waring's frequent illnesses and the delicate state in which Margaret's health had fallen during the past year. Laurence almost made his home at the house, and as he had no profession or settled business, he found more time than was requisite for making himself miserable, and gave way to all manner of repinings. During her former residence at Mr. Waring's house, it had chanced that Hinchley had never seen Sybil Chase, and her very existence was almost unknown to him, before that agitated introduction on the hill-side. Thus she had no fears of a recognition, or that her face would bring back to him that fearful night in the valley ranche. With her heart thus at rest, she went down stairs on the morning after his arrival, according to her usual habit since the pleasant June weather had come in. No members of the family were stirring except the servants, for Margaret was inclined to gratify the indolence arising from ill-health, and the family breakfast-hour was always a late one. With her cheeks fresh as the roses, Miss Chase descended the stairs, went forth to the garden, and proceeded into the rose thickets, looking beautiful and bright as the dewy scene that surrounded her. Indeed, as she stood there in her gipsy bonnet and muslin dress, a prettier picture could not well be imagined. She had a basket on her arm, a pair of scissors in her hand, and daintily snipped off the stems of such blossoms as pleased her; she pressed the gathered roses to her red lips till they were wet with dew, took the fresh scent of each in turn, and dropped one after another into her basket. While pursuing her task, she sung snatches of pleasant tunes in a clear soprano voice that floated richly on the air. Occasionally, in the midst of her employment, Miss Chase glanced toward the upper windows or the hall-door. The first person who appeared was Mr. Laurence. He saw Sybil and walked toward her. Miss Chase was greatly occupied just then, and gave no attention to his approach. "Good-morning," he said; "are you talking so sweetly with those roses that you can neither see nor hear?" "I am trying to steal their color," she replied, with an honest sort of frankness that was very captivating. "Look at this bud, Mr. Laurence; did you ever see any thing more beautiful?" "Lovely, indeed; you perceive you were over fastidious about giving away your flowers last night. Margaret did not prize them as highly as you expected." "What proof have you?" "She gave one to Hinchley." "Oh yes, so she did; but he is a relative, remember. I need not offer you flowers in your own garden. I am certain it was the merest thoughtlessness which made Margaret bestow the roses on your guest last night." "Who ever supposed it was any thing else?" "Oh, I thought--that is, from the way you spoke--" "What did you think?" "That you were not pleased, if I must say it." "I thought very little about the matter. I have no fancy for setting up as a pale-faced Othello." "Oh dear, I should hope not; there would be nobody but me to play Emilie, and I should certainly run away, instead of standing by poor Desdemona. But I have to beg your pardon for my absurd mistake." "What do you mean?" "For thinking you were displeased. I might have known you had more sense, but I have seen men who would have pouted for a week over a trifle of less consequence." "Did you think it wrong?" "Good heavens, no; but I am not a proper judge. I suppose every wife ought to be exceedingly careful; but then, is a woman to be deprived of every bit of sentiment or romance?" "I don't think Margaret addicted to either. I should be sorry to believe it." "And I too. But I must take my basket of flowers into the house; don't stand here fighting shadows, Mr. Laurence." "I am not aware that I have been doing battle with any such unsubstantial thing," he answered. Miss Chase turned toward the house; he followed, but with a new train of thought awakened in his mind. He began to wonder if he really had been displeased at this trifle; certainly, he was not jealous, but he would permit no impropriety. Had there been any? The simple giving of a flower--she had done nothing more than that; and yet--well, he had not thought much of it at the time, but Miss Chase had in a measure convinced him that he was more impressed than he had believed. If Margaret was going to add coquetry to her numerous other faults, his life would be irksome enough! He accompanied Sybil into the breakfast-room, helped her arrange the flowers, and in the process they fell into a pleasant conversation. It was a full half-hour before Hinchley or Margaret made their appearance. A great deal can be done in that length of time, especially when economized with as much wisdom as Sybil Chase was capable of employing. CHAPTER XII. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. Soon after breakfast, Hinchley and Laurence rode over to a neighboring town upon some business for Mr. Waring, leaving the two ladies alone. Miss Chase and Margaret still sat in the breakfast-room, the latter pretending to read the paper, from very weariness and disinclination to talk, while Sybil held some embroidery in her hand, and, under cover of that employment, watched her companion with keen scrutiny. "I am seized with a fever," she said, suddenly. Margaret looked up and smiled a little. "What is the name of it," she asked. "One common enough to us poor, weak women--I want a new spring dress. If it were not for leaving you alone, I am half inclined to run into town and make a purchase." "Do not let me detain you," returned Margaret, feeling so ill at ease with herself and every thing and person around her, that she was pleased with this prospect of solitude. "I suppose the gentlemen will soon return." "I am sure I do not know," she answered, indifferently. "You will not feel lonely if I go?" "Pray, do not think me so foolish." "You know I like to sit with you, Miss Waring." "But to-day, go to town and shop if the mania has taken possession of you. By the way, if you see any pretty pink organdy, you may purchase it for me, and leave it at Mrs. Forrest's to be made up. I remember now, a new dress is the very thing I want." "I had better dress at once; let me see: the train starts at eleven. I shall be in town at two o'clock." "George will drive you over to the depot; you have just time to dress and get there. You will be back to dinner?" "Oh yes; before, perhaps." After a few careless words, Miss Chase went up to her room, and as she passed down stairs ready to go, opened the door of the breakfast-room, where Margaret sat in the same dreary solitude. "Have you any other commands?" she asked, pleasantly. "None, thank you; what a fine day you will have." "Oh, lovely; good-morning." Margaret returned this farewell, and Miss Chase took her departure. There the unhappy girl remained, and let the hours float on while she gave herself up to a thousand bitter reflections. The bright spring morning had no charm for Margaret, the merry carols of the birds upon the lawn had lost their sweetness to her ear; she could only gaze upon the dark shadows of her life, and mark how, day by day, it drifted into deeper gloom. Her strength seemed to fail daily, and that of itself would have been sorrow enough for one of her age; but she had sterner troubles still. How the promise of her girlhood had cheated her! The affection which she had believed was to brighten all coming years, was rapidly fading from her life. Let it go! She would make no effort to recover either the hopes or the love that she had lost. Laurence might take his own course; she would not try to recall his wandering fancies. She believed that her heart was strong enough to despise his love if again offered. There Margaret made the mistake which all young persons fall into when the proud, untried heart falls into its first love-sorrow. While Margaret indulged in that mournful revery, Sybil Chase was on her way to the city, smiling and pleasant, affable to every one that came in her way; even the servant, who drove her over to the station, thought to himself what a different lady she was from his silent, haughty mistress; and the farmers who rented portions of Mr. Waring's estate, and among whom she had made herself a very popular person, smiled pleasantly as she rode by. Cheerful and handsome she looked, sitting in the train, and being whirled rapidly along the pretty route on her way to town. She reached the city even earlier than she anticipated, and went about her errands at once, with her accustomed straightforwardness. Nothing was forgotten. Margaret's indifferent message was punctually fulfilled, and in a manner which must have satisfied a much more difficult person than Margaret. When she had completed her purchases, Miss Chase took her way to a retired and somewhat unpleasant part of the town. She had her vail drawn, and hurried along as if anxious not to be observed by any chance acquaintance. She stopped before a decent looking tenement-house, ascended the steps, glanced about with her habitual caution, to see that no one was watching her, and entered the hall. She mounted the weary staircase, which appeared interminable, passed through several dark entries, and at length knocked at one of the doors which opened into a passage nearest the roof. Twice she knocked, the second time imperatively and with impatience; then a querulous voice called out: "Come in, can't you; the door isn't locked." So Miss Chase turned the knob, opened the door, and entered a small, plainly furnished room, yet bearing no evidence of the extreme poverty which often makes the tenement-house so dreary. A woman was seated near the little window, in a stiff-backed chair, dividing her attention between a half-finished stocking and a number of some weekly newspaper of the cheapest class, full of wonderful cuts and more wonderful stories. She looked up quickly as Miss Chase entered, gave out an evil, wicked glance, which appeared natural to her, although the general appearance of her face was quiet and commonplace enough. "So you've come," was her only salutation. "Yes; did you expect me?" "I expected you three days ago." "I was constantly occupied; it was impossible for me to get away until now." "You needn't lie," returned the woman, curtly. "I won't," said Sybil, serene as ever. She seated herself opposite the female and untied her bonnet-strings, looking placid and at home, as she invariably was in all places and under all circumstances. The woman glanced keenly at her, and a strange sort of affectionate look crept over her face. "You're brooding mischief," she pronounced suddenly and emphatically, as if she would permit no contradiction. "What makes you think so?" Sybil asked. "'Cause you grow good-looking; when you get that bright, contented look, I always know there's something in the wind." "You are very wise," replied Sybil, evincing no displeasure at the accusation, which would have struck many persons unpleasantly. "Yes; I ain't blind; I've generally kept my eyes open going through this world." "That is the only way, if one does not wish to run against the wall." "As you did once," retorted the woman, with a chuckle; "you know you did that, cute as you think yourself." "I have not forgotten it," replied Sybil, coolly; "the hurt taught me to keep my eyes open too." "Learned you to look before you leap," said the woman. "Well, I guess you owe a good deal to my lessons." Sybil did not answer, but shrugged her shoulders slightly, and gazed out of the window, occupied with her own reflections. "Now don't act as if I was a log of wood," said the woman, fretfully; "there's nothing makes me so mad." "I was waiting to hear what you would say next." "What did you come for?" "To see you, of course." "Well, look at me; I don't charge any thing for the sight! I used to be worth the trouble of turning round to see, I did; I was better looking than you are or ever will be--but that's all over. Just say what you're after now." "I came because I thought you wanted something." "You should have brought me money three days ago; I hate to be behindhand with my rent." "Surely you ought to have had enough for that; you know how little money I possess...." "Fiddle-de-dee! Ask that Laurence for some." "I can not do that; you must see how impossible it is." "There's nothing impossible where money is concerned. But no matter, take your own way." "It is growing clear now," said Sybil. "Time it did; you've made mistakes enough." Sybil did not appear desirous of pursuing the conversation. She took out her purse, counted several gold pieces into her palm, while the woman watched her with covetous eyes. "That will serve you until I come again," she said, extending her hand. The woman clutched the money eagerly, counted it twice to be certain there was no mistake, then rose from her seat and went to an old bureau in a corner of the room. After fumbling in her pocket for a while, and pulling out a heterogeneous mass of things, a dingy red silk handkerchief among the rest, she produced a small key, unlocked one of the drawers, and put the gold carefully away in a buckskin bag; then she locked the bureau again, and returned to her seat. "That is safe," she said, more complacently; the touch of the money had evidently mollified her feelings. "Now, let's talk about something else--about your plans, say." "I can not answer your questions; every thing is dark yet--a few months will decide." "Don't you get careless, you know." "There is no fear; I am not a child." "No; and you've learned by the hardest." "Don't ever speak of the past; I can bury it now--I have buried it." "Wal, it's a dead friend I guess you ain't sorry to be rid of." Sybil looked white; her eyes had a strained, unnatural expression, and her hands clenched together with the old force and tightness. "It is all over--all over." "Nothing to be afraid of, I s'pose, unless you believe in ghosts or such things." Sybil's face changed; she dropped her hands; the color came back to her cheek--she laughed outright, a defiant, mocking sound. "Not at all; no ghost will trouble me--not even _his_." "Tell me a little how things go on." The woman drew closer to her visitor, and inclined her head to listen attentively. Sybil talked for many moments in a voice sunk almost to a whisper, as if dropping hints to which she dared not give utterance aloud. Her companion noted every word and movement, while a bad, malignant expression crept over her face, till it seemed impossible that it should ever have looked comely or pleasant. Sometimes she nodded her head approvingly; once she laughed outright. Sybil put up her hand to check the merriment, which would have grated harshly upon a less well-attuned ear than hers. "I must go now," Miss Chase said, at last; "I shall not get back by dinner-time as it is." "I ought to be there," the woman exclaimed; "there is so much I could do." "I know that, if you would only manage to control your temper." "Never you fear me; I can do that easy enough when there is any thing to be gained by it." "One never knows what may happen. Always keep yourself in readiness to obey my summons." "I could start at any moment." "We shall be obliged to wait; an opportunity may arise by which I could introduce you to the house." "Make the opportunity; a smart woman can always do that." "Ah! you have not my prudence." "I guess you learned it lately; but we won't quarrel. If you want me, I will come." "You would not care in what way; you would not mind the occupation?" "Lord bless you, no; I'm good at any thing--general housework, cooking; it's all fish that comes to my basket." "Good-by, now," said Sybil; "I shall miss the train if I stop another moment." The woman followed her to the door, whispered some added parting advice, and watched her disappear down the stairs. Then she returned to the room and set about preparing herself a cup of tea, chuckling occasionally in a sharp way, like a meditative macaw, and looking altogether so unpleasant that a timid person would have been reluctant to remain alone in the chamber with her. As Miss Chase predicted, dinner was over when she reached Mr. Waring's residence. She quietly disposed of her own repast which the housekeeper had condescended to set aside for her, and then, after changing her dress, went down into the library. Mr. Laurence was sitting there alone, looking sullen and discontented enough; but he brightened somewhat when she entered, and greeted her cheerfully. "I am glad you have come; I began to think I should have to spend the evening by myself, as Hinchley is busy with his uncle." "Where is Miss Waring?" Sybil asked. "In her own room, pouting or crying, according to the stage her ill-humor has reached." Sybil sighed and shook her head. "Are you blaming me?" he asked. "It was not my fault that we quarreled, but Margaret would provoke a saint! I could not tell to save my life, what the disturbance began about. I think I said one could not breathe in this room for the flowers; with that she worked herself into a violent rage, as if I had committed some unpardonable enormity." "You should be patient," said Miss Chase. "I know my temper is bad, but she seems to do every thing in her power to excite it. Why should you always blame me?" "Am I blaming you?" she asked, softly. "It is not my place to express any opinion upon your differences with Miss Waring." "I don't see why; both Margaret and myself regard you as a friend. I know she tells you all her troubles freely enough; why should you refuse to listen to my part of the story?" "I do not refuse," she answered, sighing heavily; "but it pains me to know that you disagree so terribly." "Disagree is a mild word; I admire your politeness; you know we quarrel like two hawks in a cage." Miss Chase sighed again. This deep breath expressed as much sympathy as words could have done, and was far safer just there. "The truth is," exclaimed Laurence, suddenly, "Margaret does not love me; there is the foundation of our troubles." "Are you not judging hastily?" "No; I have felt it for a long time; I am certain of it now. Tell me: do you believe any woman who loved a man would act as she does? Do you consider that she conducts herself as an engaged person should?" "You must not ask me such questions; it would be wrong in me to answer." "At least you can say if you think she loves me?" Miss Chase hesitated. "Speak the truth," said he, violently. "No," returned Sybil, in a low whisper. "Every one sees it," continued Lawrence; "I knew you did. She is hard-hearted and ungrateful." "Do not be harsh--" "How can I help it," he interrupted; "she has wrecked my life--turned it into a curse. I have no hope--not a friend." A tear fell from Sybil's downcast lashes, and rolled slowly down her cheek; she stole one glance, full of beautiful sympathy toward him--that was all. "I believe you pity me," he said; "of late I have begun to hope it. You will be my friend; say, will you not try to help me?" "So far as it is in my power, heaven knows I will. But I am a woman; I must be so cautious. Indeed, I would not incur Margaret's displeasure or that of Mr. Waring for the world." "She would hate any one who feels kindly toward me!" He broke off abruptly, and gave himself up to a gloomy train of thought which took him far away from his companion; it did not suit Sybil to have it continue. "You have had no tea," she said; "shall I order it brought up?" "If you will stay and take it with me." "First, let me inquire if Miss Waring will come down." "Leave her where she is; I have had contention enough." But Miss Chase kept her worldly wisdom in view. She went up stairs and found Margaret lying on the bed, but the unhappy girl could not be induced to rise. "I don't wish any tea," she said; "I am going to sleep." "Then I will have mine in my room." "Please go down," said Margaret; "some of those tiresome people from the village will be certain to call, and if you are not ready to receive them, I shall be dragged out. I shan't take the trouble for Ralph or Mr. Laurence." Willing to oblige, Miss Chase consented, and returned to the angry lover, only to exasperate his discontent. No one did call that evening. Hinchley did not appear, and the two spent it in sad, earnest conversation. Edward Laurence retired to his room more than ever offended with Margaret, and convinced that Sybil Chase was the only person in the world who understood or pitied him--a high-minded, clear-sighted woman, whom he respected, and whose friendship appeared better worth having than the deepest love of ordinary women. Sybil sat pondering over the fire. In all the mischief which she had wrought, there was no possibility of tracing her influence; she had told no bungling falsehoods to be covered up or explained away; had committed no little feminine indiscretions at which the mistress of a household could cavil. Indeed, nothing could be more quiet and respectable than her whole conduct. She was very kind and useful in every respect. She made the house far more comfortable than it had ever been before, and was always ready to mediate in a quiet way between the lovers in their quarrels, regretting, in a Christian manner, her inability to check them altogether; but with all her precautions, she had a difficult part to act, and it caused her much anxiety. CHAPTER XIII. HIGHCLIFF. Of course that last quarrel between Laurence and Margaret was put aside after a time, as so many previous difficulties had been; but it left a more hurtful impression upon the minds of both than any former disagreement had ever been able to produce. A party of guests, invited several months before, were staying at the house for a week, and in the general gayety, both Laurence and Margaret almost forgot their troubles. There was nothing approaching confidence between them; they were civil and polite, but avoided explanations. In the haughty sensitiveness of young hearts, neither party was in a mood for taking the first step toward a reconciliation. Parties and expeditions of all sorts were planned and carried out, into which Margaret entered with a feverish excitement which increased her lover's anger; he could not understand that her gayety was a vexed foam, rising and frothing over the deep wretchedness within. Ralph Hinchley was still at the house, and his quick perceptions made him understand, more clearly than any one else, the state of feeling between the unhappy pair. He was an honorable, high principled man, and not for the world would he have been guilty of an act which could produce new discord with those already divided hearts. But he pitied Laurence, and his sympathy for Margaret made him unusually kind and gentle. But Miss Chase watched every movement or word with her lynx-eyes, and turned each into the shape that best suited her purpose. Laurence made Sybil his confidant now with the most perfect freedom; he told her all his suspicions, his unhappiness and fears; she gave him back the most touching sympathy, and such advice as proved satisfactory to his feelings in every respect. Margaret was too much preoccupied to observe any thing of this. Miss Chase was so wary and prudent, that she would have averted the suspicions of a much more jealous person than her young hostess. Edward Laurence, even in his anger and wretchedness, would have shrunk from any deliberate wrong to Margaret; but, day by day, Sybil's influence over him increased--day by day her wiles produced their effect, and placed him more completely in her dangerous power. They were conversing one morning in the breakfast-room before any one else was down--for Miss Chase persevered in her habit of early rising, and many long talks and rambles were taken with an unexpressed understanding of which no one in the house had the slightest idea. They were talking of Margaret; she was often the subject of their conversations, while she lay in her darkened chamber, trying to forget her ills in broken slumber, which the dreary watches of the night had refused to give. "How much Miss Waring enjoys society," Sybil said; "I am glad that these people happened to come just now--she was miserable before." "Then you pity her for the misfortunes she has brought upon herself?" "I pity her all the more on that account." "I am not so charitable." "At all events, she is gay and happy now," pursued Sybil. "Yes; she can be pleasant to all the world except me," cried Laurence, bitterly. "I will not permit you to be unjust," returned Miss Chase. "You can not deny that she is heartless and capricious; you admitted as much the other day." "Did I? Then it was very wrong in me." "Ah, you have no sympathy with my misery." "Do not reproach me in this way; you know it is unjust." "But did you not own you considered her cold and hard?" "No; I admitted that she was capricious." "But not heartless?" "Not at all; I believe her capable of strong, even intense feeling." "I have never witnessed any exhibition of it." "I hope she will always remain in ignorance of it herself." "Why?" "Because it would place her in a very unhappy position. I pity any woman who is liable to make the discovery of such feelings when it is too late--when she can but sit down in passive submission to her destiny." "Margaret is too impetuous for that." "Nay, you can not believe that she would fail to resist such feelings, when marriage made them a sin." "I have never thought. I do not choose to contemplate the possibility of a thing like that." "It is much wiser not." The words grated unpleasantly on Laurence's ear; he could not tell why, but a vague suspicion in regard to Margaret woke in his mind--once roused, no power could thrust it aside. "We go to Highcliff to-day, I believe," Sybil said, after a pause, too wise ever to push a conversation one step too far. "Yes; that was decided last night," he answered, moodily. "I wish these people were gone; I am tired of bustle and confusion. My own stay in the country should terminate at once, only the old gentleman won't hear of it." Miss Chase expressed her entire participation in his weariness, and noticing that the hands of the clock had crept round to the hour at which people might be expected to make their appearance, she went out of the room and did not appear again until several of the party were gathered in the breakfast-room. Soon after noon they started upon the expedition to Highcliff, a lofty mountain that towered over a river which flowed through the valley in which Mr. Waring's property lay, and was accessible to the summit by persons on horseback. It was a large, merry party; Margaret was recklessly gay, conscious that her lover was watching her, and growing more excited and determined to appear careless and unconcerned on that account. When they reached the top of the mountain, the horses were left in care of the servants, and the people wandered about at their pleasure, dividing into little groups and enjoying themselves as best suited their peculiar idiosyncracies. Late in the afternoon, Sybil Chase, who had been talking first with one group then with another, looked about and missed Margaret and Hinchley; it seemed proper to her, in her wisdom, that their movements should be watched, and she flitted hither and yon among the trees in search of them. Margaret had gone with Hinchley and a young girl, who had her own object in seeking that part of the woods, in search of a spring that broke out from the hollow of a charming little dell near by, filling the woods with its crystalline music. The hollow was celebrated not only for its spring of fresh water, but for the bird-songs that rung through it from morning to night, making the place, in more senses than one, a paradise. The friends walked on, enjoying the shadows and sunshine that played through the branches. Margaret had, really, no thought of avoiding any of her party; but after Laurence left her side, she had little care about time or place. As they came near the dell, Margaret's young friend changed her mind, as girls of sixteen sometimes will, very unaccountably. She had seen a certain young gentleman flitting through the distant shadows, and as his supposed presence there had brought her toward the spring, a glimpse of his movements in another direction checked her desire for a drink of cold water on the instant. But she was seized with an overpowering hunger for young wintergreen, and that always grew best on slopes which the sunshine visited occasionally--never in hollows. She mentioned this craving wish with some hesitation, but Margaret only smiled and said: "Nonsense, nonsense; time enough for that when we have seen the spring." They moved a few paces and came in sight of the dell, a beautiful hollow shaded with hemlocks, dogwood and wild honeysuckles. Fragments of rock lay in the bed of the hollow, through which a crystal brooklet, born at the spring, crept and murmured caressingly, sending up its tiny spray, and clothing its friends, the rocks, with the brightest moss. Water-cresses shone up through the waves, and speckled trout slept under the fern-leaves. It was a delightful place, cool and heavenly; but the young lady of sixteen saw that figure moving away through the distance, and grew frantic from fear of snakes. Copperheads and red-adders, she protested, were always found in just such places--she saw one then, creeping around the foot of that hemlock. So with pretty expostulations and divers shrieks loud enough to arrest the young man in his covert, she darted off toward the open glades, where that shadowy figure was soon busy on his knees gathering young wintergreens for her benefit. "Shall we go on?" Margaret asked, when the young lady had retreated. "If you are not tired," Hinchley answered. "I should like to go down very much. The dell is the prettiest spot I ever saw, and the water delicious." "Oh yes, it is a lovely spot," Margaret said. "Some day I intend to make a sketch of it. Let us select the best view." They went down the descent and stood by the spring, which rushed out from among the rocks with a pleasant, bell-like murmur, and cast its tiny shower of spray-bubbles over the violets that fringed it. "How still it is," Margaret observed. "Yes; it is refreshing to escape from all that chatter. How constantly people do talk." "Yet if one is silent, it is to be considered stupid." "But stupidity would be a relief sometimes." Margaret did not answer; she was busy with her own thoughts. When Hinchley spoke again it was of other things. He had been shocked at finding so much changed at the homestead, for the old gentleman now saw no visitors and seldom left his room, and Ralph felt that he ought to make Margaret understand how little hope there was that she could much longer have her uncle's house as a place of protection. Margaret wept bitterly; but when he attempted to speak of Laurence, or allude to her marriage, she only turned passionately away, with bitter, haughty words that made Ralph fear both for her and his friend. While they stood talking by the spring, Sybil Chase moved softly through the underbrush and looked down at them. After a moment's silent watch, she went back toward the place where she had left Laurence conversing with a group of persons who had become tired of wandering among the trees. She remained a little way off from the party, and very soon he took occasion to join her. They began to converse, and gradually walked down the hill. Sybil did not appear to be leading him to any particular spot, but was walking as absently along as himself. She paused on a rise of ground which commanded a view of the dell. Sybil watched Laurence, but stood with her face turned from the spring. He caught sight of the pair standing in the dell--gave a quick start, while the color shot up to his forehead. "Are you ill?" Sybil asked, gently. "Look down there," he replied, pointing to Margaret and Hinchley, who were absorbed in conversation, Ralph holding his cousin's hand, while she wept unrestrainedly. "It is Margaret," said Sybil. "And Hinchley." "They have come to see the spring." "I perceive, Miss Chase;" he spoke bitterly. "Nonsense, Mr. Laurence--you are not jealous? He is her cousin." "No--I am displeased." "It means nothing at all." "But it does not look well. I can see you think so. "It may be a little imprudent, but you know Margaret is very impulsive. Shall we go down?" "We will not disturb them." "Don't look so stern, Mr. Laurence; you really frighten me." "There is no cause for alarm. The moment Margaret convinces me that she is a flirt, I shall feel only contempt for her." "I am sure she is not in fault," returned Sybil. "I never saw her encourage the slightest attention from any gentleman before." "True--I had not thought of that." He frowned, black and angry, bit his lip and reflected. "You meant something then which I did not comprehend," said Miss Chase. "I was reflecting. I never saw Margaret on such friendly terms with any man before. It makes me think the more seriously of this." "Great heavens, Mr. Laurence, you can not suspect her! Hinchley is her cousin. They have been dear friends from childhood." "She is my betrothed wife. She has no right to make herself a subject of comment." "Come away!" she exclaimed, quickly; "come away!" She took his hand and drew him back into the path. "It is nothing," she repeated several times. "I am convinced that you are angry without cause." "I believe so," replied Laurence--"I must believe it! But Margaret had better take care. I have borne a great deal. She shall not, by her folly or her vanity, make me ridiculous, nor will I be made a dupe." "Such words, Mr. Laurence!" "I mean them! As for Hinchley, if he make trouble between Margaret and me, I shall hold him guilty as if she were my wife." Sybil sighed heavily. "Of what are you thinking?" asked Laurence. "I hardly know--I can not tell." "I see that you are troubled," he said, violently. "Sybil, you have called yourself my friend; answer me: do you believe that Hinchley loves Margaret?" Sybil hesitated; her head was averted, as if she could not bear to meet his earnest gaze. "I have ceased to believe that she cares greatly for me. Tell me if you think Hinchley is more to her than a cousin and friend." "Do not ask me; mine are only vague suspicions. I can not be the one to destroy your last hope of happiness." "I am answered," he said, gloomily. "No, no; I will not--I can not answer! Look for yourself, Mr. Laurence. I may be wrong. I have very strict and, what people might think, singular ideas. Oh! don't mind what I have said." "I will see for myself," he answered, recklessly. "Let me once be convinced, and I shall leave her forever. Oh, Sybil! you are my friend--the only one to whom I can turn for sympathy." Sybil buried her face in her hands and burst into tears; but when he attempted to question her, she broke from him. "Let me go!" she exclaimed. "I blush for my own weakness. Let me go, Edward Laurence!" She hurried away, leaving him bewildered and troubled. For the first time he felt dimly that Sybil loved him, and the consciousness brought a host of inexplicable feelings to his heart. She looked so lovely in her distress--her gentleness, in contrast with Margaret's violence and ill-temper, was so touching, that her image lingered in his imagination--the only ray of light in all the blackness which surrounded him. As Hinchley and his cousin passed up the hill, they saw Sybil Chase conversing with a little group of friends. "I have a horror of that woman," said Ralph. "Yet she seems a quiet, sensible person," replied Margaret. "I have allowed myself to become prejudiced against her; but when I am in her society I forget it all." Hinchley did not answer. The remembrance of that terrible night in California came back, as was always the case, when Sybil Chase came in sight. Her figure started up instead of the woman he had but half seen, and he turned from the thought with self-abhorrence--it was wicked to indulge it even for an instant. While they stood together, Laurence approached, pale and agitated, like a man under the excitement of wine. "Edward!" Hinchley called out, cheerfully. "Laurence, is it not almost time to go home?" "I suppose you are at liberty to choose your own time," replied Laurence, insolently. Margaret colored scarlet; an insult to her cousin seemed given to herself. "What is the matter?" asked Ralph, in surprise. "Oh, pay no attention," interposed Margaret, before Laurence could reply. "It is only a slight specimen of Mr. Laurence's civility. He is not satisfied with being rude to me, but must extend his bad manners to my relatives." "You are at liberty to put any construction you please upon my words or manner," returned Laurence. "I shall not account to either of you." "To me it is a matter of perfect indifference," said Margaret, haughtily. Ralph looked from one to the other in pain and astonishment, at a loss what to say or do. "Now don't quarrel like children," he exclaimed, trying to laugh. "Come, shake hands and be friends." "Miss Waring's conduct proves how sincerely she desires to be friends," answered Laurence, with a harsh laugh. "I do not wish it," she exclaimed, greatly irritated by his manner. "Margaret! Margaret!" pleaded Ralph. "Oh, don't check her," sneered Laurence. "He can not," returned Margaret. "I am weary of this rudeness--weary of you." "Say and do what you please; I will leave you in more agreeable society," said Laurence, hurrying away. Hinchley tried to expostulate with her, but words were thrown away. During the ride home, and the whole evening, Margaret and Laurence did not speak. Ralph kept near her, anxious to soothe her anger, while Laurence and Sybil Chase watched every movement and look. Thus, with her proud spirit up in arms, and her heart aching with wounded tenderness, the poor girl rushed into the snare so insidiously laid beneath her feet. CHAPTER XIV. THE JAIL. In one of the interior towns of California there stands a jail, by no means striking in appearance, or remarkable for its solidity or strength, yet possessing the horrible fascination which any place connected with tragic deeds fastens on the mind. Within that prison many notable criminals had been confined; murders had been committed there by hardened men, daring every thing in a struggle for liberty; many a reckless criminal had gone from thence to the gallows; even youths, with the freshness of boyhood on their cheeks, had gone out from those walls to a violent death, incited to evil doing and crime by the very lawlessness and sin about them. In one of the cells upon the upper floor, a single occupant was seated, crouched down upon a bench, and his eyes moodily fixed upon the small grated window which looked out upon a sort of paved court around which the jail was built. The prisoner might have been a man of thirty-five, but in that dim light, with his unshaven beard, and face pale from inactivity and confinement, it was difficult to judge accurately of his age. The countenance was harsh and unpleasant, but the expression was rather that of reckless passion than revealing any stern, sinister determination. His frame was large and muscular, the veins were knotted and swollen upon his pale hands, and it was indeed pitiable to see so much physical strength wasting in the gloom of a prison. Sometimes his lips moved; the restless flashing of his eyes betrayed the brooding thought within his mind. At last he rose suddenly, took the bench upon which he had been sitting, and lifted it, as if anxious to test his strength. He held it extended upon the fingers of his right hand in a manner which required no inconsiderable force. Then he set it down upon the floor, abruptly as he had raised it, and laughed a low, smothered laugh. "Not quite a baby yet," he muttered--"not quite! I can do it, and I will. I have got out of worse scrapes than this--fudge, what's this place compared to Australia?" A low imprecation finished the sentence, then he resumed his seat, and began his meditations anew. But quiet seemed impossible to him in the mood into which he had worked himself. He rose again, carried the bench to the window, and, standing upon it, managed to leap high enough to grasp the gratings. There he suspended himself, with his whole weight resting upon his hands, and looked out. When he had finished his survey, he loosed his hold and dropped lightly upon the bench. "It's all right," he whispered to himself. "I know the place. It can be done, and I am the man to do it." It was then somewhat after midday, and, as the man resumed his seat, there was a tread without, a sound of keys grating in their lock, then the door opened and the jailer entered, carrying a sparse meal, which he set down near the prisoner. The man looked up and nodded good-naturedly enough. "I thought you didn't mean to let me have any dinner," he said. "Oh, I don't want to starve you," returned the jailer. "Eat and make yourself comfortable." It was no unusual thing for the prisoner to engage this man in conversation, and if he was in the mood he answered readily and with sufficient kindness. "What day of the month is this?" asked the man, preparing to attack the repast set before him. "The twelfth." "How a fellow loses his count in this miserable hole," returned the prisoner. "Don't slander your quarters, there's worse in the world; ten to one you've been in 'em." "Maybe so and maybe not. I say, California sheep get pretty tough, now don't they?" he continued, tearing vigorously at the baked mutton which had been placed before him. "Makes a man strong to eat tough mutton," replied the jailer. "Think so?" and the prisoner smiled a little, unseen by his companion. "I'm sure of it," said the jailer. "Perhaps you've had your turn at it," observed the man. "Can't say I ever did, and don't want to." "You needn't; still it's not so bad that one can't bear it." The jailer prepared to retire. "You're a cheerful, good-natured fellow, any how," he remarked. "Yes, that is my way." "And a good deal better than being so cantankerous as some chaps we have here; they only get harder treatment." The prisoner agreed with him completely, and with some other careless remark, the jailer left the cell. When the door closed, and he heard the heavy bolts clang into their sockets, the prisoner muttered: "If I have to throttle you to-night, you won't think so well of my good-nature." He laughed again, as if there had been something amusing in the thought, and finished his meal with as much dispatch as if some important business awaited its completion. But when all was done, he had only to resume his silent watch, varying it by pacing up and down the narrow cell, and performing a variety of gymnastic feats, which seemed an unnecessary waste of muscle and strength. So the afternoon wore by. The sunset came in; its faint gold streamed across the floor, and attracted the prisoner's eye. He rose, stretching out his hands as if to grasp it. "This looks like freedom," he muttered. "It's a warning." The superstition appeared to gratify him, and he remained in the same position until the brightness faded, and the gray shadows of twilight began to fill the room. "It's gone," he said; "so much the better; I shall follow all the sooner." He sat down again and waited. His restlessness and impatience had disappeared; a strong determination settled upon his face. He looked prepared for any emergency, and was ready to catch at any chance, however desperate, which might aid his plans. The lamp in the corridor had been lighted while he sat there; the light struggled through the grating over the door, and played across the room among the shadows cast by the bars. There he sat, listening to every sound from without with the stealthy quiet of a panther that sees his prey and is prepared to spring. An hour might have passed before the jailer's heavy tread again sounded upon the pavement; he was whistling a merry tune, that rung strangely enough among those gloomy corridors and darkened cells. When the prisoner heard the step pause before his door, he took from his bed the thick woolen blankets which lay upon it and, grasping them in his hand, crept quietly behind the door. The key turned in the lock, the heavy door swung upon its hinges with a sound so mournful and ominous, that had the man who entered been at all imaginative, he might have taken it for a warning. But he passed on, interrupting his song to call out something in a cheerful voice, but the prisoner did not answer. "He must be asleep," muttered the jailer. "Well, well, poor chap, he hain't much else to do!" He moved toward the bed, saying: "Here, wake up, lazybones, and eat your supper before it gets cold." The door swung slowly to its latch, but he did not heed the warning; a step sounded behind him, but before he could turn or cry out, the heavy blanket was thrown over his head, almost smothering him in its folds, and an iron grasp crushed him down upon the floor. "Lie still, or I'll murder you," whispered a stern, hard voice. The jailer's only response was a half-choked gurgle in his throat; whatever his courage or strength might have been, he was entirely powerless. The prisoner continued his preparations with the utmost quiet; bound the unfortunate man to the iron bedstead, and so completely enveloped him in the blanket, that there was not the slightest hope of his extricating himself. Stealthily the prisoner moved to the door, and looked down the corridor dimly lighted by a lamp at the further end. No one was stirring; at that hour the people employed in the jail were at their supper, as the man well knew, so that he found little risk of being observed. He locked the door behind him, put the keys in his pocket, to be flung away when once beyond the walls, and walked rapidly but silently down the passage. He was perfectly familiar with every winding and outlet of the prison, and moved hurriedly along through the shadows, down the stairs, along a back passage, where no guard was stationed as it communicated directly with the kitchens, and reached the outer door. There he paused an instant, to be certain that he had made no mistake, looking about with as much composure as though he had been already beyond the danger of pursuit. He had been in more terrible positions than that; had listened to the infuriated shouts of a mob thirsting for his life; had seen the body of a companion swung from a tree before his very eyes; and yet, amid all the horror and terror, had preserved his courage and presence of mind sufficiently to make his way among the very men who were hunting him down with the fury of bloodhounds. An hour passed. The jailer in the dark cell had managed, with his teeth and nails, to enlarge a rent in the blanket sufficiently to extricate his head. His feet were pinioned, but he crept along the pavement to the door, and beat heavily against the bars to summon assistance from without; but nothing answered, save the echo of his frantic cries and the sharp blows upon the barred oak. Away out upon a little eminence, that still from the distance commanded a view of the prison, stood the escaped criminal, casting a last glance back upon the weather-stained walls. He lifted his hand with a gesture of mockery and exultation, plunged down the hill, and was lost amid the dense woods that spread out for miles beyond. CHAPTER XV. THE DUEL. Mr. Waring's old housekeeper was ill--a most unusual misfortune to befall her, and one which she could not at first either realize or believe. She struggled against this sudden malady with all the energy and obstinacy of her nature; but she was at length forced to take to her bed and let the fever have its course, while she grumbled and snarled at every mortal who approached, and gave the poor girl who was obliged to take care of her a precious life indeed. But while the old lady lay snapping and rabid with fever, affairs in the house did not go on smoothly at all, and nervous Mr. Waring nearly fretted himself into a fever which almost equaled that which had taken such sharp hold of his rebellious housekeeper. Margaret was busy with her own troubles; and, besides, she was affected with that horror of domestic matters, which, I am sorry to say, is so common among my youthful country-women, and entirely neglected to interest herself in the domestic annoyances that beset them. In the mean time the servants ran riot below stairs, and, as several of them were new-comers, belonging to the Celtic race into the bargain, they took such advantage of the housekeeper's absence that it soon became doubtful whether they would condescend to prepare meals for any portion of the family except that which reigned in the kitchen. Mr. Waring sent for Miss Chase to his room for consultation. The lady was all sweetness and affability, declared her willingness to do every thing in her power to restore the household to order, but more than hinted that Margaret would not permit her to interfere. Of course the old gentleman was in a sad way, but poor Meg's health had become so delicate that he did not venture to speak with her upon the subject; and the only thing he could do was to listen favorably to any proposal which Miss Chase made. "I will go down to town this very morning," she said, "and I am very certain that I shall return with a woman perfectly competent to take charge of your household." When she saw how Mr. Waring brightened at that information, she added another touch of comfort: "I have the address somewhere of a woman who once lived for a time with Mrs. Pierson. If I can find her, she will suit you admirably." The matter was satisfactorily arranged. Mr. Waring began to look upon Sybil as a sort of guardian-angel; and she bade him good-morning with her sweetest smile to make preparations for her expedition. Sybil returned from the city that night accompanied by a respectable elderly female, who set about her duties in such a quiet, understanding way that everybody was delighted and something like peace restored. Of course the old housekeeper grumbled more than ever, and was prepared to consider the stranger the most abominable of her sex; but no one paid much attention, and, as every spasm of rage only increased her fever, and she was quite incapable of controlling her temper, there seemed every probability that placid Mrs. Brown would hold the reins of government in her chubby fingers for some time to come. And now events began to thicken about that once cheerful house on the river, and those miserable young beings were urged forward to the last act of anger and injustice which should consummate their misery. The net which Sybil had woven had been slowly and securely drawn about them, and now the opportunity was offered which completed the work she had so skillfully arranged. The estrangement between Laurence and Margaret was daily gaining strength. Laurence began really to believe that he hated her, and the fascination which Sybil had thrown about him became enthralling. He came to the house now merely to hold long, confidential conversations with her, and from every one he retired more completely bewildered and enslaved. He had quarreled with Hinchley, although the young man remained at the house as his uncle's invited guest. He was deeply pained by the state of affairs, and still hoped to reunite his cousin and friend. It might have been a fortnight after the installation of Mrs. Brown when Sybil and Laurence were walking in the shrubbery at some distance from the house. They saw Hinchley pass down a neighboring path in full view of the spot where they stood, although he was unconscious of their presence. Laurence muttered bitter execrations against the intruder; and while Sybil was soothing him, they saw the new housekeeper go cautiously down the path and join Hinchley. She gave him a note and stole away again. "I understand now," whispered Laurence. "She is made a medium of communication between that man and Margaret. She shall tell me the truth, or I will annihilate her." He drew Sybil forward and stood directly in the path as Mrs. Brown approached. When she saw them, the woman started back with every evidence of fear and confusion; but Laurence grasped her roughly by the arm. "You gave that man a note from Miss Margaret," he said. The woman began to cry at once. "Oh, sir, don't make me lose my place! I couldn't refuse the young lady! Do speak a word for me, Miss Chase. I mean to be faithful. I didn't mean any harm." "And you have carried notes between them before?" demanded Laurence. "I didn't know it was wrong--indeed I didn't. Tell him I am an honest woman, Miss Chase." "Go into the house, Brown," said the lady, coldly. "I am disappointed in you." Laurence released her arm, and she darted away wringing her hands in sad distress. Laurence made a step toward the place where Hinchley stood reading the letter with a look of doubt and astonishment. "Stop," whispered Sybil. "What are you going to do?" "Take that letter--know the truth." She attempted to plead with him, but he pushed her aside and strode toward Hinchley. The young man looked up, startled at his unexpected approach, and made a movement to conceal the note in his hand. "Give me that letter!" exclaimed Laurence, in a hoarse voice. "A very singular demand, sir," returned Hinchley, coldly. "I will have it--the proof of your treachery and hers--you miserable coward!" He sprung forward, seized Hinchley in his infuriated grasp, and a short but severe struggle took place. At last, Laurence flung his opponent back and seized the note. "Scoundrel!" exclaimed Hinchley. "Give back that paper." "Never! I will read it!" Sybil saw that she must interfere, or Laurence would not be permitted to open the sheet; so she hurried up with hysteric sobs, and threw her arms about Hinchley. "No violence!" she sobbed. "Oh, don't quarrel, Mr. Hinchley, don't." While he vainly tried to extricate himself from her hold, Laurence tore open the letter and read it. He would hardly have been human had he not given way to the storm of fury which swept over him. The writing was Margaret's, the letter signed with her name, and it revealed the story of her wretchedness, her desire to free herself from her engagement, and her belief that she was loved by Hinchley. The note went on to say that he need have no scruples about seeking her hand, as she was determined never to marry Laurence. The young man dropped the letter with a groan. Sybil released Hinchley, whose anger seemed to have changed to pity at the sight of his former friend's distress. "She never wrote it, Laurence," he exclaimed. "I would pledge my life on it." "Who then?" he answered. "Is there another woman on earth brazen enough to have written it?" "How can I tell? But I would stake my life that it is a forgery." He glanced at Sybil; something in her attitude brought back his old suspicions, but they were so vague, her innocence in the present matter so apparent, that it would have seemed madness to have spoken of them. Again Laurence turned upon him most furiously, and hurled such terrible epithets and charges against him, that no man of courage could have endured them. Sybil Chase left the two men pale with wrath, and rushed away, not frightened at what she had done, but believing it wiser for her to escape from the scene; for language had been employed on both sides that could only end in apologies or deadly violence. Hinchley was wrought to a pitch of frenzy nearly equal to that which convulsed Laurence. He grasped eagerly at a defiance which fell from his opponent. "When you will," he answered. "You will find me always ready to vindicate my honor." "So be it," returned Laurence. "Before sunset to-night, let your life or mine pay the forfeit; we can not breathe the same air another day." Before they parted it was settled--angrily settled--that two school friends, men who had been intimate and loving as brothers, should stand face to face, each opposed to his murderer. This is the true word. Call duelling the only resource of wounded honor if you will; it is murder, after all--murder the most atrocious, from its very coolness and premeditation. Hinchley broke away abruptly, after having regained possession of the fatal letter, and Laurence rushed toward the house to find Margaret, and overwhelm her with his knowledge of her weakness and treachery. It had been a dark, wretched day to the girl, passed between the sick chamber of her uncle and that of the old housekeeper. Mr. Waring had been seized with one of his violent attacks, and was lying dangerously ill. Exhausted with watching, Margaret found an opportunity to rest, and went down stairs to the library, meeting Sybil Chase in the hall. "Will you go and sit with my uncle for a while, Miss Chase?" she asked, wearily. "Certainly," replied Sybil, somewhat flurried after her escape from the garden, but concealing her emotion with her usual success. "You look quite worn out; it would do you good to sleep." Margaret passed on without vouchsafing a reply; her dislike of the woman had grown into absolute aversion during the past days, and it was with difficulty that she could force herself to receive her advances with common civility. Margaret entered the library, closed the door and threw herself upon a couch, hoping for a time to forget her distress and bitter feelings in slumber. She fell asleep at once, and was aroused from an incoherent dream by the violent opening of the door, and a hoarse voice called out: "Margaret--Margaret Waring?" She started up, confused by the abrupt awakening, and with a vague impression that her uncle had been taken suddenly worse; but she saw Laurence standing before her, livid with passion. Margaret rose at once, and coldly said: "Mr. Laurence, you will please come into a room which I occupy, somewhat less boisterously." "I grieve exceedingly to have disturbed your delicate nerves," he replied, with a hoarse laugh; "but I have that to say which will possibly shock them still more." She gave him a haughty glance, which roused his fury to still greater violence. "Nothing you could do would shock me," she said. "I am prepared for any thing." "Then you are prepared to hear that I have discovered your falsehood and treachery! Miserable, cowardly girl, why did you not come frankly and tell me the truth?" Her pride rose to meet the passion which flamed in his eyes. "Mr. Laurence," she exclaimed, "I have borne a great deal from you; but you shall not insult me in this house!" "Why did you not say to me frankly--I detest this marriage?" he continued. "Do you think I would not have freed you at once?" "I do not know what you mean," she answered, trembling with angry astonishment at his words. "But let me tell you now, I do dread it--loathe the very thought of it." "So this you wrote to him," he exclaimed. "I have seen the letter! Why, shame on you, Margaret Waring! I would not have believed you thus lost to all womanly pride. What! tell man unsought that you loved him? and you honorably bound to another." She stared at him in angry surprise--her lips apart, her wild eyes full of scornful incredulity. "You have been dreaming, or you are crazy," she said. "Neither the one nor the other; but I know every thing." "I do not understand you," she replied, relapsing into the haughty coldness which always enraged him more than any bitter words that she could speak. "Oh, do not add another falsehood to the list!" he exclaimed. "Haven't you perjured your soul enough, already? I tell you that I read the letter you wrote to Ralph Hinchley. I have watched you for weeks; I know the whole extent of your shameful duplicity." "Stop!" cried Margaret. "I will endure no more! Leave this house, Mr. Laurence, at once, and forever! While we both live, I will never see your face again; my uncle decides this night, between you and me; either he confirms what I now say, or I will leave his house." "So be it; do not think I regret it! Why, I came here only to expose and cast you off. Your uncle shall see that letter. I will have it, or tear it from Hinchley's heart. When Waring has read that, we shall see what he thinks of his dainty niece." "Of all this passion I do not comprehend one word; but it wearies me. Go, sir." "Do you dare deny having written to Ralph Hinchley that you loved him--that you were ready to abandon your engagement and marry him?" "Oh!" groaned Margaret, almost fainting from a sharp recoil of outraged feeling, "is there no man living who will avenge me on this libeler?" "He may, perhaps, avenge you; why not?" retorted Laurence; "but answer. You shall answer and confess this duplicity, or blacken your soul with another lie. Did you write to Hinchley?" "I did," said Margaret; "a note of three lines, asking him to pay a bill for me at Desmond's." "Margaret! Margaret! this effrontery only makes it more unbearable," he cried. "I will expose you to the whole world." "Do what you please--say what you choose, but leave this house, and never let me see you again." "I go willingly. Farewell forever, Margaret! I do not curse; time will do that, and I can wait." He dashed out of the room, pale and fierce with contending passions, and hurried from her presence. Margaret stood upright until the door closed, then her hands fell to her side, a low moan broke from her lips, and she dropped senseless upon the couch. It was near sunset when she came to herself again; Sybil Chase was bending over her, bathing her forehead and using words of tender solicitude, while a little way off stood the new housekeeper, apparently quite overcome with distress. Margaret pushed Miss Chase away, and would have left the room without a word, but Sybil caught her arm, while a strange light shot into her eyes. "I must detain you a moment," she said. "Your uncle has been seized with a frightful attack; the physician is with him now." "What caused it?" demanded Margaret. "Mr. Laurence was with him," faltered Sybil. Margaret turned upon her with cold scrutiny. "Miss Chase," she said, "I believe on my soul that you are at the bottom of all this trouble. I desire you to quit the house at once." Sybil pleaded, wept, and demanded an explanation, but Margaret broke from her, and hurried out of the room. "What is to come now?" whispered the woman, going close to Sybil, who stood looking after Margaret, and smiling as only women like her can smile. "She has done exactly what I desired," she answered. "I shall leave this house in an hour; you will go with me." "But the duel?" "Oh! that drives me frantic; but I believe Hinchley will be the sufferer--I should go mad else! Pack my things, and meet me at the station in an hour." She hurried away, without giving the woman time to speak, and left the house at once. Sybil took her way rapidly through the grounds, crossed the high road, and ran through the fields until she reached a lofty ascent, from whence she could command a view of the broad sandy plain beneath. She was only just in time; there she stood, and gazed below with the same expression her face had worn upon the night when she watched her husband's frightful death in the wilds of California. Only a few paces from each other stood Laurence and Ralph Hinchley; each held a pistol in his hand, and even as Sybil looked, one of the seconds gave the word. There was a simultaneous report, a blinding flash, and when the smoke cleared away, Sybil saw Hinchley stretched upon the ground, the two assistants bending over him, and Laurence standing in his old position. She heard one of the men say: "Save yourself, Laurence;" then Hinchley called out: "Not yet--not yet; it is only my arm; there is no danger. Edward, believe me, Margaret never wrote that letter. Keep her name out of this quarrel. It will yet be explained." Laurence only replied by a gesture of dissent. The seconds raised the wounded man, bore him to a carriage which was stationed a little way off, placed him upon the seat, and the party drove away. Laurence stood like a statue, gazing moodily upon the pistol he grasped in his hand. Sybil hurried down the bank, calling out: "Laurence! Laurence!" He turned at her approach, flung the pistol away, and caught her in his arms. "I am revenged," he said. "I have nothing left in the world but you, Sybil Chase. Oh, say that you love me!" The long expected moment had arrived, and, regardless of the sins by which that painful bliss had been purchased, Sybil Chase folded her white arms around his neck and gave passionate expression to the wild love that had burned in her heart for years. Now the great object of her misguided life was attained. She was free from the man who had been a terrible barrier between them. The engagement was broken by her own arts. With all this, why was there so much pain left in her heart? Why did she tremble so violently in the first clasp of his arms? CHAPTER XVI. THE BATTERY. Several days passed, and more miserable ones never dawned upon the household at Brooklawn. Gerald Waring was dead. The excitement into which he had been thrown by Laurence's insane story, the passionate denunciations of Margaret, and the unaccountable departure of Sybil Chase had brought on a recurrence of his disease more violent than any sufferings that had preceded, and before noon the next day he was a corpse. Margaret sat alone in her room, desolate and almost maddened by the events of the past days. Her uncle was dead, and now she stood in the world utterly alone. He was the last of her family, the only human being upon whom she had the slightest claim of kindred save the slight clue of blood that bound her to Ralph Hinchley. Waring's property, never very extensive, had been heavily mortgaged to gratify his expensive tastes and invalid caprices. Brooklawn must be sold, and after that painful event Margaret must go forth into the world homeless and desolate. Selfish and thoughtless as Waring was, he would have made some provision for his niece, but that he was confident of her marriage with Laurence, by which she would be placed in a position far beyond all need of assistance. Thus assured, the weak man dismissed the matter entirely from his mind, and thought only of his present comforts. Margaret had seen Hinchley and learned every thing from him. The truth only aroused her pride more forcibly. There was no relenting in her purpose; though broken, miserable, and beset with poverty, she would have rejected Laurence had he knelt before her pleading for pardon. Her proud heart had been more revolted at the fact that he could doubt her truth than by all the cruelty of his conduct. Gerald Waring was buried. He had lived in small things, and his life was of little value to any human being, except Margaret. She, poor girl, mourned him greatly; and as the days passed into weeks, and it became necessary for her to think of another home, her loneliness and desolation increased into absolute dejection. When Hinchley recovered from his wound sufficiently to go out, he visited Margaret several times; but was quite unable to throw any light upon the mystery which surrounded them, save the bare facts of the quarrel and separation. Sybil Chase had settled herself in comfortable lodgings in New York, and there Laurence visited her daily. With each day his wounded pride grew more sensitive, and his condemnation of Margaret increased. Sybil knew how to strengthen the infatuation which bound him within the spell of her influence, and thus her control became supreme. Hinchley could not meet Laurence--he knew the utter folly of any attempt at reconciliation. His own feelings toward the unhappy man were those of profound pity. He was certain that Edward loved Margaret--that the only hope of happiness for either in this world lay in a cordial understanding of the truth. Thus he determined to spare no pains in clearing up the utter darkness which enveloped their lives, and in restoring them to the brightness of that early dream which had made life so beautiful to both while it lasted. Still, though the weeks passed and the beautiful spring deepened into summer, nothing occurred which could give Hinchley the least clue. In his own mind he fairly believed Sybil Chase the author of all that terrible unhappiness, and with these thoughts there came back a recollection of that night in California, when his life was so nearly sacrificed. He reproached himself for connecting her with those images, but could not drive the fearful thought away. Always, when he recalled that awful struggle, the chamber in the old house, and the quick retribution dealt to his assailant, there rose before him the dim figure of that woman in the distance, and always behind the shrouding shadows he saw the features of Sybil Chase. Watching and waiting, he neglected all business and every personal interest. He walked the streets, meditating upon those inexplicable occurrences, haunted every spot that Sybil Chase frequented, but all without result; when the day was over he could only return to Margaret, and find her pale, ill, and heart-broken as he had left her. Some errand connected with that all-engrossing affair carried him, one day, into a street which led to the Battery; he had obtained a clue to the residence of Mrs. Brown, and was following it up with a hope that she might be bribed or frightened into some revelation which would tend to make his course more clear. A California steamer had just arrived at its wharf, and the eager crowd came surging up the street along which Hinchley was slowly sauntering in a painful revery. He looked with idle curiosity from face to face of the motley throng, glad of any event which would for a moment take his thoughts from the mournful subject which had so long engrossed him. Suddenly he beheld upon the other side of the way a face which brought him to an abrupt pause, while an exclamation, almost of terror, broke from his lips. After the first glance of uncertainty, the firm, severe look natural to his features passed over them. The man who had disturbed him so walked by, unconscious of his scrutiny. The face was pale from sickness or confinement, the long beard had been shaven, the dress was altered, but through all the change Hinchley recognized him. That image was too closely connected with the most fearful era in his life ever to be forgotten. After the first instant of horror and surprise, his active mind centered upon itself; the opportunity at least of identifying Sybil Chase with the woman he had seen was offered. What might follow he dared not think of--the hope was too great and joyous in the midst of so much suffering. He turned and followed the man swiftly; came up to him in a narrow and almost deserted street and laid his hand upon his shoulder. The stranger started like an escaped prisoner who felt the grasp of his pursuers upon him; but when he saw Ralph Hinchley's face, he uttered a cry and endeavored to break away. But the young man held him fast, and a few rapid words reassured the fugitive so much that he walked quietly by his side and listened to him doubtfully, glancing around like a wild animal in fear of pursuit, and ready at the slightest sound to take flight. "It is useless to deny what I say," was the conclusion of Hinchley's hasty address. "I mean you no harm. Only answer my questions, and you may go." "Speak out then," returned the man, sullenly; "though I don't know why the deuce I should let a man I never saw before come up and question me in this way." "You remember me, and did from the first," replied Hinchley, regarding him with keen decision. "Your eyes waver--you are pale, too. This is cowardly. Come, man, you need not be afraid; for any thing I shall do you are safe enough. What I want is the truth, and not even that about yourself." "Well," replied the man, laughing in a reckless way, "the truth is not difficult to tell about other people, though I am out of practice." After a little more persuasion, he followed Hinchley on to the Battery, and, sitting down under a tree, they conversed eagerly. Very soon all doubt and fear left the man's face, a stern passion and fierce exultation lit every feature, while from Ralph Hinchley's faded the shadow and gloom that had clouded his countenance for weeks. CHAPTER XVII. THE VALLEY RANCHE. Sybil Chase was sitting in the apartments which she had taken on leaving Mr. Waring's residence. Her dress, always simple and elegant, was even more studied and elaborately delicate than usual; the face wore its lightest, fairest look, and one seeing her as she sat gazing down the street, evidently in momentary expectation of some person not yet in sight, would have thought that no anxiety or stern thought had ever found a resting-place in her bosom. That for which she had toiled and plotted, treading ruthlessly over the hearts and happiness of all who stood in her way, had been gained--in one week she would be the wife of Edward Laurence. Sybil was expecting him then; he spent the greater portion of each day in her society, and the influence which she had gained seemed constantly to increase. While she waited there was a low knock at the door. Sybil started up with a beautiful smile of welcome, which changed to a look of surprise when the door opened and only a servant appeared, saying: "There's a gentleman, ma'am, who wants to see you." "I am engaged. I told you to admit no one but Mr. Laurence." "I know it, but he would have me come up; he says he won't keep you a moment." "Be quick, then," she answered, impatiently. The man went out and closed the door; but while Sybil was considering who her visitor might be, it was flung open, and Ralph Hinchley stood before her. She stepped forward with an angry gesture. "Why have you come here?" she asked. "I do not desire your visits, Mr. Hinchley." "Nor is it at all probable that I shall ever pay you another, madam; but this one you will have the patience to endure." "Mr. Laurence will soon be here," she said, haughtily; "possibly you would prefer not to meet him." "I desire to see him--it is part of my business here; but first, I wish to introduce an old acquaintance of yours." He went to the door, flung it open, and Sybil beheld a form which she had believed long since cold in the grave, the old cruel light in the eyes, the mocking smile upon the lips--her husband. She started back with a cry of dreary pain. "Don't be alarmed, Sybil," he said, quietly advancing toward her. "Of course you are glad to see your 'own, own Philip.' That used to be the term, I think." "Keep off--keep off!" she shrieked, insane with fear and the suddenness of the shock. "Philip Yates is dead. I saw him hanged. You saw him, also, on the blasted pine, Ralph Hinchley." "Excuse me," returned Yates; "I ought to know, and I assure you that I am as much alive as either of you. Tom Dickinson, poor fellow, they hung him in my place. He managed to steal my clothes from the wardrobe, hoping the men would take him for me, and help him off. So you really thought it was me they swung up; poor Sybil, what a disappointment! Well, it was natural. Tom and I did look alike, especially when he was on good behavior; but there was a certain manner he never could catch. Still, the people mistook him for me more than once. He was so proud of it, poor Tom. But I wouldn't have thought it of you, Syb--not know your own husband! My darling, that is not complimentary." She answered by a groan so despairing that it might have softened any heart less steeled against her than those of the two men who looked quietly on. "No, no, Sybil," he continued; "while Tom was doubling like a fox, and you screaming for some one to pounce on me, I slipped away through the cellar, and into the bush. Why, bless your soul, I was perched just above you on the precipice all the time, and, if you hadn't made off with the horse, should have got clear, instead of being caught among the rocks like a rat in a trap." Sybil sunk slowly into a chair while he was giving these revolting details, and, covering her face with both hands, interrupted him only with her faint moans. While she sat thus abject and wounded, Edward Laurence entered the room. He stopped short on the threshold, astonished at the presence of those two men. He looked from one to the other in amazement. Then turning on Hinchley, demanded in stern wrath how he had dared to enter that dwelling. Sybil heard his voice, and made a wild effort to shake off the terror which was crushing her to the earth; but, as she attempted to unvail her face, the smiling look with which Yates stood regarding her made every nerve in her body shrink and shiver. Laurence glanced at her, and once more turned on Hinchley. "Why are you here, sir, and who is that man?" "Hush, hush!" returned Ralph, mournfully. "You will have enough to repent, Edward; be silent now." Before Laurence could speak, Yates stepped toward Sybil, seized her by the arm, and forced her to stand up. "Come," he said, "you and I are going away from here." "I will not move," she moaned, desperately. "Let me go, I say." Laurence started forward, trembling with indignation, but the man pushed him rudely aside. "Don't interfere between husband and wife," he said, coldly. "I warn you it won't be safe. You know that, Syb, of old." "What do you mean?" said Laurence. "Great heavens, Sybil, who is this man?" She did not answer; in that moment all her duplicity and art failed; she could only moan and turn away her frightened face. "I am Philip Yates, her husband," answered he. "I have brought my marriage certificate on purpose to prove it." He took a paper from his pocket and gave it to Laurence, who read it with a confused idea of its import. At last he lifted a hand to his forehead. "I must be insane," he faltered. "No," returned Hinchley, "you are just coming back to your senses. That woman, Laurence, is the female I saw in California upon the night when I so narrowly escaped from the Valley Ranche with my life." "Never you mind that story," interrupted Yates; "that's all gone by. Well, Mr. Laurence, you don't seem to believe us yet; Sybil shall answer for herself." "I will not speak," she cried. "You may kill me, but I will not open my lips." "Kill you, my pet? why, I expect years of happiness with you still. We are going back to California, my dear. It will take a long time to repay your loving kindness that night." "Sybil! Sybil!" groaned Laurence. "You shall speak," continued Yates. "Tell him your real name; do it, I say!" He transfixed her with his terrible glance; the old fear and dread came back. She was like a person magnetized against her will. Without glancing toward Laurence, without being able to move her eyes from that fiery glance, she answered in a low, strange voice. "I am Sybil Yates. I was his wife--I am his wife." "Bravo!" exclaimed the gambler, exultingly. "Now, Mr. Laurence, I hope you are satisfied." The young man did not answer; he could only stand, horror-stricken, upon the brink of the abyss down which he had so nearly plunged. Hinchley went to the door, and led in the woman who had served for a time as housekeeper at Brooklawn. "This person," he said, "has a story to tell; luckily, circumstances have placed her quite in my power." Sybil sprung again to her feet. "Don't speak!" she cried; "don't speak!" "I must, my dear," replied the woman, sobbing. "They'll never let me alone if I don't." "Who wrote the letter Mr. Laurence saw you give me?" demanded Hinchley. The woman pointed to Sybil. "It is false!" she exclaimed. "Margaret Waring wrote it." "Nonsense, Sybil," returned Yates. "What's the good of keeping this up? You're found out, and that's the end of it. You thought I was dead, you wanted to marry Mr. Laurence--always did, for that matter--and laid your plans beautifully. Upon my word, I honor you! But, you see, I am inconveniently alive; your old mother has been frightened into telling the truth for once, so there's nothing for it but to get away to the Valley Ranche. The miners have forgot that little affair, and we shall find something brighter than potatoes in the cellar. You know that." She looked at him with her frightened eyes. "Don't take on so," he said, with a gleam of feeling. "I always loved you better than you believed." Sybil shuddered. "So we'll forget and forgive. I don't mind it if you did bring the vigilance committee down on us that night; Tom and I were both hard on you--it wasn't work for a lady. As for Mr. Hinchley, he ought to go down on his knees and fill your lap with gold. If it hadn't been for her, I tell you, old fellow, you never would have seen daylight again. After all, that woman's a trump. I wouldn't give her up for all the gold in California." "Sybil," said Laurence, in a grave, low voice, "is this thing true?" She struggled for voice, and replied, very faintly: "It is true! God help me, it is true; but I thought he was dead. It was night, and I so terrified that the face was not clear. Oh! if it were only death that he brings instead of these bonds." Laurence looked on her distress with heavy eyes. "And Margaret." She started as if a viper had stung her, then broke into fresh moans, rocking to and fro on her chair. "If we wronged her--if that letter was not genuine, tell me, that I may offer the poor atonement in my power." She looked up into his eyes with such anguish, that even Yates seemed troubled. "Speak the truth, Sybil," he said, "speak the truth, I say; did the young lady write that letter they were talking about?" Sybil shook her head, murmuring, under her breath, words that no one could understand. "Speak, Sybil." "I wrote the letter." "That's enough--that's like you, Sybil," said Yates, triumphantly, forcing her cold hands from her face, and kissing them till she shuddered all over. "Now you can go, gentlemen. I should like a little private conversation with my wife." Ralph Hinchley took Laurence by the arm, and led him gently from the room. * * * * * A year after this scene, when Yates had gone to California in search of the gold left buried at the ranche, Laurence and Margaret, all the wiser for the bitter experience of the past, stood before the altar of the pretty church near Mr. Waring's homestead, which was to be the resting-place of their future lives. It had been a happy place to them once, and now, with all the painful associations buried in perfect confidence, they turned to it with renewed affection. Surely, that little country church never witnessed a happier wedding, or sheltered a lovelier bride. In the flush of unchecked love, Margaret had bloomed into something more attractive than mere beauty. The heavy sadness had left her eyes, to be filled with gentle sunshine, her cheek was flushed as with wild roses, and the soft radiance of a heart at rest fell around her, pure as the silvery cloud of her bridal vail which swept over the snow of her garments, clothing her with whiteness from head to foot. The newly married pair went quietly to the home which now became sacred to them both. The ceremony which united their once estranged hearts had endowed them with wealth, and thus it had been in their power to keep that fine old place from the hammer. In after years, the voices of merry children rung through the rose-thickets where Sybil Yates had woven her snares, and a fine-looking couple might have been observed, any fair day, walking arm-in-arm along the walks which that artful woman had once shared with the gentleman; but he had forgotten her in the tranquil happiness of a peaceful life, and her name was blotted out from all his thoughts, for he could not force such company on the gentle image that filled his heart of hearts. On the very day of this wedding, a wild scene was being enacted at the Valley Ranche. Yates and Sybil had that day entered their old dwelling--he elated with the success of his disguise, which had carried him through vigilance committees and wild groups of gold-seekers, and she a weary, subdued woman, who had outlived even the power of wishing, and this while her hair was bright, and her cheeks smooth with youth. She was aware that Edward Laurence was to be married that day, but even that knowledge failed to disturb the leaden apathy which lay upon her. The ranche was desolate--an old Indian woman, who remained in the kitchen, received them with more of terror than welcome. "Don't be frightened, old woman," said Yates. "We shan't stay long to trouble you; only get some supper for Mrs. Yates, and find me some kind of a lamp. I don't like the look of things here." The old woman went to the other end of the kitchen, in search of a lamp. In passing the window, she saw a crowd of human faces looking in, but said nothing, as hands were uplifted threateningly, and wild eyes glared a warning upon her. Yates went out, shading the lamp with his hands. He took a large leathern sack from some luggage which had been cast down in the hall, and went cautiously into the cellar. Entering the inner cave, he removed the barrels, and, opening the iron chest, gathered up handfuls of gold and packages of dust, which he crowded roughly down into the bag. He was busy with a larger package than had yet presented itself, when a hand was laid heavily on his shoulder. Yates started back, dragging the leather sack with him into the midst of a crowd of armed men who filled the cellar. Some of these men had been watching him all day, and now he was in their power--utterly, hopelessly. It was horrible, the stillness of that moment. Those fierce men spoke in whispers. They dragged the victim forth in silence, but the tramp of their feet fell horribly on the night. Half an hour after Yates received that lamp from the trembling hands of the Indian woman, exulting in his safety, a branch of the blasted pine bent low with a second victim, and Sybil was indeed a widow. At this day, the Valley Ranche is inhabited by the solitary woman, who, with her Indian servant, lives alone in the old house. She still sits by the chamber-window, and looks out upon the bridle-path leading from the mines, but with the dull apathy of a spirit which has lost every thing. Gray hairs have crept thickly into those rich, golden tresses, and the remnants of her beauty are mournful to look upon. One thing is remarkable. She never receives a letter, and never asks a question about any one in the Atlantic States. Sybil Yates is indeed a widow now. THE END. Each Number 100 pages, complete----Price Ten Cents. 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46266	----	THE SHARPER DETECTED AND EXPOSED. BY ROBERT-HOUDIN. "Éclairez les dupes, il n'y aura plus de fripons." MONTESQUIEU. LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. 1863. LONDON: BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. PREFACE. Having often been requested by different magistrates, to investigate cases of sharping, I have often been struck, while doing so, with the obstacles and embarrassments which a judge's own honesty must oppose to his elucidation of matters of sharping and cheating at play. How is it possible that he can penetrate the subtile web, with which the sharper surrounds his dupes,--how can he be able to detect the tricks of these rogues,--if he does not understand the manoeuvres of sleight-of-hand? By a singular reversal of the ordinary conditions of justice, the magistrate finds himself most powerless, when the rogue has committed the most daring, and artfully cunning, frauds. A great portion of my life having been devoted to the study of sleight-of-hand, and having, as yet, only made use of my knowledge for the amusement of my fellow-creatures, I felt that the time had arrived, when I ought to give to the public, who had so honoured me with their favour, an unequivocal mark of my gratitude, by consecrating my leisure hours to their service. I have therefore written this work, the moral and end of which may be summed up in this incontestable truth: "Éclairez les dupes, il n'y aura plus de fripons." "Enlighten the dupes, and there will be no more knaves." There is no reason, however, because a fact is incontestable, that it will not be contested; indeed, I am of opinion that it will be, and, as a proof of what I state, I am myself going to offer an objection which might be made on this subject. In disclosing the secrets of sharpers, people will say, Do you not fear to create in the minds of unfortunate gamblers, a wish to try and better their fortunes, by the very means you point out to warn them? I have been guided by an opinion, repeatedly expressed by the editors of newspapers, and the press in general; and, in answer to the objection I have made above, I beg to say, that in the explanations I have given of the tricks of sharpers, though I have said enough to put people on their guard, I have not said enough to teach them how to execute these tricks. If I had not taken this precaution, what would have been the result? It is only one individual, already half perverted, who will avail himself of the knowledge I impart, to learn to cheat, while hundreds of dupes will have been put on their guard. If these revelations serve to awaken vicious ideas in perverted minds, what can be said of the various works on the laws of duelling, in which you can learn how to kill your neighbour according to rule? Is it not to be feared, that the opinions contained in those books may lead to crime? For my part, I have so good an opinion of mankind in general, that I trust the perusal of this work will only tend to their benefit, and prove their safeguard against rogues. Let each person when he sits down to play, strengthened by the hints and instructions I have given him, look with suspicion on all "Greeks" (as these sharpers are sometimes called), and let him recollect to his profit this verse of Virgil: "Timeo _Danaos_ et dona ferentes." CONTENTS. PAGE PREFACE iii AN ANECDOTE BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION. A dangerous professor 1 CHAPTER I. MODERN GREEKS. Origin of the name "Greek"--The first gambling houses--Invention of Roulette--Hunt for dupes--Opening of _tripots_ or low gambling-houses--The Greek described--Different classes of sharpers 15 CHAPTER II. THE GREEK OF FASHIONABLE LIFE. Wonderful acuteness--Refined sleight-of-hand--Delicacy of touch 22 CHAPTER III. THE GREEK OF THE MIDDLE CLASSES. The "_Comtois_" and "_Amazone_"--Tricks and frauds--An heir expectant--Game at Bouillotte--A rich pocket-book--The bill to pay--Dupers duped 26 CHAPTER IV. THE GREEK OF THE TRIPOT. His abject condition--The public-house--Pretended stupidity-- Dupes fleeced--Acting the countryman--Table d'hôte--The pellets--A good farce--Deception--The three cards--The countryman's bet--Clever substitution--English rogues-- Thimble-rig 33 CHAPTER V. A GREEK TAKEN IN THE FACT. The restaurant of the _Veau qui tête_--Subscription ball--The card-room--A lucky player--_Sauter la coupe_--Mystification --The tell-tale hat--We are done 45 CHAPTER VI. THE GAMBLER RAYMOND. His infallible system--His agreeable manners--A Roulette player --Confidences--Revelations--In vein, and out of vein--The maturity of chances--Advice to players--Maxims--Influences --The gambler must be unmoved--Application of the system--A fortunate martingale--Mysterious meeting--Shorn of a beard-- Ruin and misery--The Talisman--Raymond is a Greek--Useful information 54 CHAPTER VII. EDIFYING HISTORY OF A GREEK. Debauchery--Scheme to get money--The usurer Robineau--The bill of exchange--A false friend--Treason--Stay at Clichy-- Initiation of a sharper--Release from prison 71 CHAPTER VIII. SECRET GAMBLING-HOUSES. Greeks both as dupers and duped--Andréas _Tête d'Or_--Secret inquiry--The human ostrich--The Society of Philosophers-- Chaffard the bravo--Exploit of _Tête d'Or_--A Greek thrown out of window--Mystification 80 CHAPTER IX. SECRET GAMBLING-HOUSES--(_continued_). School of cheating--Travelling Greeks--_Le Service_--Formidable manoeuvre--Imperceptible signs--The business of the _Comtois_ --The _coup de retraite_--Abundant harvest--Prodigality and debauch--Fortune takes her reprisal 89 CHAPTER X. THE DOCTOR DUPED. The false capitalist--The rogue is bled--More confederates arrive --A good hand--The fleecing--The doctor bled 99 CHAPTER XI. THE PASTE RING. The amateur of precious stones--What a beautiful diamond!--A sovereign cure--Ah! if I were a rogue--A false paste ring!-- The game is played--The tell-tale stamp investigation--The wanderer by night--The mysterious _tripot_--The sharper caught in a trap--Recriminations--The message--The false commissary of police--The Rue de Jerusalem--Unexpected _dénoûement_ 106 CHAPTER XII. AN INFAMOUS SNARE. A young fool--Envy and covetousness--Aphorisms--Insinuations --Confidences--Influencing the game--Honest men are sometimes rogues--Mushrooms and cheating--The Greek moralist--Example of cheating--Initiation--Maxims and manipulations--Temptation --The Belgian capitalist--The _cartes biseautées_--Easily won --An insolvent gambler--Comedy--The Greek in despair--An infamous snare--Dishonour--Ruin--The faithless trustee-- Separation of the philosophers--A virtuous Greek--Golden hopes --A beard again--A demi-millionaire 124 * * * * * TECHNICAL PART. GENERAL PRINCIPLES. CHAPTER I. THE FALSE CUT. The _saut de coupe_--The _passe-coupe_--The cut above--The large card--The bridge--The bent card 158 CHAPTER II. FILER LA CARTE. To change a card 169 CHAPTER III. The _enlevage_, or abstraction of a card 172 CHAPTER IV. The card replaced 175 CHAPTER V. The glance 176 CHAPTER VI. The substituted pack--The box in the sleeve 177 CHAPTER VII. False shuffles--The arranged shuffle--The partial shuffle--The fan--The dove-tail 183 CHAPTER VIII. DOCTORED CARDS. _Cartes biseautées_--Tinted cards--Sticky or slippery cards-- Slanting cards--Pricked cards--Cards with indented edges-- Wavy cards--Chequered cards--Marked cards 189 CHAPTER IX. The chaplet, or rosary 205 CHAPTER X. The ring for marking 209 CHAPTER XI. The reflecting snuff-box 211 CHAPTER XII. APPLICATION OF THE PRECEDING PRINCIPLES. Arrangement of the pack--_Coups de piquet_--How to repique and capot an adversary--How to repique and capot an adversary, although he has shuffled the cards--Abstraction and substitution of cards--_Coup d'écarté_--_Jeu de règle_--Lansquenet-- Baccarat--Vingt-et-un, &c. &c. 213 CHAPTER XIII. ENTERTAINING TRICKS. In Piquet--Écarté--Baccarat--Impériale--Whist--Bouillotte --Bézigue--&c., &c. 232 CHAPTER XIV. MINOR CHEATS OF MEN OF THE WORLD. Ruses and frauds allowable by custom in society 259 THE SHARPER DETECTED AND EXPOSED. AN ANECDOTE BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION. A DANGEROUS PROFESSOR. Whatever, dear reader, may be the value you attach to the knowledge of the knaveries I am about to reveal to you, you will assuredly never pay so dearly for them as I have. You will easily understand, that the tricks and impostures exposed in this work, are not the inventions of my own brain. I have collected them, one by one, from sharpers, or have been obliged to find them out as best I could. My researches have been both difficult and dangerous. Sharpers do not willingly part with the arts on which they depend for their livelihood; and, moreover, you are driven, by your investigations, into a society which may often expose you to serious personal risk. When I was but a novice in the art of legerdemain, I often went, as I have mentioned in my "Confessions," to the house of a manufacturer of articles used for jugglery, named Père Roujol, hoping to meet there some lover of magic, or professor of the art of legerdemain. The kind Père Roujol had taken a great fancy to me; he knew my passion for what he termed "natural philosophy rendered amusing," and took pleasure in giving me these opportunities of obtaining useful hints on the subject. He spoke to me one day, of a man named Elias Hausheer, whom he had met at a "café." "This man," said he to me, "appears very clever, but from a few words he let fall, it strikes me that he makes more use of his dexterity in winning at play, than for the harmless amusement of the public." Hausheer's character was of little consequence to me; he might be the greatest blackleg in Paris; I only cared to know that he was clever, and I hoped to learn from him a good deal that would be useful. I thanked my old friend for his information, and decided to call on M. Hausheer the following morning about ten o'clock. I was at this time only known as a mechanician, and I feared that my being so, would hardly procure me an introduction to the great man. An idea just then crossed my brain; I had recently invented a little mechanical bird, which sang and hopped about on the top of a snuff-box. I thought that perhaps this work of art, a very valuable one, by-the-bye, would serve my purpose, and I took it with me. Feeling more confidence in the result of my visit, I directed my steps towards the Rue de l'Écu d'Or, where the great man in question resided. I say great man, not in a spirit of irony, but because, in my monomania, my imagination pictured M. Hausheer as having a large fortune, and all other advantages in keeping with his wonderful talents. I did not know the Rue de l'Écu d'Or at all. I was much surprised, on arriving there, at its miserable and poverty-stricken appearance, but without stopping to reflect on this first disenchantment, I walked on until I came to No. 8, which was the address mentioned on the card I held in my hand. A long, straight alley, damp and dirty, served as an entrance to the house. I entered it resolutely. "Does M. Hausheer live here?" I asked, rapping on one of the dingy-looking panes of a sort of glass-box, over which the word "Porter," was written. A man with a grey beard, cut to a peak, like a well-pointed pencil, with a bootjack in one hand, and a boot in the other, opened one of the panes, and with a strong German accent, asked me what I wanted. "M. Hausheer," I replied. "I don't know such a person: there are none but Germans in this house." "Well," replied I, "if I may judge from the name I've just mentioned, the person I want ought to be a German." I presented the card which I held in my hand. The polisher of boots put on his spectacles, and after having read the name of his lodger, said: "Ah! M. Hhhaoushheer," aspirating, with great force, the letter H, as if to give me a lesson in pronouncing the German language. "Yes, yes, he lives on the second floor, at the end of the corridor, to the left." Thus instructed, I mounted the staircase until I reached the second story, proceeding along a dark corridor, at the end of which I discovered a door, at which I rapped. Loud sounds and laughter were heard from within. A woman, whose exact age it would be difficult to guess, so dirty and worn with age were both herself and her dress, opened the door a very little way. Remembering the lesson of my friend with the bootjack below, I asked, "Is M. Hhhaoushheer at home?" "Come in, and go to that door," replied the woman, pointing to a glass-door at the end of the apartment. Notwithstanding a nauseating odour which assailed my nostrils, and the wretched appearance of the whole place, I resolved on following up an adventure which promised some amusement. The noise I had heard, proceeded from half-a-dozen children, more than half naked, and extremely dirty, who were playing and shouting. The room was large, and they had it all to themselves, for there was no furniture in it. Striding over one, and pushing aside another, I opened a glass-door, and found myself in a bedroom. I will not attempt to depict this apartment, but will leave it to the imagination of my readers, who, after the description given of the preceding room, may easily imagine it was far from clean or comfortable. No one was there to receive me. I ventured, however, to utter once more the name of the magician I had come to see. Two curtains, which had once been white, were suddenly drawn aside, and in the centre appeared a gaunt-looking head, covered with a cotton nightcap, yellow from age and long usage. "What do you want, young man?" asked this odd-looking individual, addressing me. "To see M. Hausheer," I replied. "I am M. Hausheer"--and my interlocutor eyed me in a way which seemed to say--"And what next?" My illusions, so poetical a quarter of an hour before, were, you may well believe, entirely dissipated. M. Hausheer only inspired me with feelings of disgust. I should have liked to have departed at once; but how could I do so? I must, at all events, say something before retiring. "Sir," said I, "Père Roujol has been speaking to me about you, and of your skill in legerdemain. From what he said, I have been induced to come and talk to you, about an art in which I passionately delight; but do not disturb yourself, I will come again another time." "No, no! Wait an instant--I understand, from what you say, you are come with the intention of taking some lessons from me." I made no reply, fearing to bind myself to an engagement, of which I did not clearly see the end. Hausheer, however, construed my silence into a consent, and thinking, doubtless, of the money he should gain, jumped straight out of bed. He was partly dressed, but, without troubling himself to put on any more clothes, he approached me. "Let us see what you know, young man; what progress have you made in the science?" said he, offering me a pack of cards. Far from accepting his invitation to give him a proof of my abilities, I repeated my desire to shorten my visit. But the wary professor did not intend thus to lose his prey. That I had come to take a lesson was evident, and he was determined that a lesson I should have, whether I now wished for it or not. Still I persisted in my determination to retire. Judging it would be wiser to persuade, than to force me, to stay, Hausheer began to exhibit, as a specimen of his skill, some tricks with cards, which he performed with marvellous dexterity. From this moment, all the apprehension and disgust which I had previously felt, if I may so express it, completely vanished; admiration had replaced every other feeling. I was now as eager to remain, as I had before been to depart. It was now my turn to astonish the professor; so I took out my celebrated snuff-box, and presenting it to him, I touched a spring, when out flew my little automaton, hopping, singing, and flapping his wings; and, when all these operations were finished, vanishing as if by enchantment. As long as my bird was singing, my attention was riveted on it, but when it had finished, I glanced at Hausheer, to judge what effect it had produced on him. I was struck by the covetous expression that flashed from his eyes. It seemed to me that he glanced furtively from side to side in a singular manner, as if debating with himself how he could, by any possibility, gain possession of my snuff-box; his face was pale, and his hands, which he stretched towards me, were tremulous with agitation. "How do you like it?" I asked him. Instead of answering me, Hausheer walked across the room to a cabinet, opened it hurriedly, and took out something which he concealed under his clothes. "It is very pretty," said he, at length, turning towards me; "but, I say, young man, you must leave it with me to show to one of my friends, who is rich, and will buy it." "This box is not for sale," replied I; "it is an order, and, indeed, I ought to take it home to-day." "Oh! that's of no consequence. I will show it to my friend, and you can take it home afterwards." To this observation I made no reply, but wrapping the box up in paper, I was just going to put it back into my pocket, when Hausheer rushed up to me, rage sparkling in his eyes. I confess I felt alarmed; and my alarm was not lessened, when my aggressor, backing me up into a corner of the room, exclaimed, in a voice I shall never forget, "I will have it; do you hear?" At the same time he put his hand inside his flannel waistcoat, the poor and flimsy texture of which, permitted me to see the bony fingers of Hausheer clutch the handle of what I supposed to be a dagger. The feeling of self-preservation restored all my energies. The danger was imminent. I prepared for a desperate struggle. I put my snuff-box quickly into my pocket, to leave my hands at liberty, and looked stedfastly at Hausheer, to read in his eyes, if possible, what was to be his next move. He hesitated for a moment, seeming at a loss to know what it would be best to do. It may be, that the dogged expression of my countenance, or perhaps the impossibility of committing a murder without detection, made him pause; or he may have wished to try once more, by persuasion, to gain his ends, before proceeding to extreme measures. The whole expression of his physiognomy underwent an instantaneous alteration; he was evidently trying to calm himself, and his full purple lips essayed to form themselves into a smile. "Do tell me," said he, "why you won't lend me your snuff-box?" tapping me familiarly on the shoulder at the same time. "Devil take it, man," I replied, as calmly as my agitated feelings would allow me, "you are so quick, you don't give one time to explain oneself." To this observation he uttered some gibberish, to which I paid no attention, so much was I preoccupied with my own thoughts. Dreading a recurrence of his former violence, I was pondering on some plan to escape, and was lucky enough to hit on the following:-- "Look here," I exclaimed, forcing myself to speak in as natural a tone of voice as possible, "you are sure that you can sell this piece of mechanism for me?" "Certainly," replied Hausheer; "I am quite sure of it, for my friend is very rich." "Oh! then, if your friend is so rich, you can do me a great service, my dear sir." "What is it?" "I possess a snuff-box similar to this, as regards the mechanical part of it; but as the box itself is of chased gold, it is too expensive an article for me to dispose of easily. I should, therefore, be very glad if your friend would buy it." It is well said, that, to believe oneself more clever than others, is the way to be deceived. The cunning rascal never perceived the snare I had laid for him. "That would suit him better still," said he. "Come, let us go, and get this treasure." "Willingly," I replied. "Finish dressing yourself, and I'll wait for you; without," I added, "you would like to accompany me in the state you now are?" This little _plaisanterie_ did not provoke a smile from Hausheer; he contented himself with offering me a chair, and proceeded to finish his toilette. During this time I was contriving the plot for my revenge. At length we started. The Rue de l'Écu d'Or was at the back of the Hôtel de Ville. The Rue de Vendôme au Marais, where I lived, was not far off; besides, each of us had reasons of his own for hastening his steps; so we were soon there. I rapped at my door, and, as soon as it was opened, I entered in advance of my companion, and, turning round and standing so as to prevent his entrance, I said to him, in a calm voice, mingled with irony-- "M. Hausheer, I have some business to transact in this house, which will detain me some time. I hope, therefore, you will not trouble yourself to wait for me." "And the snuff-box with the bird?" said the German, reddening with vexation. "Oh! you shall have that another time," I replied, in a mischievously significant tone of voice, and shut the door hastily in his face. As Hausheer departed, I heard him utter a perfect volley of oaths and imprecations, amidst which, the words, "I have been a great blockhead," were distinctly audible. These volleys of abuse mattered little to me; I was in my own house, and had nothing to fear. I left the rascally juggler to his anger and his regrets. Some months afterwards, I was one day reading the "Gazette des Tribunaux," when my eye was arrested by the name of Elias Hausheer, figuring amongst a gang of sharpers of the worst kind. The phrase, "I have been a great blockhead," recurred to my mind. I could now understand its true meaning. Hausheer was not a man to stick at trifles: he was a blockhead for not having possessed himself of my snuff-box at _any price_. The recollection of it made me shudder. The knowledge of the danger I had incurred made me more prudent for the future, but did not prevent me from following my researches, only, instead of going myself on such occasions, I now always sent a third party. I employed, as my agent, a young man whom I knew to be respectable enough, though much of his time was passed in "estaminets" and gaming-houses, and I paid handsomely for each new trick that he brought me. At such a statement I fancy I hear my reader exclaim: "Why pay so much for learning a thing which is wrong? Is it not the act of a fool or a monomaniac?" I acknowledge my weakness; but, dear reader, had it not been for this monomania, I should never have had the success I have enjoyed. I always intended turning my knowledge to a good account; many circumstances have retarded the fulfilment of my intentions; but at length I have the honour of presenting the result of my labours to you, under the title of,-- "THE SHARPER DETECTED AND EXPOSED." THE TRICKS OF SHARPERS EXPOSED. CHAPTER I. MODERN GREEKS. Origin of the name "Greek"--The first gambling-houses--Invention of roulette--Hunt for dupes--Opening of "_tripots_," or low gambling-houses--The Greek described--Different classes of sharpers. Let me in the first place explain to my readers, why the compatriots of Homer and Plato have been thus honoured, or rather dishonoured, and how it comes that the word "Greek" has, in our day, become synonymous with rascal or knave. The following are the facts:-- Towards the end of the reign of Louis XIV., a certain Chevalier of Greek origin, named Apoulos, was admitted into the Court circle, where he played with such success, and won so largely, that suspicions were aroused as to the fairness of his play. His dexterity was astonishing; but one day he was taken "_flagrante delicto_," and condemned to the galleys for a period of twenty years. The circumstance made a great noise at the time, and, ever since, similar rogues have been termed "Greeks." Shakspeare asks, "What's in a name?" There is, however, a French proverb which tells us that, "_Souvent ce sont les noms qui décident des choses_." Many who did not object to be called "Greeks," would have loathed the name of "swindler." The number of these light-fingered gentry was greatly increased, by the establishment in Paris of two public gambling houses, known as the Hôtel de Gèvres, and Hôtel de Soissons. Until then, the Greeks exercised their vocation separately; most of them had no arranged method of proceeding, and their tricks were nearly all badly executed. In fact, the art of cheating was still in its infancy. The opening of the two hotels above mentioned, caused a complete revolution amongst the Greeks. The cleverest amongst them met, invented new manoeuvres, and clubbed together to cheat their neighbours; they imagined, calculated, and invented, all sorts of tricks until then unknown. Lansquenet, Pharo, Piquet, and Quadrille were the favourite games of that period, and being much in vogue, were golden mines of wealth to these rascals. The game of roulette, even, which had just been introduced into the fashionable hells, and which the public believed they could play without fear, was tampered with by this fraternity. One of them, who was a geometrician, had a roulette board made, in which the black divisions were larger than the white ones, so that the chance of the ball entering the latter was diminished.[A] To arrange all this, it was necessary to have an understanding with the attendants at these hells; but this was not difficult, as most of them were scamps. The number of Greeks in Paris increased at length to such an extent, that they were at a loss for dupes. This state of things, however, did not last long. Reckoning on the weakness of human nature, these men knew, that the number of dupes in the world is without limit, and that they will never fail you, if you only know how to profit by the weakness of the human heart. They organised a band of emissaries or agents, whom they despatched in all directions, to discover and attract--1st, All strangers newly arrived in the capital; 2nd, Barristers coming out of court after having gained a suit; 3rd, Successful gamblers who had won to a large amount; 4th, Heirs to large estates; 5th, Imprudent clerks and foolish youths, who would stake their last farthing. With such auxiliaries, the Greeks again realised immense profits; but their doings created so much scandal, that upon a representation made by the police, Louis XV. ordered both the Hôtels de Gèvres and de Soissons to be closed, and renewed the former stringent regulations against all games of chance. Even this measure did not disconcert the Greeks; they opened low gambling-houses, and played in secret. The police were again put on their track, and waged fearful war against them. Constant trials, imprisonment of proprietors, and the conviction of a host of swindlers, alarmed the dupes, whose fears began to be awakened, so that they dared no longer frequent these establishments. Thus followed and routed, the Greeks dispersed in all directions, rushed into the provinces and foreign countries, to return, after a time, to their former home in the capital; when the Government, in urgent want of money, established Frascati, and the rival houses in the Palais Royal. Over the doors of these institutions ought to have been inscribed "_ici on trompe de bonne foi_," or in other words, "Here they _take in_ all comers." The enormous sums lost by the public, all the chances of which had beforehand been cleverly calculated, produced an immense revenue to the State, and considerable profits to the owners of the tables. The Government shut its eyes to these knavish proceedings, until forced to take notice of them by the clamours of the public, who would not submit to be thus openly robbed. Roulette and other gambling games were again prohibited, and, with them, the whole gang of sharpers for whom these games had always been a centre of attraction, appeared also to vanish. I say the gang _seemed_ to vanish, for, if roulette has been banished from France, the Greeks have unfortunately by no means ceased to reside there. But where are they to be found? Their numerous dupes know too well. They have learnt to their cost, that these insatiable birds of prey are always to be found wherever there is money to be got. But you will ask, "How are they to be recognised?" There is the difficulty; for these heroes of the criminal courts are now become more clever than ever. Forced to mix in society, they know the necessity of being perfect in their unlawful occupation, in order to escape the punishment which the law has in store for them. However difficult it is to recognise them, we will endeavour to point them out to all honest men; so that they may know them, if not by their faces, at least by some characteristic signs, but especially by a revelation of the tricks to which these men usually have recourse. Taken collectively, the "Greeks" present no peculiarity of type. It would be difficult to sketch their features, so numerous and varied are they. I think it best, therefore, to characterise them by dividing them into three categories. 1st. The aristocratic Greek, or sharper of the fashionable world. 2nd. The Greek of the middle classes. 3rd. The Greek of the low gambling houses. "Honour to whom honour is due;" so let us begin with the first on our list. CHAPTER II. THE GREEK OF FASHIONABLE LIFE. Wonderful acuteness--Refined sleight-of-hand--Delicacy of touch. The sharper of fashionable life is, without doubt, the most adroit and clever in his villany; he is, one may say, grand master of the art of cheating. He is generally a man of the world, whose dress and manners leave nothing to be desired. If he does not dazzle by the brilliancy of his conversation, it is that he does not wish to eclipse others, but perhaps reserves his forces for the "_mise en scène_" of his villanies. This "citizen of Athens" cares little to please in general society, but emulates only those qualities which may be of use to him in his profession; and whether he is thus gifted by nature, or has acquired the science by study, certain it is, that he has that delicacy of perception, exquisite tact, and above all, that marvellous talent of appreciation of character, of which I have already spoken in my work, "Confessions of a Wizard." When he is victimising his dupes, his eyes, seemingly fixed on his own cards, are casting furtive glances to see all that is passing around him. He knows, by the effect produced on his adversary's countenance, when the cards are turned up, as well as by the classification of the cards themselves, the nature of his play. As a physiognomist, the Greek of fashionable life rivals the cleverest disciple of Lavater. It would be in vain to try and baffle him, by putting on a dull and stolid expression of countenance; the slightest movement of the nerves of the face, or an almost imperceptible contraction of the features, discovers to him your most hidden thoughts. This quickness of perception is equally useful to him, in discovering if he is looked on with doubt or suspicion. The aristocratic "Greek" is also an adept in every sort of gambling. The theories and probabilities of all games of chance, so cleverly described by Van Tenac, are the principles on which he bases his system, and which he makes use of with wonderful intelligence. To this rare talent, the aristocratic Greek unites a profound knowledge of the most refined sleight of hand; thus, no one knows better than he, how to change one card for another, make a false cut, to abstract or add a trick, &c., &c.; and he has carried these three important principles of cheating to a marvellous perfection. Blessed with excellent eyesight, he can, after a few deals, and attentively watching the cards, recognise many of them. One is perhaps the slightest shade more highly coloured than the rest. Another has on some particular part a spot or blemish, an imperfection of some kind, that the best manufacturers cannot always avoid, of which he takes advantage. In the absence of any mark, by his extreme delicacy of touch, he will be enabled to distinguish different cards as they pass through his hands, aided by a slight indentation which he makes on them with his nail. Once able to distinguish them, he can either give them to his adversary, or appropriate them to himself, whichever he deems most favourable to his interests. The aristocratic Greek always quits the capital during the summer months, and frequents the various watering-places. He invariably directs his steps towards that celebrated and brilliant oasis, which will surely some day bear the appellation of Villa-Benazet,[B] but which at present is called Baden-Baden. It is there, thanks to the blindness and wealth of his adversaries, that he realises enormous profits, by means of which he lives like a nabob. The greatest number, however, of these fashionable sharpers, end their days in misery. Some few retire into private life; there to live an existence of fear and remorse, so well depicted by a witty moralist and member of the Academy,[C] in his book entitled "Une Fortune mystérieuse." CHAPTER III. THE GREEK OF THE MIDDLE CLASSES. The "_Comtois_" and "_Amazones_"--Tricks and frauds--An heir expectant--Game at bouillotte--A rich pocket-book--The bill to pay--Dupers duped. The Greek of the middle classes, otherwise termed the nomad Greek, on account of his ubiquity, is a sort of chain or link between the aristocratic sharper, and him of the low gambling houses. This chain is of great length, and unites, by almost imperceptible gradations, the two extremes in this world of filibusters. The nomad Greek seldom works alone, he is in league with accomplices called "comtois." These are for the most part other Greeks, whose reputation is higher than that of their associates. But, according to circumstances, these respectable individuals take it by turns to play the role of "comtois." These gentlemen, besides their accomplices, have female assistants called "Amazones." These women are, for the most part, very pretty and attractive, and are equally, if not more, vicious than their lords and masters. In those attractive snares to the unwary and to foreigners, known under the name of clubs, these "Amazones" perform the office of decoys. The wiles and tricks of these women will not bear analysis, and could not be described here. Suffice it to say, that, like the simple larks which a fowler attracts and blinds by means of a revolving mirror, the imprudent and unwary visitors, fascinated by the seductions of these sirens, become an easy prey, and stupidly allow themselves to be plucked by the hunters of these prairies. The nomad Greek cannot boast of the wit and good manners of his colleague of the fashionable world, neither has he that finesse in executing his tricks, which renders detection difficult. But he is not the less clever in the manipulation of the different means of cheating. Cards, dice, and dominoes, are all, in his hands, most formidable instruments of his profession. He is able to exercise his adroitness at all games, simple or complicated, be it whist or battle, tric-trac, or even "heads or tails." He knows tricks, with which he can turn each and all of these to his advantage. His dupes are as numerous as they are varied; he finds them anywhere and everywhere. He spares none; his nearest relatives, his most intimate friends, are often his first victims. The following anecdote proves the perfidy of this class of sharper:-- Three Greeks, united, not by the bonds of friendship, but of rascality, went each on his way to seek for dupes. One of them, a young Italian, nicknamed Candour, perhaps on account of his craft and cunning, informed his companions, that he had become acquainted with a young man of position, just arrived from the country. This young provincial was rich, a gambler, and prodigal to excess,--qualities much appreciated by the three rascals. Finding out from the Italian, that his new friend was to be at the opera that same night, they immediately arranged their plan of attack. So good an opportunity was not to be lost, and when their plans were all settled, they separated, having arranged to meet at the opera-house. At the appointed hour, the three Greeks met in the lobby of the theatre, and were fortunate enough to see the young capitalist soon afterwards. The Italian, having addressed his new friend, introduced him to his two associates, giving them titles borrowed from the nobility. The introduction over, the conversation became general, and so interesting, that their victim did not quit their side the whole evening. The three Greeks were most affable in their manners towards the young man, and he, delighted with his new acquaintances, invited them all to sup with him at the celebrated restaurant of the "Maison Dorée." The invitation, it may easily be divined, was accepted with pleasure. The repast was worthy of the host. No expense was spared to regale such charming companions. To prolong the pleasure of this charming _réunion_, one of them began talking of play, and bouillotte being proposed, was received with acclamation. Whilst they were laying out the card-table, the three Greeks again managed to have a little private conversation, and, by the advice of Candour, they agreed, that, in order to allay all suspicions in the mind of their victim, it would be better to allow him to win at first to the extent of three thousand francs (120_l._), after which they would fleece him without remorse. The game began well for the Greeks: the young man placed on the table a pocket-book which seemed well-filled, and took out of it a note for five hundred francs (20_l._), which he staked. Fortune, by the assistance of the three sharpers, seemed to smile on the provincial, and in a short time, he found himself possessor of the sum it had been agreed he should be allowed to gain. "Indeed, gentlemen," exclaimed he, putting the notes he had just won into his pocket-book, "I am so overcome at such a wonderful run of luck, that I will go on playing, to give you the chance, at least, of winning back your money. I am determined I will not stake less now than a thousand francs (40_l._)." Scarcely had he uttered these words, when, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, the young man held it up to his nose, which began to bleed violently. "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said he, "I will be with you again in five minutes, I am very subject to these hemorrhages from the nose;" and he went out, leaving his pocket-book on the table. Candour, filled with compassionate interest, rushed after his friend; but truth compels us to state, not to give him assistance, but to bolt with him as fast as his legs could carry him. The rich provincial was neither more nor less than a Parisian sharper, with whom Candour had concocted a scheme, to rob his accomplices of three thousand francs. The hemorrhage, and the pocket-handkerchief stained with blood, were the dénoûement of the comedy, the first act of which took place in the Opera-House. Let us now return to the restaurant, to see and hear what is taking place there. "Ah!" said Patoche (one of the rascals who remained behind) to his comrade, eyeing at the same time the pocket-book full of bank-notes lying on the table, "all proceeds beyond our hopes. Let us imagine we have gained the bank-notes from the provincial. Let's pay ourselves, and be off." "Yes; but," said the other, "you forget, the bill must be settled before we can go." "_Mon Dieu!_ What a fool you are! We will pay the bill, and the pocket-book will reimburse us for any money we advance." "And if we should meet the owner of it!" "Well, what could he say to us? We were on our way to meet him, to return him the pocket-book, which he left on the table." "True; I understand; he will owe us many thanks for so doing. It's a good idea." The two rogues then asked for the bill, which they settled, gave the waiter a handsome fee, and hastened down-stairs. As soon as they reached the bottom of the staircase, the one who had the pocket-book in his possession stopped short. "I say, Patoche, a thought has just struck me. Go back, and tell the waiters, that we intend going to the Café Riche to continue our game. This will give us time to escape to some place of safety with our prize." No sooner had Patoche departed up the stairs to execute his errand, than his companion vanished with the pocket-book. Which of these two rogues was the most deceived? The pocket-book was full of waste paper: the bank-notes had been cleverly abstracted by the pretended provincial. This sketch will give some idea of the characters of the individuals whom I herein portray. If my readers wish for further information, they must continue the perusal of this work, and the different rogueries herein described, amongst which the nomad Greek plays some of the principal _rôles_; I think they will then have a clear view of the villany of these men. CHAPTER IV. THE GREEK OF THE TRIPOT. His abject condition--The public-house--Pretended stupidity --Dupes fleeced--Acting the countryman--_Table d'hôte_-- The pellets--A good farce--Deception--The three cards-- The countryman's bet--Clever substitution--English rogues-- Thimble-rig. It may with truth be said, that the Greek of low life is a sort of vulgar imitation of the two other types that I have just been describing, and, if I may be allowed to draw the comparison, I should say, that the Greek of the low gambling-house, is, to his more favoured comrade, what a street-ballad singer is to an educated artiste. Heaven forbid that I should fall into an ecstasy about the villanies of any sharper, let him be of whatever class he may; but I may venture to say, that, although under no circumstances should I like to be robbed, yet, if I am to be so, I should much prefer being cheated out of my money by a gentlemanlike scamp, than by a low vulgar sharper. As regards elegance of manners and appearance, there can be no comparison between the aristocratic Greek, and him of the lowest grade. There is every reason to believe, that the former is not even aware of the existence of the latter. Men of this stamp all resemble each other more or less; most of them are miserable specimens of humanity, whom idleness and debauchery have reduced to the necessity of cheating, hoping thereby to get what honest labour had failed to obtain for them. Their tricks are usually as coarse, as the victims on whom they practise. It is no longer sleight of hand, it is a sort of cheating, for which there is no name. Their victims being ordinarily so easy to dupe, they do not care to become more expert. Besides, it is generally not until after finishing the fifth or sixth bottle, that the play begins. The qualities most essential for these rascals, are to be able to drink and smoke to any extent, without being affected by it. The constant use of spirits produces this insensibility to their influence. The third-rate sharper makes the lower public-houses and tap-rooms, outside the barriers, the scene of his exploits. His victims are drunken labourers, countrymen visiting the capital, soldiers on leave, and sometimes persons of small independent means out for a frolic. This style of Greek has usually a colleague to assist him in his manoeuvres. Their operations require the assistance of a second party, as they are performed American fashion. I cite one out of a thousand similar instances:-- The swindler enters a public-house, which he knows is much frequented, and places himself at a table, near which another man is already seated; this man, whom he pretends not to know, is an accomplice. He calls for a bottle of wine, which he empties at once, and begins talking to his neighbour in a loud voice, so as to attract the attention of the whole company. He puts on an appearance of the greatest stupidity, and makes some foolish remarks arranged for the occasion, to which the "_comtois_" replies by making game of him, to the great amusement and satisfaction of his auditory. Insensibly all draw near, and approach the two antagonists. The Greek ends by getting annoyed with the joking of his neighbour, and proposes to play for the two bottles on the table. The proposition is accepted, but the Greek plays badly, and the game is soon lost. He holds his cards so awkwardly, that it appears as if he had never had one in his hands before. His defeat was evident from the first. His fortunate adversary, delighted with his triumph, wins everything, and quickly walks off. The rogue who remains behind, bitterly bewails his loss, and testifies his anxiety to take his revenge on the first comer. The dupes, led on by the hope of winning easily, are all eager to accept the challenge. They play, and win as they expected, but the rascal, far from being discouraged, takes from his pocket a handful of five-franc pieces, which he announces he is ready to stake, to try and regain what he has lost. This declaration, together with the clink of the silver, is too great a temptation to withstand. Every one present is anxious to have his share of a booty so easy to acquire. They play again, and again win several games, and this additional loss (arranged by the Greek) gives him an opportunity of raising his stakes and offering to play double or quits. Now begins the real game of our hero, who, without forgetting his character of the fool, brings into play the resources of a coarse sort of sleight of hand. He gains with an air of such stupid simplicity and "_gaucherie_," that no one has the slightest suspicion on the subject. Luck has turned in his favour, and, in the parlance of "_cabarets_," there is a Providence over drunkards. The Greek, after having filled his purse at the expense of his adversaries, retires for want of combatants, and goes off to share the spoil of the day with his associate. This scene is, in the vocabulary of Greeks, termed; "acting the countryman." * * * * * Were a case of sharping of this description tried before the tribunals of justice, one, or at most two culprits, would be brought forward; and yet is it not evident to every one, that, in robberies conducted American fashion, and particularly in those of the kind specified above, the duped are as guilty as the dupers? Would they not have taken advantage of the poor foolish countryman to victimise him? The sole reason which prevented them so doing, was the fact of their having met with one, who, with all his apparent stupidity, was more than a match for themselves. If I were writing for the "_habitués_" of Paul Niquet and the frequenters of "_Père la Rangaine_"[D] I should make the Greek of the public-houses the hero of this work; but as I have every reason to believe, that most of my readers will never come in contact with this class of sharper, I shall only mention one or two of his best tricks, and then have done with him. * * * * * We will suppose our hero to be dining at one of the "_tables-d'hôte_" outside the barriers, where you get your dinner at a shilling a head. In the course of the repast, the Greek, who, by-the-bye, seems a jovial sort of fellow, offers to make all sorts of bets with those around him,--bets of that equivocal nature in which the proposer is sure to win. The Greek, however, makes these bets less with a view of gain, than to irritate the men who lose, and from whom he hopes later in the evening to derive some benefit. At dessert he takes three plates and some tumblers, and affects to play a juggling trick with pellets of bread crumbs. But his performances are so ridiculously "_maladroit_," that the spectators only laugh at him. There is no deception, for, as they say, one sees the string which makes the puppet dance. Still the Greek goes on with wonderful assurance:-- "Gentlemen," he observes, "you see I put this little ball under a plate; well, I will make it disappear without your seeing anything;--I mean, that the most clever amongst you will see nothing." But whilst the Greek is placing the pellet under the plate, he knows well enough, that by a particular motion of his hand, he has sent it rolling on the floor. Pretending to think that it is still under the plate, he endeavours to explain what a clever trick he is about to show them, as he does not even require to approach the table to do it. Whilst giving these explanations, he affects to turn his back to the spot where the trick is to be executed. A spectator, who has seen the pellet fall down on the ground, picks it up, and puts it openly in his pocket, at the same time addressing his neighbours in a low voice:-- "Let us play him a good trick, and bet with him, that the pellet is no longer under the plate. He'll be sure to take the bet, as he is not aware of his own awkwardness." They agree to the proposition the more eagerly, as they are all pleased to mystify the mystifier, who, far from declining, bets a large sum, and offers, moreover, to bet it with each spectator individually who likes to accept the challenge. Two or three people come forward, and first and foremost are those who have been already taken in. They rub their hands in glee with hopes of being revenged, and feel sure of winning, as they know that the pellet is in the pocket of one of the betters. But, alas! they are all deceived. When the plate is raised, behold! The pellet is there, under it. The juggler has won his bets. Whilst throwing one pellet on the ground, the cunning fellow had very cleverly introduced another under the plate. The spectator who so eagerly offered to bet was his colleague. * * * * * Again, here is another instance of the adroitness of these miscreants. Some years since, on the road between the "Place de la Bastille" and the "Jardin des Plantes," or any other public thoroughfare where the Parisian cockneys were likely to be met with, a man was to be seen on his knees on the pavement, which he had appropriated to himself, to show off the following piece of deception. He held in his hands three cards--say, the seven of hearts, the king of spades, and the ace of diamonds. The two last of these cards were held in his right hand, the first-mentioned in his left, as is shown in the following engraving. [Illustration] The rogue, raising his hands a little, requested them to remark the order in which the cards were placed. Then turning them over, he threw them, one after another, side by side on the pavement. The seven of hearts is designated by the figure 1; The king of spades by No. 2; And the ace by No. 3. This done, he shuffled the cards for some time, to draw off the attention of the spectators. Addressing one of them, he asked him where the king was. They, having seen the card in his right hand, and followed it closely with their eyes, point it out each time, and are never deceived. The Greek pretended to be much annoyed at not being able to baffle the spectators. He began again, and this time offered to make a large bet, that they would not find the card. The people laughed, but did not venture to take his bet, when one amongst them, braver than the rest, a sort of country clown (to all appearance), stepped forward. "That's capital," said he, with an oath, "I bet you twenty sous I guess where the king is." The bet was accepted by the Greek who, turning over the card pointed out by the countryman, confessed he had lost, and paid the stake. The two champions continued to bet, and the Greek invariably lost, until the peasant, satisfied with his winnings, retired. The rest of the spectators, who had stood quietly looking on, were thoroughly taken in by the countryman. When he had retired, and the Greek continuing his offers of betting, three or four of them, taking the man for a fool, accepted the challenge. But they, poor dupes, were ignorant that the countryman was an accomplice, and that the money he had pretended to gain, was only a lure to excite their cupidity. With the fresh set of people anxious to bet, the Greek entirely changed his tactics. In throwing the cards on the ground, he, by a manoeuvre, completely changed their position. Thus, it is true, he placed the seven of hearts on No. 1, but, instead of letting fall the king of spades on No. 2, he slipped the card above (the ace of diamonds) in its place, and put the king on No. 3. This substitution was so rapidly done, that no one perceived it, and of course, when the shuffling was all over, and the card named by the lookers on was turned up, it proved to be the ace of diamonds. As this occurred very often, the losers determined to try and take their revenge, seldom quitting until they were all cleared out. It sometimes happened that quarrels and even pitched battles followed this system of cheating; in which case the accomplice, who, from a distance, had watched the proceedings, interposed his powerful aid, and assisted his comrade to decamp. This sort of gambling is now only met with in public-houses, as the police have interdicted the exhibition of it on the public thoroughfares. * * * * * In England they have a game similar to this, called Thimble-rig. Three thimbles are placed on a table, like the goblets used in jugglery. A small ball is put under one of them; the thimbles are then moved about rapidly, so as to bewilder the spectators. And, as in the previous trick, the rogue has an accomplice to aid him in obtaining bets from the spectators, and, as has also been shown, he is sure to win. But with the public it is quite another thing; the rogue himself never loses, for in pushing about the thimbles he artfully manages to make the ball pass from under the thimble, where he placed it, to another. This is done by an act of sleight of hand. From what I have said, it will be evident to the reader that, though the Greek of the low gambling-house is, to a certain extent, different from his brother sharpers, still he resembles them in their rogueries and cheating. CHAPTER V. A GREEK TAKEN IN THE FACT. The restaurant of the _Veau qui tête_--Subscription ball--The card room--A lucky player--_Sauter la coupe_--Mystification --The tell-tale hat--We are done. With such a number of Greeks mixing in society, one is tempted to ask, how is it that they are so seldom brought before the tribunals of justice? This is easy to explain. In the first place, the Greek is generally clever, cunning, artful, and circumspect; for these reasons, his manoeuvres are seldom discovered. And, supposing he were caught in the very act of cheating, if it were in a private house, they would probably be content with making him disgorge his ill-gotten gains, and ignominiously turning him out of the house. If it were in public, the swindler always knows how to manage the affair in some way or another, or to bolt. The following circumstance I was myself a witness of. There was formerly (I speak of thirty years ago), on the Place du Châtelet, on the spot now occupied by the Chambre des Notaires, a very large restaurant of great repute, known as the "Veau qui tête" ("Sucking Calf"). In the centre of this vast edifice was a picture representing a pastoral subject--it was a cow suckling her calf. This very primitive allegory was meant to express, that the food supplied in that house, was of the most harmless and nutritive description. And it was perfectly true, that, whether it was a small entertainment for one or two people, or a grand wedding dinner, the table was always well served, and there were large rooms to make merry in. This matter _posé_ (as the professors of physiology say), I will proceed with my recital. During the Carnival of 1832, some folks of my acquaintance took it into their heads to give a subscription ball, and selected the famous saloons of the "Veau qui tête" to give it in. The subscribers were numerous, and consequently, as often happens, the society was of a mixed character. Out of three hundred persons present, scarcely a dozen knew each other. But as there were plenty of police, people were not afraid to join in the dance. Wherever there is a ball, there is generally a room for play. In this instance, close to the ballroom, was a saloon filled with tables for play, and gambling going on. I was one of the players. I am not a gambler, for I play with great caution and moderation. I never risk more than a small piece of silver at cards, and only play, until the sum I intend to venture is lost; after which I retire, if not with pleasure, at least with philosophic resignation. On this evening, Dame Fortune was against me, and in spite of my best strategetical calculations, the inconstant goddess had quickly put me _hors de combat_. The last of the ten francs I had staked had vanished. The lightness of my purse left me in a capital physical condition to dance; but, though I had never been a great dancer, I feared, in spite of my philosophy, that my partners might perceive that I was out of sorts. I am obliged to confess, that at that period of my life, ten francs was a large sum for me to lose. But at twenty-five years of age one is seldom a millionnaire. Therefore, instead of joining in the dance, I directed my steps to another table where they were playing, with a malicious intention of consoling myself, by looking on at the misfortunes of others. One does feel so spiteful when one is vexed. The game was very animated, gold was glittering on the table, and all eyes, riveted on the precious metal, seemed eager with anticipated pleasure. They were playing écarté. The player, behind whom I stood, was most unfortunate; he had lost four games one after another. I began to think that I had brought my ill-luck to my neighbour. Wishing to be strictly impartial, I resolved to make him some amends, by transporting it and myself to the side of his adversary. The man behind whom I now placed myself, was about forty years of age. He had a frank, open countenance, and boasted a huge pair of thick "blondes moustaches." He wore a blue coat, buttoned up to the throat, which gave him a military air; this, together with his _distinguée_ appearance, and easy, gentlemanlike manners, betokened a man accustomed to the best society. He was most fortunate in his play, and after each game, invariably, whilst collecting and dealing the cards, kept alluding to his wonderful luck, as if he wished to justify himself to his opponent. "If," said he, addressing his adversary, "you had, unluckily for me, played a diamond instead of a spade, I should have been forced to take it, and you would have made the trick." This manner of particularising facts rather astonished me. I was at this time _au fait_ at some of the tricks of the Greeks, and their way of discoursing on the game. It also struck me that I perceived him making certain passes, to which I was no stranger. I stood for some time looking on, with the greatest attention, thinking I might be deceived in my conjectures. The game was played with the most perfect regularity. However, I allowed no movement of his to escape me. In the end, my minute and determined investigation met with the success it deserved. A false move which he made, put me on the scent, and I now felt sure that the fortunate winner was nothing more than a Greek of the first water. I confess with shame, that once in possession of the secret of these manoeuvres, I took the greatest delight in seeing them executed. Under the pretext of ascertaining the truth of my suspicions, I made friends with my conscience, and indulged in a spectacle truly interesting to me. It was charming to observe my hero, with his elegant address, collecting the cards, sorting them, and selecting those which he thought would be of use to him. Then classing them in the most natural manner, and at length cutting them for his own benefit, before the eyes of a whole host of spectators. Poor dupes, I pitied them. In the end, my feelings became more worthy of me, and I returned to my better self. Laying aside my admiration, I resolved to put a stop to the continued success of the elegant sharper. In consequence of this determination, I went up to one of our commissaries of police, named Brissard, whom I knew was intelligent and energetic. I told him what I had seen. Brissard followed me--waited until the individual I pointed out to him rose from the table (a Greek is not imprudent enough to go on winning the whole evening), and when, after being successful eight consecutive times, he ceded his place, my friend addressed him without further circumlocution. "Sir," said he, "I am one of the police in attendance. I have not the honour of knowing you. May I ask who introduced you here?" "Oh! certainly," replied the Greek, with great assurance, a benevolent smile playing on his features. "I was introduced by my friend M----" (at the same time mentioning a well-known name), "to one of your colleagues, who gave me a most favourable reception. However, sir, if you will come with me, we will go and find my friend, who will confirm what I have stated. Stay, I think he is on this side the room." Startled at the frankness of this reply, Brissard, thinking that I must have been mistaken, was on the point of apologising, but on a sign from me, he followed the Greek, who led the way, and appeared to be searching for his friend in every direction. The crowd was so great we had great difficulty in following him. All at once, the blue coat disappeared, as if by enchantment. In vain did we look for him in the room. We soon found that our man, in passing near the door, had slipped out. "I'll catch him yet," said Brissard, running towards the cloak room, "the fugitive must be bare-headed, he has not had time to get his hat. The address of his hatter may help us." "Madame," asked he, addressing the woman in charge of the hats and cloaks, "has a gentleman with large moustachios just been here to get his hat?" "No, sir." "That will do. Take great care of the last hat which is not claimed, and keep it for me." He then went on to the _concierge_. "Tell me, have you just seen any one go out?" "Yes, sir; a tall man, with big moustachios." "That's he; and he was bare-headed?" "Yes; but after going a few steps, he pulled out an opera hat from under his coat, and put it on his head." "The rascal had made his arrangements beforehand," said Brissard. "We are done." * * * * * If I had continued to frequent these kinds of _réunions_, I should have acquired a certain dexterity in this sort of rogue-hunting; but about this time, several circumstances occurred, which turned my thoughts from all worldly pleasures. On the other hand, it was repugnant to my feelings, even though it amused me, to spend my time in pursuits, which, though very useful, are scarcely considered honourable. I have related the story of the Greek and his hat, because it serves as a sort of introduction to a series of facts descriptive of the art of cheating. In continuing my story, we must allow for a lapse of twenty years. CHAPTER VI. THE GAMBLER RAYMOND. His infallible system--His agreeable manners--A roulette player --Confidences--Revelations--In vein, and out of vein--The maturity of chances--Advice to players--Maxims--Influences --The gambler must be unmoved--Application of the system--A fortunate martingale--Mysterious meeting--Shorn of a beard-- Ruin and misery--The talisman--Raymond is a Greek--Useful information. In 1852, after a long series of performances, which I had been giving in Germany, I stopped at that charming little place, Spa, with the double intention of giving a few entertainments there, and also of getting a little rest after my fatiguing tour. I put up at an hotel, the name of which has escaped me. It is very ungrateful of me, for it was an hotel where you received the greatest civility and attention, and the table was excellent, which is what one does not always meet with in one's travels. The _table d'hôte_ was usually very gay, as the people composing it were the _élite_ of society, all in perfect health, coming there nominally to drink the waters, but in reality for amusement. My neighbour at table was an _habitué_ of the house, who had been living there, it was said, for some months. He was an old man, with a long white beard, which was so thick and bushy that it nearly covered his face. The only part visible was a pair of cheeks, the roseate hue of which might cause a sigh of envy in the heart of many a coquette. One might compare them to two rosy apples lying on a bed of snow. M. Raymond, for such was the appellation of the gentleman in question, was one of the most intelligent and amusing companions it was possible to meet with. In conversation, he possessed the rare art of drawing others out, that is to say, having himself something interesting to relate, which often was the case, he managed, by cleverly turning the conversation, to obtain from each of the party assembled, his quota towards the general gaiety. He was, in fact, the life and soul of our gastronomic _réunions_. M. Raymond, who was sometimes called "Voisin Raymond," or simply "Mon Voisin," seemed to be well off. The extent of his fortune was unknown, but he must have had some means, as he was one of the most constant players at the roulette-table; and to play much at this game one must be rich, Roulette is not a winning game--this is one of its greatest faults. At the foreign watering-places, the passion for play is not considered a vice--it is looked on as an amusement, rather _comme il faut_; my neighbour, therefore, notwithstanding his regular attendance at the gambling-table, was still supposed to be an honourable man and a gentleman. M. Raymond had been present at some of my _séances_, and seemed to take particular delight in them. Often had he spoken to me in such terms, as proved his thorough knowledge of the art of jugglery in general, and about tricks with cards in particular. When we were alone, he even showed me with what facility he could make a false cut, change one card for another, &c., &c. I therefore looked on him as a very clever amateur in these manoeuvres. Our having the same tastes, I may say the same passion, in common, contributed to add to our intimacy, and few days passed that we did not take long walks together in the neighbourhood. Our conversation turned, as may be supposed very frequently, on our favourite topic. We also spoke about "Roulette" and "Rouge-et-Noir," but on these subjects we seldom agreed, and my neighbour grew quite exasperated, when I said that I had a horror of gambling, and, that when I approached the table covered with green cloth, it seemed to me as if I were one of an assemblage of fools, or at least lunatics of the worst description. "Fools and lunatics!" exclaimed M. Raymond; "you seem to be ignorant of the study necessary, of the strength of mind and talent required, to contend against bad luck. You are not aware that the art of turning lucky chances in your favour, is not a chimera, and that it requires great talent to be able to duly estimate the value of the chances." One day, after a long discussion more than usually excited, M. Raymond, finding that he rather had the worst of the argument, thought to convince me by letting me a little into his confidence. "Ah! Well, you say you have a horror of gambling, and will never play. Wait and see. I bet that in an hour you will be so wild about it, that I shall be obliged to restrain and guide you." I made a gesture of denial. "Pray listen to me;" added he; "only when you've heard what I have to tell, I must ask you to guard sacredly the secret I am about to confide to you. "You probably share the generally received opinion, that I have a large fortune. I may say that I am rich, as my funds come from a source that is inexhaustible. At the same time, I do not mind confessing to you, that I have no other funds than my wits, or, in other words, my skill in play. I live by the profits I derive from the gambling-table. I could prove to you, that there is not a year that I do not make money at roulette, clearing at least twenty thousand francs (800_l._). You naturally inquire how?--I am going to teach you. "It has long been the custom to hold up to ridicule those, who, having little trust in fate, seek to make their fortunes by the aid of lucky combinations at play, more or less ingenious. "Even if the result disappoint you day after day, ought you, therefore, to conclude that it is not to be obtained? "I have every reason for believing the contrary, and, when you have heard what I have to say, you will agree with me on the subject. "To make these explanations more intelligible, I ought, in the first place, to establish the following aphorism: 'That all games of chance present two kinds of chances perfectly distinct: those which belong to the player, and those which are inherent in the combinations of the game.' "The chances in favour of the player are represented by two mysterious agents, known by the names of loss and gain, or perhaps by the more characteristic ones of good and ill-luck. "The chances of the game are termed probabilities. "A probability is the relation which exists, between the number of chances favourable to a result, and the sum total of possible chances. "Some celebrated authors have written clever works on these same probabilities, but, in consequence of their profound depth and multiplicity, these calculations are of no earthly use to the player. "Besides, all systems of probabilities may be advantageously replaced by the following theory:-- "If chance should happen to bring every possible combination of the game, there are, notwithstanding, certain limits, where it must cease. "Such, for example, as the fact of a number coming up ten consecutive times at roulette. "That might happen, certainly, but it has never yet occurred. We may therefore conclude, that:-- "In a game of hazard, the oftener a number comes up, the more certain it is that it will not come up the next _coup_. "This is the groundwork of all the theories of probabilities, and is termed 'the maturity of chances.' "After what I have stated, it is evident, that, in order to succeed, a person must only continue to play, when he is fortunate at the commencement, and must also only risk his money, at the instant prescribed by the rules of the maturity of chances. "Some sort of introduction was necessary, but I have made it as short as possible." Here M. Raymond, wishing doubtless to give me time to reflect on what he had said, stopped short, pulled his pocket-handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose several times, and then continued:-- "My theory is embodied in the following precepts, under the title of ADVICE TO PLAYERS. "1st. In playing, give the preference to the game of roulette, as it gives you the chance of investing your money in several ways,[E] and also enables you to study at the same time various chances and maturities. "2nd. A good player must be calm, and must keep his temper. A man who gives way to passion is sure to lose. "If, as is said to be the case, gambling produces the most delightful sensations; as all happiness in this world has its reverse of pain and suffering, it is almost certain, that the anticipated pleasure of winning is balanced by many bitterly-deceived hopes. "_The man who likes gambling must take the risk of losing._ "3rd. A prudent player ought, before beginning, to observe, and obtain proof if possible, whether he is in a lucky vein or not. "If there be any doubt about it, he must abstain from playing. "4th. There are some whom ill-luck pursues incessantly. To these I would say: _never play_. "5th. An experienced player ought always to avoid joining in partnership, with those unlucky people who always lose. Nothing is so contagious as ill-luck. Be careful never to place your money with that of unfortunate players. On the other hand, always place your money with those whom you see are lucky. "6th. Accustom yourself to be one of the last to place your money, so that your play may not influence others who are also holding back. "7th. Endeavour to choose for playing, the moment when you see there are most players; the _coups_ are then less rapid, and one has more time to study them. "8th. Never think of playing, unless you have your brain quite clear. Let the voice of the _croupier_ and the card on which you have marked the points, occupy your thoughts. Isolate yourself in the midst of the crowd. "9th. Never try a chance until it is ripe, or has arrived at its maturity. This system will often oblige a novice to remain inactive; but practice will enable him to play every time, as he will know how to profit by _all_ the chances attached to the combinations of the game. "10th. If the calculations, founded upon your luck, or upon probabilities, are disappointed, cease playing at once, to try your luck again at a more favourable opportunity. "_Obstinacy in playing is ruin._ "11th. Never play for more than two hours; beyond that time, brain and fortune become weary of being kept too long on the rack. "12th. To acquire the sort of impassibility I advocate, hide, in the recesses of your own heart, any and all emotions, which the fact of winning may produce, be the sum ever so considerable. Remember that your good luck ought never to make you rejoice too much, for, though Dame Fortune may shower her favours upon you, she as often takes her revenge on the imprudent whom success intoxicates." I had paid the greatest attention to the explanation afforded me by M. Raymond. His system appeared to me, if not infallible, at least a very ingenious one; still I could not persuade myself, that it was possible to command success. I wished, however, to show him that I had perfectly understood him. "All your precepts are very clear," said I, with an appearance of conviction, "and may be summed up as follows:-- "_Before risking money at play, consider whether you are in a lucky vein, and study the probabilities of the game, or, as you call it, the maturity of chances._" "Just so," rejoined M. Raymond. "This system is so sure and certain, that I have latterly applied it most successfully. "This morning I felt that it was one of my lucky days, those days so rare in the life of a gambler. "This feeling was so strong in me, that I felt instinctively that something good would happen to me. "On arriving at the table, I, however, at first only made a few trifling experiments at rouge-et-noir. "My success confirmed my impressions. "It would not have been prudent to exhaust the vein of my good luck, so I stopped, and, taking a card, began to study the maturity of the chances before making my great _coup_. "After an hour spent in making observations, I thought the favourable moment had arrived, I placed ten francs on No. 33. I lost: one must expect that; but, confident in my successful vein, even more than in the No. 33, the maturity of which had not come to its full, I martingaled four times running.[F] "At the fifth _coup_, the probabilities proved in the right. The ball stopped at my lucky number. "My four martingales having amounted to eighty francs, the sum paid me, according to the rules of the game, was thirty-six times that amount. I received 2880 francs (about 115_l._). "A fool would have gone on; but I, not wishing to tempt fortune, and in order to avoid losing all my gains, quitted the table." Clever as was the system of M. Raymond, he could not, however, imbue me with the wish of risking the smallest sum at roulette. I have always looked on this game, as a trap baited with the prospect of an easy gain. In fact, how many men have, like M. Raymond, invented systems and theories to break the bank, who have only succeeded in ruining themselves, and any fools who would listen to them. Et s'il est un joueur qui vive de son gain, On en voit tous les jours mille mourir de faim. A few days afterwards, I quitted Spa to return to France, and, as often happens with friends picked up in one's travels, M. Raymond and I parted, as I thought, never to meet again. It was not, however, thus destined. Two years afterwards I found myself at Baden-Baden, and was walking on the Lichtenthal promenade. A man I had not before observed, came, and, placing himself suddenly before me, looked at me, as much as to say: "Do you recognise me?" This man, judging by his appearance, was not one of the aristocracy of the Baden society. He wore a brown coat, which had that peculiar shiny look, which bespeaks long service. It was buttoned up to the throat, to allow him to dispense with the luxury of a waistcoat, or at least to prevent a too minute inspection of his under garments. His face was ornamented with a pair of large "blondes moustaches," very carefully arranged. "How the loss of a beard changes the appearance of a man!" said a voice, which I recognised immediately to be that of M. Raymond. "True," I replied, somewhat absent by a remembrance of former days crossing my brain: "It is true, you are much changed." I looked at M. Raymond; more old recollections crowded into my mind. Those thick moustachios, that military appearance, were connected with an event which had once impressed me deeply. Still I could not quite recall the facts to my mind. "I will not longer interrupt you in your walk," said M. Raymond, moving away; feeling hurt probably at my hesitation, of which he did not know the cause--when I stopped him: "You do not interrupt me, 'Mon Voisin,'" I said; "let us walk on together, and we will go to a less frequented part, where you will be able to relate to me, more at your ease, all that has happened to you since we parted." "Ah! _Mon Dieu!_" replied poor Raymond with a sigh, "my tale is a simple one; you shall judge for yourself. "A fortnight after your departure, my luck turned. Bad luck pursued me, as it had never done before. According to my principles, I waited, hoping for a better chance; but my frightful ill-luck continued for six months. I changed my _locale_, to turn my luck, but all in vain. The best-established maturities, the most wonderful chances, all became, for me, elements of ruin. "At my wits' end, as well as at the end of my resources, I sold in succession, jewels, linen, and clothes, by the proceeds of which I hoped to save myself from ruin; but in vain. "I played with caution, and studied in despair, all the chances for and against me. I made nothing but unlucky hits, and was soon reduced to utter poverty. "Ever since then, I have led the most extraordinary existence in the world. Too proud to beg, I endured with resignation the most cruel privations. I cannot tell how it was, that I did not die of hunger. "You may well believe that I did not wish to be recognised, in such a pitiable position. I, the lucky gambler 'Voisin Raymond,' whom all admired for his talent and good luck. "I could not bear the pity of my former admirers. "I shaved off my beard, the type in some measure of my greatness, and thus transformed, I lived unknown, waiting for better days." Proud, as M. Raymond seemed to be, I did not think he would refuse a little assistance; but fearing to wound his susceptibility, I contrived to slip a napoleon into his hand, while giving it a parting shake. "I accept what you offer me, but only as a loan," said he, "remember that:--Thanks, '_au revoir!_'" On this, "Mon Voisin" quitted me, with much precipitation. Curious to learn what he intended to do, I followed him unseen, and saw him direct his steps to that yawning gulf, the roulette-table. I was not surprised; all gamblers are alike. The same evening, Raymond approached me with a triumphant air. "Well!" exclaimed he, "they are right who say that borrowed money brings luck! Here I am, again in a lucky vein; I have played prudently and for small stakes; the result is, that I have won a hundred francs. It is a return of my former good fortune. Allow me, therefore, while thanking you, to retain for a time the napoleon you lent me; I look on it as a talisman, by means of which I hope to get out of all my difficulties." Cruel deception! The following day, the talisman and its luck fell a prey to the rake of the hard-hearted _croupier_. "A few more francs," said Raymond, when relating this misfortune, "and I could have stood out against my unlucky vein. You must know, my system has completely changed, and I feel so confident in my new system, that, with only three hundred francs, I feel assured that I could break the bank." From all this, I saw that Raymond had lost, if not his wits, at least his judgment. "You had much better leave Baden, Raymond," I said to him, "and devote yourself to some less dangerous occupation. Were you never in any profession, which you could again take up?" "Alas! The profession I exercised formerly, was one still more dangerous; I quitted it twenty years since, and I swore never to resume it again." This explanation, short as it was, threw a sudden light upon the vague recollections, which the altered face of Raymond had awakened in my mind. "Wait," said I to him, looking at him attentively. "Yes! It certainly is,--were you not some twenty years since at a ball, which was given at the Veau qui Tête?" "Yes! Well, what of it?" "Do you recollect being questioned, after an unusual run of luck at _écarte_, and how you afterwards were chased by the police?" "I remember the circumstance," replied Raymond, with the greatest calmness, "and the more so, because, as a termination to that scene and many preceding ones, finding myself tracked and nearly discovered, I fled to Germany, abandoning my dangerous career for a more tranquil and honest life. "I there took another name, and with my thick beard, which almost hid my features, few would have recognised me; of this you can judge for yourself." This candid avowal gave me hopes of obtaining from Raymond, an account of his former life, which could not but be interesting. I hoped to find there some facts, which would be of use for the work I was writing on sharpers. I did not hesitate to ask him to oblige me, and, in the hope of inducing him to admit me into his confidence, I offered to lend him three hundred francs (£12), which he was to return, when he had made his fortune. It was _giving_ them to him, under another form. Raymond agreed to both my propositions, but begged to be allowed until the morrow, to enable him to collect his ideas a little. CHAPTER VII EDIFYING HISTORY OF A GREEK. Debauchery--Scheme to get money--The usurer Robineau--The bill of exchange--A false friend--Treason--Stay at Clichy-- Initiation of a sharper--Release from prison. Raymond kept his promise. He came to me the following day; and, after I had made my arrangements, so that no one should interrupt us, I asked him to begin his story. "It is not my intention," said he, "to tell you the history of my life; I shall only relate to you my _début_ as a Greek, and the causes which so fatally led to it. After that, I will tell you some startling incidents, of which I have been the hero, the accomplice, or the witness. "My real name, and the place of my birth, are of little consequence. I shall not mention them, out of respect to my family, one of the members of which holds a very high position in Paris; to you, therefore, I shall be simply M. Raymond. "At the age of twenty, I was a tolerably good-looking fellow, and came into possession of a fortune of about ten thousand francs (400_l._) a year. Being an orphan, I had no one to control me, and led, in consequence, one of the fastest and most dissolute lives in the metropolis. "In two years my patrimony was all spent, and I found myself ruined. "As always happens in such cases, my friends turned their backs on me, and, as must also always happen, it was necessary for me to exist; but how? A serious question, for one who had never had any other profession than idleness and debauchery. "The idea of suicide occurred to me, but whether it was cowardice, or submission to fate, that prevented me, I know not, but I continued to live on." M. Raymond then related several piquant anecdotes, as he called them. As a faithful historian I shall transcribe them for the benefit of my readers; but, as they will be easier to recount in the third person, I shall in future adopt that method. Raymond was thus abandoned, as he had stated, by all his friends, with one exception. This faithful friend, named Brissac, was the same age as himself; he had been the companion of his follies, and would now share his misfortunes. They had one purse in common,--that is to say, they starved together. Brissac's active mind was never at a loss; every day brought forth some new scheme, for restoring their broken fortunes. "I say, Raymond," exclaimed Brissac, one morning, awakening his comrade; "I've got an idea! In a few days we shall be rolling in wealth. It only requires a couple of thousand francs (£80), no more; and this is what we must do to procure that sum. "I am acquainted with an old money-lender, named Robineau; a sly, suspicious old fellow, and such a rogue, that an escaped convict would blush before him. He shall be our banker. I don't mind confessing to you that my credit with him is quite gone, so I can ask nothing for myself; but _you_ might very well beg him to lend you the sum I named." "No doubt I can _ask_ for it," said Raymond, "nothing is more easy; but to _obtain_ it, is another thing. You know these usurers always require security." "I know that. Of coarse, you will offer security to this honest Robineau." "You are joking." "No, on the contrary, I am quite serious. Listen to me; you will offer Robineau a bill of exchange, and, at the same time, tell him to make all necessary inquiries about you in your native place. As no one there yet knows that you are ruined, there is no doubt, that, after making these inquiries, and satisfying himself of your respectability, he will give you what you require. We'll find means of paying him some day or other," added Brissac, by way of quieting his conscience. Everything occurred as Brissac had predicted. In consideration of a bill for two thousand five hundred francs, at one month's date, renewable only with the consent of Père Robineau, he handed over to Raymond two bank-notes of a thousand francs each. The friends had been so long deprived of anything like pleasure, that they determined to enjoy themselves to their hearts' content. They took care, however, to be economical, so that the money lasted them for a fortnight, at the end of which time, they were worse off than before. They again applied to Robineau, but this time he was inflexible. "When you have paid me your original debt," said he, "I shall have more confidence in you, and will lend you a larger sum." The dreaded moment arrived; the bill was presented, and of course was not paid. Père Robineau lost no time in adopting such stringent legal measures, that, to escape a prison, Raymond saw himself reduced to live the life of a recluse, never venturing to leave the house. To crown all their miseries, Brissac, who, by some means more or less honest, always catered for the two, found himself in the same predicament as his friend. A bill, with his signature attached, in the hands of Robineau, was almost due; but Brissac was not a man to allow himself to be caught. He resolved to free himself by an act of treacherous perfidy. He went to the money-lender, and frankly told him he was penniless, and that therefore it would be useless to imprison him; but that, on the other hand, his friend was quite solvent; and he offered to get him a bill signed by Raymond, for a thousand francs, in exchange for his own, promising at the same time to assist him to entrap his invisible debtor. The offer was accepted, and Brissac immediately commenced putting his infamous project into execution. He made Raymond believe that he had found a more accommodating money-lender, who had promised to let him have a thousand francs on his bill. No sooner does Brissac get possession of the paper, than he hastens to Père Robineau, gives it to him in exchange for his own, and returns to Raymond to carry out his scheme. "All goes on well," said he to Raymond; "but there is a little formality necessary. Our new banker declines to give the money to any one but yourself. You had better come with me to satisfy him." "Yes, but," replied Raymond, "I might be recognised, and taken by the bailiffs, on my way there." "I foresaw this difficulty, and have a carriage at the door with the blinds drawn; so we have nothing to fear." Unconscious of evil, Raymond starts on his way. The two friends congratulate themselves on their good fortune, and are laughing in their sleeves at the trick they are playing the bailiffs, when, suddenly, at the command of a strange voice, the carriage stops, and a man, in an authoritative tone, after desiring Brissac to get out, takes his place, and orders the coachman to drive to Clichy. "Adieu! Raymond," cried out his perfidious friend as the carriage drove off, "adieu! Keep up your courage. Adieu!" Whilst Voisin Raymond was telling me this, I observed, that he could not prevent a nervous clinching of his fists. "I may well be enraged at this villain's infamy," said he, with his teeth set and his eyes sparkling with rage, "for it is to my stay at Clichy that I owe my entrance into the path of crime." The prisoner was as unhappy as he would naturally be under such circumstances, but, on reflection, he found that his condition was not so bad as he had at first thought; at all events, he would, for some time to come, be sheltered from want. His companions in misfortune seemed all of them far from despairing. Each of them appeared to bear his troubles with patience. They treated one another to dinners and fêtes, at which ladies were present. Cards were also permitted, and imaginary stakes of large amount, were played for by these insolvents. From his first entrance, whilst most of his companions held themselves aloof from him, Raymond was attracted towards a man named Andréas, who had shown a compassionate interest in him. This man, although he was twenty years older, became his friend and confidant; and to him Raymond related his youthful follies, his difficulties, and his misfortunes. Andréas, on his part, also made a confidant of Raymond; one thing led to another, and at length he told him some secrets of a compromising nature. He confessed that he had the art of mastering the caprices of fortune, or, as Cardinal Mazarin said: "_Prendre au jeu ses avantages_." Andréas even offered to initiate Raymond into these rascally manoeuvres, and to work with him so as to gull the dupes of "Sainte Pélagie." Raymond, who had long ago ceased to be honest, did not feel affronted at such advances being made to him; he accepted the offer of going into partnership, and worked with zeal to become an adept in his new profession. His progress was rapid, as in prison there is little to distract the attention, and one can devote one's whole time to study. The partners at once commenced a crusade against the purses of their fellow-prisoners, and were so successful, that, in less than a year, they had gained sufficient to recover their liberty. One day they sent for Père Robineau to come to Clichy, saying it was for an affair of great importance. The cunning old man knew well enough what his presence there was required for, so he took with him the necessary papers for the liberation of his debtor. Thanks to his zeal, the needful formalities were soon gone through, and Raymond found himself once more on the pavement of Paris, which has an especial charm for such of its inhabitants as have not trodden it for a twelvemonth. Andréas also was set at liberty; the two associates met, and agreed never to part again. CHAPTER VIII. SECRET GAMBLING-HOUSES. Greeks, both as dupers and duped--Andréas Tête d'Or--Secret inquiry--The human ostrich--The society of philosophers-- Chaffard the bravo--Exploit of Tête d'Or--A Greek thrown out of window--Mystification. When Raymond entered the prison of "Sainte Pélagie" he was an isolated being in Paris. On his exit it was different; Andréas had friends who also became the friends of Raymond, and in many of the houses in which he was received, he met with a most cordial welcome. They soon treated him as a brother, using the friendly "thou" in addressing him, and even gave him the _soubriquet_ of "The Marquis," from his fashionable appearance. Andréas was named Tête d'Or, or "Golden Head," in consequence of his fertile and inventive imagination. Raymond was not long in discovering, that the society he now frequented, was composed of Chevaliers d'Industrie, and that the houses where he had been so well received, were nothing more than gambling-houses, where those who were imprudent enough to enter, were soon fleeced of their money. As Raymond was very expert at tricks of cards, they gave him, every now and then, certain tricks to execute; and in every instance he performed his _rôle_ with as much adroitness as tact. In these houses, the trial of skill was marvellous, and it was not uncommon, to see as many dupers as duped at each table. The tables and play were kept up by a sort of partnership; that is to say, every Greek paid his share towards the general fund. At the end of the evening, after all the dupes had departed, the Greeks placed what they had gained on a table, and shared it equally. Although wolves do not prey upon each other, thieves not unfrequently do: that is certain. It often happened, that, after a game was over, at which the dupes had lost a hundred louis (£80), when they came to divide, there were only sixty forthcoming. Every one of the players agreed that there ought to be more, but no one acknowledged to having taken the missing money. They looked at each other, and even made a personal search (for in such company delicacy is needless), but found nothing. At length they hit on an idea; they agreed to request Tête d'Or to make a secret investigation, in order to discover which was the culprit. Andréas, flattered at being selected to fill so delicate a post, put all his zeal and intelligence in requisition, and soon detected the two delinquents, as well as the tricks they had employed to cheat the society. It appeared, that one of these men gave orders to his servant, to come towards the end of every evening, to ask his master for a key, or for some other trifling errand. Whilst giving him the key, he also handed over to him a _rouleau_ of the louis he had gained. If the winnings were considerable, the servant, at a sign from his master, returned with the key, and in giving it back received a second _rouleau_. Another, more modest, contented himself with sticking a few louis under the table with small bits of wax, collecting them after the division of the spoils was over. A third, a sort of human ostrich, swallowed the money, and afterwards took an emetic to recover it. These double-faced thieves, once known, were expelled, as not being worthy to belong to an association, which boasted of being proof against all temptation. It occasionally occurred, that false money was mixed up with the genuine coin. But the author of this fraud could never be discovered; so no notice was taken of the circumstance, as the false money was so good an imitation, that none of the party had any scruples about circulating it amongst their trades-people. Andréas, at length, felt wearied of wasting his talents for the benefit of people, whom he considered much his inferiors in intellect. He required a larger field for the display of his powers; and consequently proposed to Raymond, to quit "The Lynx Society" (for so was the association named), to form, conjointly with a man called Chaffard, who was nick-named Prévôt (or the Fencing Master), a society for the cultivation of Parisian and provincial dupes. It was called the Society of Philosophers, and the different members were employed as follows:-- Chaffard used to travel about from time to time, to discover victims; he likewise had to put himself in communication with the sharpers of the provinces, and to negotiate with them for those undertakings, in which the experience of masters in the art was necessary. If Chaffard was not as clever in handling cards, as his comrades, he was in no way their inferior in cunning and rascality. He possessed one talent in particular, which, when occasion required, was of much avail to them. He was a first-rate bully, always ready to quarrel with a dupe, even whilst he was robbing him, so that many, to avoid being killed by this miscreant, would quietly allow themselves to be swindled out of their money. In such cases his usual language was, "Very well, sir; there is only one thing to be done--we must fight. I am at your service, &c., &c." If, by chance, any person happened to argue a point, or expostulate with either of them, Chaffard immediately interposed, espoused his friend's quarrel, and offered to fight in his stead; for Andréas and Raymond were not courageous, and this was the reason, that they had deemed it prudent to ally themselves with a bravo. Chaffard was, in truth, the defender and support of the association. The character of Raymond, "The Marquis," was, on the contrary, quiet and inoffensive. His manners savoured of the best society. Intelligent and adroit, he willingly undertook to work at balls, parties, and other mixed assemblies. By degrees, he managed to get introduced into the _salons_ of the rich middling classes, where he exercised his vocation with as much prudence as talent. Andréas, or "Golden Head," also enjoyed a certain distinction in his line, which lay in secret gambling houses. There it was that he usually displayed his talents. There, he not only found easy dupes, but often, thanks to the depth of his plots, and his extreme cleverness, he managed to take in sharpers themselves. In addition to his other qualities, Andréas possessed wonderful presence of mind, of which he was extremely proud; and in proof of this he had told Raymond the following circumstance:-- At the period when he first began his dangerous career, and was not yet very expert, he was playing at one of the secret clubs frequented by all the great gamblers of Paris. Whilst playing, he was caught in the fact of cheating, and certain cards which he was trying to introduce into the game of lansquenet, were seized. They were on the point of delivering him over into the hands of justice, when one of the players judiciously observed, that, as the assembly in which the circumstance occurred was not quite legal, his denunciation might bring about awkward results; besides the trouble and delay of producing the necessary proofs. "Would it not be more simple," continued this sage counsellor, "to punish the rascal ourselves, by throwing him out of the window; and, should he reach _terra firma_ in safety, after his aërial excursion, he will never think of appealing against his sentence." All present, agreed that this would be the wisest plan, and unanimously decided, that they should proceed at once to the infliction of the punishment. As soon as Andréas heard this sentence pronounced, he threw himself on his knees to sue for pardon, and, with clasped hands, implored the pity of his judges, pointing out to them that the first floor, on which they were, was very high from the ground, owing to there being an _entresol_ between it and the ground-floor. All his appeals, however, were in vain. One of the players, who had lost more than any of his companions, insisted, not only that no clemency should be shown him, but that the rogue should be compelled to return the money which he had stolen. This restitution seemed easy enough, as the green silk purse, into which Andréas had put his own money and that of his victims, was on the table beside him. "I will return it, if you insist on it," cried Andréas, in a heart-broken voice, placing the purse on the table, "but, oh! do not kill me." Their only reply was to open both the shutters and the window. Four of the strongest of the group were selected, to launch the culprit into space. They approached to seize him, when Andréas suddenly formed the resolution of leaping out himself, made a bound forward through the open window, and, in true gymnastic style, came down on his feet in the street below. Stunned by his fall, he staggered at first, then hobbling away, he ended by starting off at full speed, to the astonishment of the spectators in the balcony above, who laughed loudly at this serio-comic performance. When their hilarity was over, they bethought themselves of sharing the contents of the purse which contained all the losses they had experienced during the evening. One amongst the party was named to arrange the affair, but, as the whole of the money was mixed up in it, together with that of the robber himself, it was agreed that it would be better to give it to the poor. Wishing to know the amount the purse contained, they emptied it on the table, when what was their astonishment at finding nothing in it but counters. Andréas, in case of accidents, always carried a second purse, filled with false money; and, even in the critical position in which he had been placed, he had sufficient presence of mind to substitute the false purse for the real one. In relating this adventure of former days, Andréas always concluded with these words: "I took good care never to be caught again." CHAPTER IX. SECRET GAMBLING HOUSES--(_continued_). School of cheating--Travelling Greeks--_Le Service_--Formidable manoeuvre--Imperceptible signs--The business of the _Comtois_ --The _coup de retraite_--Abundant harvest--Prodigality and debauch--Fortune takes her reprisal. The three associates at first always worked together, and made some good hits in several of the gambling houses in the metropolis; but finding at length, that, as the number of Greeks increased, the number of victims lessened, they determined on starting a clandestine hell of their own, at the head of which they placed a very respectable lady of their acquaintance, named Madame de Haut-Castel, familiarly called "la Pompadour." To Chaffard was deputed the task of recruiting for dupes, and drawing them away from other houses. This establishment prospered very well for some time, but, one fine day, they perceived that their affairs were entangled. A good number of _habitués_, who had been introduced as dupes, after having been cleaned out by the masters of the place, took their revenge on the new recruits, and fleeced them with infinite skill. Andréas soon suspected, that there was no faith to be placed in the "Fencing-Master," and discovered that he, in conjunction with "la Pompadour," whose admirer and devoted slave he had become, had started a sort of class, for men who had nearly ruined themselves by gambling; to whom, for a handsome _douceur_, they taught some of their best tricks in cheating. The two other associates were incensed at this discovery, but dared not show how exasperated they were, fearing, as they did, the sword of Chaffard; so they contented themselves with concealing their disgust, and paying him off in his own coin. They decided to quit Paris; and, giving as a reason, their wish to explore the watering and bathing places during the summer season, they left the establishment in Paris to the care of the "Fencing-Master," with full power to do what he pleased, nay even to dispose of it if he liked. During their journey, the two rogues invented and arranged, the most cunning and dexterous tricks. They particularly made a study of a practice well known amongst Greeks, and called "le Service," which is neither more nor less, than a series of almost imperceptible signals. The following is the way their scheme was carried out. The two confederates bend their steps towards some watering place, which is known to be frequented by gamblers. Raymond, "The Marquis," has the principal _rôle_ allotted to him. He arrives; goes to the best hotel, and passes himself off as a rich young heir-presumptive, or an eldest son. He is careful not to call himself a Russian prince, or an Englishman, as both these characters have been so often assumed by swindlers, that that fact alone would raise suspicion. Indeed, the names of Russian princes and rich English families, are now so well-known to the Greeks, that he could not, without danger, venture to create new names and titles for either of these countries. At the _table d'hôte_ of the hotel, Raymond, by his polite, easy, and elegant manners, wins golden opinions from the persons around him. After dinner, he joins his new friends, walks out with them, and afterwards goes with them to look on at the gambling-tables. If he plays, it is with great caution and moderation. He generally contents himself with looking on, that is to say, he watches the play of his future victims, and never attempts a _coup_, until the arrival of his associate. He is sure not to be long after him, and selects an hotel as far as possible from that of his accomplice. The two scamps, when they meet, feign not to know one another; they even affect to have no tastes in common. Andréas walks up to the gambling-table with an air of indifference, makes one or two bets, as if he did not care much whether he won or lost, and refuses to take the cards, under the pretence that he does not know how to play. But the time arrives, when these gentlemen commence their real game. They are seated at an écarté-table. Raymond is playing. At first, to prevent suspicion, he loses several games, and resigns his hand, which, however, when the play is animated and the stakes high, he takes up again. Andréas is betting on the opposite side, but his bets are so trifling, that it will make little difference to the pair, even should he lose. This artful accomplice takes up a standing position, behind his victim, and opposite his friend. With his hands behind his back, he seems as if he cared very little about the game. But all the time, he is paying the greatest attention, and working his secret telegraph for the benefit of Raymond. I will endeavour to explain, in a few words, this formidable system of trickery. THE SECRET TELEGRAPH. The number of cards required in the game of Piquet is thirty-two; now all these thirty-two cards, may, by this system, be pointed out by twelve signals, that is to say, eight for the value of the cards, and four for the suits. At Écarté, the number of signals is still less, as it is only requisite to designate the numbers. But to make these signals, it is not necessary, as stated by some authors, to use any exaggerated signs, such as to cough, sneeze, blow the nose, or beat a tattoo on the table. They must have a very low estimate of the Greek, if they suppose him capable of these palpable evolutions. No; the modern Greek would be ashamed of such childish performances. Unfortunately for the dupes, the signals he makes, can only be seen and recognised by his accomplice. Of this, my readers will be able to judge for themselves, by the following explanatory table:-- If the confederate looks at-- 1. His associate, he means A king. 2. The cards of his adversary A queen. 3. The stakes A knave. 4. The opposite side An ace. And at the same time that he tells the card, he also tells the colour, by the following signs: 1. The mouth slightly open A heart. 2. The mouth shut A diamond. 3. The upper lip slightly projecting over the under A club. 4. The under lip projecting beyond the upper A spade. Thus, for instance, if the Greek wishes to tell, that the adversary holds the queen, the knave, and the ace of hearts; he looks successively, at the cards of his adversary, at the stakes, and on the opposite side, holding his mouth slightly open the whole time. From this it will be seen, that the secret telegraph may be used for all games alike, and put in requisition wherever there are spectators. In fact, nothing is more easy at piquet, than to indicate by the aid of these signals, when you are to take in cards, and when to refuse. I have only thought it necessary, to give an example of some of the simplest and easiest signs; but I may add, that some sharpers have a large, and varied catalogue of signals, to designate different things, as circumstances require. This secret telegraph is so nearly imperceptible, that it is difficult to describe, and quite impossible to detect. The Greek, who is playing, is careful not to win always. After three or four runs of luck, he loses and leaves the table, according to the instructions conveyed by his confederate. This is called "The Retreat." To cover any losses incurred by this move, the accomplice has taken care to double his bets, and thus to reimburse themselves for their voluntary sacrifice. Andréas and his friend were, moreover, adepts in every kind of sleight of hand trick, which, in many instances, they rendered still more advantageous, by performing what they termed "_Coups en duplicata_." Thus, for example, if they were together at the same bouillotte table, they pretended not to be acquainted with one another, and even looked at each other with cool indifference; thus they could, whilst playing, very well manage to cheat, without exciting suspicion. Instead of each cheating to win for himself, as might be supposed, they artfully contrived that the one who had the deal, and held the cards, should have bad cards and lose, whilst his confederate had all the luck, and won. Sometimes, whilst giving all four kings to his accomplice, the other would also manage, to hand over the four queens to one of their victims, so as to raise his hopes, and induce him to double his stakes. The villany of these rogues, therefore, could not be suspected, as the dealer never was the winner. * * * * * It was at Boulogne-sur-Mer, that Andréas and Raymond fixed themselves, to carry on their criminal performances. The people there, were rich and prosperous, and the harvest was abundant; though it was rather lessened by their gains being shared with Achille Chauvignac, the swindler _par excellence_ of the place, who pointed out to them where the best game lay. I must here pause to say a few words. Hearing so much said of the enormous profits gained by swindlers, the reader will, naturally enough, conceive, that in the end, all Greeks must of necessity become millionaires and capitalists. Far from it; notwithstanding their great profits, this reprobate class never prospers; on an average, out of every hundred Greeks, 99+1 die in want. The explanation is easy. The recruits of "modern Greece," without exception, are men whose debauchery and prodigality have brought them to ruin. Nothing would be more difficult, than to make a sharper thrifty and economical. They are all dissolute, prodigal, and ostentatious, according to their means. These gentlemen, far from proportioning their expenses to their incomes, think not of the future, and live in extravagant luxury. They have horses, carriages, mistresses, &c., &c., and each one endeavours to outdo all his acquaintance in his expenditure. It is hardly credible, but nevertheless true, that a sharper sometimes loses money at play. These men, _blasés_ with the successes which they themselves have created, sometimes sigh for the excitement caused by real play. To obtain it, they rush to the roulette or rouge-et-noir table. In these two games the Greek finds retributive justice, and fortune takes a sure revenge for many former deeds of wrong. CHAPTER X. THE DOCTOR DUPED. The false capitalist--The rogue is bled--More confederates arrive --A good hand--The fleecing--The doctor bled. After quitting Boulogne, our two heroes intended to have gone into the South of France, but their plans were changed by a proposal made to them by Chauvignac. There was a physician, living at St. Omer, who had an irresistible love of gambling, and the proposal made by Chauvignac was, that they should relieve him of some thousands of francs. Chauvignac was to give them all the information necessary, and for this, he asked a third of the profits; only, as he was the intimate friend of the doctor, it was agreed that he must not appear in the affair. The two performers in this drama, were not long in making their arrangements. A few days afterwards, they arrived at the Hôtel d'Angleterre, the best in the place. Andréas passed himself off for a rich Parisian capitalist, who, charmed by the beauty of the place, and the simple manners of the country, wished to purchase an estate in the neighbourhood. He was accompanied by a friend, who had come to give him his opinion and advice in this affair. They made several excursions, visited all the places that were for sale, but ended by finding nothing on a scale grand enough to suit the would-be proprietor. At the termination of their searches, the millionaire announced that he was going to return to the capital, and was on the point of departing, when he was suddenly taken very ill. According to his wishes, the best medical man in the place, the friend of Chauvignac, was sent for. On his arrival, the son of Esculapius began asking various questions, to find out what was the nature of his patient's malady. "Ah! Sir," replied Andréas in a mournful voice, "I cannot tell you what has caused this illness, which compels me to keep my bed; all I know is, that I suffer horribly in my head. I have unhappily every reason to fear, from the symptoms, a return of a brain fever, of which I have already had several attacks." "Calm yourself," said the doctor, "we will try and ward off the evil, this time, by bleeding you copiously." "Do so, if you please," responded the rascal, "I place myself in your hands." Andréas was accordingly bled, and soon afterwards declared he already felt better. "I will come again, and see you to-morrow," said the doctor, on taking leave of the sham invalid. "Oh! pray come back again to-day, for I feel I require incessant watching and care." The doctor promised, and returned in fact some hours later. He felt the pulse of the patient, and found it still so high, that he recommended a severe regimen, and the most absolute quiet and repose. No sooner was the doctor gone, than Andréas proceeded to take off a ligature, which he had bound round his arm to increase the beating of his pulse, and, whilst waiting for the return of his victim, made a hearty meal. Several days passed in this manner, during which, Raymond never quitted the bedside of his friend; he was as devoted as a Sister of Charity. It was thought advisable under such serious circumstances, to send for two other members of the family, who were introduced to the doctor as nephews of the sick man, but who were, in reality, nothing more nor less than two sharpers, who were brought from Paris to suit the purposes of the two schemers, and were paid ten francs a day for their services. Their business was, to second and assist the manoeuvres of their master and chief. The severity of the attack was overcome, and Andréas appeared to be approaching convalescence. To amuse the invalid, his two _soi-disant_ nephews, and his friend, used to play at cards, at a table placed close beside his bed. The game was animated, and the gold coins were rolling about on the floor. They were so rich in this family! "I say, doctor," exclaimed Andréas one evening, "I think a game of cards would do me good, and go far to restore me. You have a lucky face; will you do me the kindness to hold a hand of cards at écarté for me? I stake ten napoleons." The doctor, to oblige his patient, as well as to enjoy his favourite amusement, hastened to comply. He was most fortunate in the cards he held; he won six consecutive times, and placed sixty napoleons in the hands of his patient. "I am most happy," added he, "in having so successfully performed the mission you confided to me, but whether it is your good luck, or mine, that has been the cause of it, I cannot tell." "Good Heavens! Dear doctor," exclaimed Andréas, "the only way to be certain of this, is to play for yourself; I will bet on you, as I believe you to be the lucky man." The doctor did not require to be asked twice; he played, and again had luck beyond belief. In fact, in a short time he had won a hundred napoleons (£80). "You certainly bring me luck," said Andréas to his partner; "but I have had enough for this evening; I am tired and want repose." "We hope that these gentlemen will forgive us for winning and walking off with their money. To-morrow, if you like, we will play again, and, with your aid, I hope we shall clear out my two nephews, which will, perhaps, cure them for their passion for play. If you succeed, doctor, the cure will be one of the best you have ever made." It was not philanthropy, but his immense luck, and love of gambling, which made the doctor keep his appointment. He came the next evening at the usual hour, and found the nephews already there. To fulfil his duties as physician, he felt the pulse of his patient, and found him so much better, that without more ado, he pronounced himself ready to begin their game. The table was placed, as on the previous evening, close to the bedside of the patient, to enable him to join in the amusement. In order to plunder the poor doctor more speedily, they allowed him at first to gain a few napoleons. This voluntary loss is in the language of sharpers called the "bait," and allows them to double their stakes without causing suspicion, enabling them to gain their ends more easily and quickly. As soon as the stakes rose, and the play was for nothing less than bank-notes, the luck immediately turned. The doctor, hitherto so lucky, suddenly found himself losing everything. At the end of the evening, he was a loser to the extent of thirty thousand francs (1200_l._). All along it is easy to perceive, there had been but one victim. The losses of Andréas had been but imaginary, and were only assumed, to prevent suspicion on the part of his victim, and would of course be returned to him by his accomplices. Having bled the doctor as far as they could venture to do (for he was not very wealthy), and prudence also preventing their proceeding further, in case the police might put a finish to the scheme, they thought it advisable to decamp. The following morning, therefore, the invalid felt himself sufficiently reinstated in health to prosecute his long delayed journey, so, paying the doctor for his attendance, he quitted the town as quickly as possible. CHAPTER XI. THE PASTE RING. The amateur of precious stones--What a beautiful diamond!--A sovereign cure--Ah! if I were a rogue--A false paste ring!-- The game is played--The tell-tale stamp investigation--The wanderer by night--The mysterious _tripot_--The sharper caught in a trap--Recriminations--The message--The false commissary of police--The Rue de Jerusalem--Unexpected _dénoûement_. It was some time after this, that our two heroes arrived at Lyons, and lost no time in making inquiries regarding the various clubs in that town, and the sort of people who were members of them. Amongst others, one club was particularly mentioned, in which most of the members were gamblers. They heard that a gentleman named Béroli belonged to it, who was a great amateur in precious stones. Béroli had a mania for making clever bargains, as he called them, which means, that he often obtained a fine stone cheap, from those who were not such great connoisseurs as himself. Such transactions would be called cheating, but that in these days, it is quite allowable, if not honest, for buyers and sellers to try to take each other in. Do we not daily hear a man boast of having, by some deceit, obtained an article from a merchant at cost price, whilst, on the other hand, the vendor rubs his hands at having got rid of a _loup de magasin_, as a faulty article is called. In some commercial houses, it is stated, that a premium is paid to the clerk, who disposes of the _rococo_ articles to some credulous customer. Be that as it may, Béroli's mania for precious stones, put it into the head of Andréas to play him a clever trick. He requested Raymond to get himself introduced, and work his way into the club, of which Béroli was a member, whilst he (Andréas) went to Paris, to arrange the preliminaries of an affair, of which he at present refused to mention the details, until all was in readiness for his great _coup_. A fortnight afterwards, thanks to the secret influence of Raymond, Andréas, who had returned from Paris, was proposed and elected by the club, of which his comrade was already a member. The two Greeks were not supposed to know one another, so each was able to proceed with his work unsuspected. Raymond ransacked the pockets of some rich proprietors, whilst his comrade contented himself, every evening, with playing a few innocent games at écarté with Béroli, whose acquaintance he had made. The very first day, the amateur observed a magnificent ring on the finger of Andréas. "What a splendid diamond you have there," said Béroli, with an accent of envy. "Yes, it is," replied Andréas, carelessly, continuing his play. "Diamonds are trumps. I cut, and my turn-up card is worth nothing; you have the trick." Béroli, meanwhile, never took his eyes off the precious stone, the dazzling lustre of which seemed to fascinate him. Each day brought forth fresh expressions of admiration for the stone, to all of which, his opponent apparently remained insensible. One evening, Béroli was determined to force a reply of some kind or other from Andréas. "What did you pay for that stone?" said he. "Are you serious in asking that question, do you really wish to know?" "Quite serious." "Then I must explain, that, if I have not before replied to your different exclamations of admiration, it was because I thought you were joking. Now that I know the contrary, I feel bound to tell you, that that superb diamond, which has dazzled you so much, is only paste." "How do you mean--paste?" said Béroli, with an air of pique. "It is you that are joking." "No; I assure you I am in earnest." "Oh! nonsense; let me see it closer." Saying these words, Béroli took up the hand of Andréas, fixed his eyes on the ring, and kept turning it about to make it glitter. "You may tell others that it is false, but there is no use in telling me so. I can assure you that your stone is a real diamond. "Very well; I am glad to hear it," rejoined Andréas, feigning the greatest indifference. "Let me see, it is your turn to play." The two players continued their game, but Béroli appeared _distrait_, and kept constantly looking at the ring. At length he could no longer restrain himself. "So certain am I," exclaimed he, "that the stone is of the first water, that I shall be happy to purchase it, if you will let me." "I will not sell it to you," replied Andréas. "Why not?" "Because, in the first place, I do not want to rob you of your money; and in the second, it is a family relic, which I do not wish to part with. One of my uncles left it to me, and he had it from his father. It has been in our family for a hundred years, and is called "the paste ring." I only wear it, because it is considered a charm against headaches, to which I am very subject." "But if I offered you a good price?" persisted Béroli. "If you offered me four times its value, I would not part with it." "Suppose I offered you, not four times, but two or three hundred times, the value you set on the stone?" Andréas cut short all further colloquy by continuing the game. "Diamonds," said he, "and I have what they call '_la fourchette_.' I mark one." As soon as the game was ended, Béroli, who was very tenacious of his reputation as a connoisseur in precious stones, returned to the charge. "I am so sure of what I aver," continued he, "that I shall always be ready to bargain for your ring, whenever you wish to part with it." "Ah! if I were a rogue," replied Tête d'Or, "I should part with my paste ring to you, to prove that you must not always be guided by your own judgment." "Stay," said Béroli, "will you lend me your ring until to-morrow. To make quite sure, I will just show it to a jeweller of my acquaintance." Andréas acceded to his request with a show of indifference, and they separated. Béroli went off at once to his friend, to show him the jewel, and ask him the value of it. The jeweller, after examining it for some time attentively, confirmed Béroli's opinion. "This stone is of a most beautiful water," said he, "and I should consider it cheap if I got it for twelve thousand francs (480_l._)." The following day, Béroli advanced to Andréas with an air of triumph. "My dear sir," said he, "I can now state with positive certainty, that your family has been in error for the last hundred years about the value of this ring. What you call paste, is a real diamond. I will give you six thousand francs for it." To this offer Andréas made no reply. They sat down to play, but during the game, the indefatigable Béroli incessantly returned to the charge, offering each time a higher price for the ring, to tempt his adversary, and finally made him an offer of nine thousand francs. To all of which Andréas remained silent, contenting himself by shaking his head each time in token of negative. It was late, and the party was on the point of breaking up, when Béroli suddenly made up his mind. "Stop," he exclaimed, at the same time placing ten bank-notes, of a thousand francs each, on the table. "This is my last offer. Say yes, and the bargain is struck." "You are resolved to cheat yourself?" "Yes, I am," replied the amateur, in a bantering tone, looking again intently on the ring, which he had kept on his finger throughout the evening. "Well, if you insist on it, you shall have it; only allow me to take out from a secret recess the lock of hair of my worthy uncle, who has been the means of making me get ten thousand francs. I certainly did not anticipate this great good luck. See what it is to be a connoisseur. Here; here is your ring. Thanks." Early the following day, Béroli again went to his friend the jeweller. "I've got that splendid diamond," said he, addressing him. "Look here; see how beautiful it is! I am sure, that whenever I wish to part with it, I shall always get more than what you offered me." "Do you think so?" responded the jeweller, taking up the ring, to look more closely at it. "Stay; what's this?" he exclaimed. "What's this you have brought to show me? This a diamond! why, it is nothing but paste!" The trick was played, and had succeeded. Under pretence of taking out his uncle's hair, Andréas had cleverly changed the diamond ring, for a paste one precisely similar, which he had had made for the express purpose. On the following day, the ingenious and clever thief was far away, out of reach of Béroli and all chance of redress. * * * * * "Those who are unacquainted with the perseverance and energy of Béroli," observed Raymond, in relating this anecdote to me, "may fancy that the diamond ring is lost to him for ever. Not so." The amateur, after having been so cruelly deceived, took an oath that he would discover, and be revenged on, his enemy. On examining the false ring, Béroli first made sure that it bore the goldsmith's mark, proving it to be of pure gold. This was not much consolation, still, it led him to suppose, that the real diamond ring must also, of course, bear the same stamp. If, muttered Béroli to himself, the two rings have passed through the comptroller's hands, the stones are so large, and of such value, that it is next to impossible he did not remark them. This simple reflection, was the first step towards the discovery of the real gem. Furnished with a letter of introduction from his friend, the jeweller, Béroli proceeds to Paris, goes straight to the mint, and presents the ring to the comptroller, who perfectly remembers the two rings in question, and gives the address of the jeweller who manufactured them. From the latter Béroli learns, that his customer, Andréas, lives at No. 13, Rue Cadet. Any one else would have handed Andréas over to the police; but caring much more to obtain possession of his ring, than to satisfy the ends of justice, Béroli thinks it more prudent to take the affair into his own hands, and manage it in his own way. He goes to the concierge, in the Rue Cadet, and slipping a napoleon into his hand, begins by relating to him a romantic tale, well calculated to impose on the man, and make him tell all he wished to know. Béroli says, that a daughter of a friend of his, residing in the country, has been asked in marriage by his tenant, M. Andréas, and that he has come to find out all he can about him, believing that he could not go to a better source than his friend the concierge. The man, delighted at the affable manners of his interlocutor, as well as flattered at the confidence reposed in him, reveals, under the seal of secresy, that Andréas has a mistress living with him, and that he often remains from home all night. This is enough for Béroli; he takes leave of his obliging informant, and, that very evening, places himself as a spy at the gate of his deceiver. At ten o'clock at night, Andréas comes out, and directs his steps towards an isolated house, at the end of the Rue Pigale. Béroli follows him, and sees him, and about twenty other men, go into the same house. Hidden in a doorway close by, Béroli observes all that goes on without being himself seen. He remarks, that every time the bell of the gate is rung, the door is opened by a servant with a light in his hand, who makes a close inspection of the person presenting himself, before he admits him. The mystery attending the meeting, the absence of a concierge, &c., all lead Béroli to conclude, that this must be one of the secret gambling houses; and what confirms him still more in this opinion, is, that though there are four windows in each story, in the front of the house, not one of them is illuminated. Any one would have supposed it to be uninhabited. Wishing to have a yet more convincing proof of the correctness of his surmises, he determines to wait until the meeting is over, and employs himself, whilst waiting, in concocting his plan of attack. About four o'clock in the morning, the door again opens, and a man, after looking up and down the street in a mysterious manner, issues out. Béroli suddenly confronts him. "Sir," said he, quickly, so as to give him no time for reflection, "is everybody gone out of this house?" "Why?" asks the unknown. "Because the police are close by, and will soon surround it. I came to warn one of my friends, who was to have spent the night here." "Thanks for the information," replies the unknown, proceeding on his way. If, thought Béroli, this man be only one of the dupes, he would have nothing to fear, as he has quitted the gambling house; but his anxiety to be off, proves that he fears the vigilance of the police, so I feel sure he must be one of the gang. Full of this idea, Béroli follows at a little distance, and when he sees him slacken his pace, he goes up to him, and thus addresses him:-- "I beg your pardon for having made you race in this manner, by giving you false information, but I wished to find out if you were one of us, and I have succeeded in so doing." "Will you explain yourself, sir, if you please, for I do not understand what you mean." "I can easily make you comprehend me, by simply stating that I am the colleague of Andréas." "What has that got to do with it?" "I wish to make a proposition to you. Would you like to gain two thousand francs without any trouble?". "Explain yourself." "Since you say you know Andréas----" "I beg your pardon, I did not say that." "Since you know him, I must inform you, that that scamp has played me a most infamous trick." "He is quite capable of so doing," added the unknown, in a low voice. "I wish to be revenged, and that is why I ask you to assist me." "What is there for me to do?" "Scarcely anything. It is only necessary for you to bring Andréas to a house, which I shall point out to you, under pretext of introducing him into a club, where he will find several victims to dupe. I'll arrange all the rest." "I am ready," replied the unknown. "When and where is it to be?" "To-morrow, at No. 22, Rue Meslay, on the second floor." The following morning, the new associate of Béroli called on Andréas, to make the perfidious proposition to him. Never doubting his comrade, Andréas accepted the proposal, thinking to make an excellent _coup_, the more so, as things were going on rather badly in the Rue Pigale. That very evening, the two Greeks proceeded to the house indicated by Béroli, in the Rue Meslay. A servant in livery, having admitted them, opened the doors of a drawing-room brilliantly illuminated. Andréas entered first, without apprehension, but he had no sooner done so, than his companion, following the instructions he had received from Béroli, turned round suddenly, and locked the door. At the same moment, Béroli, and two athletic-looking men, entered from a door on the opposite side of the room. "You, doubtless, remember me," exclaimed Béroli, in an austere and determined voice. "You must know what it is that brings me here." "What do you mean, sir," cried Andréas, feigning the greatest indignation. "First of all, answer me. What sort of ambush is this, into which you have entrapped me? Am I in the midst of thieves, or assassins?" "Do not speak so loud, sir," replied Béroli, "or you may have reason to regret it. The ambush of which you complain is only a favour to you--a step towards an amicable settlement of the business." "What do you mean by talking to me about favours?" replied Andréas, "and what do you complain of? You offered me ten thousand francs for a ring, and I accepted your offer. Did I not give you the ring?" "Yes, you did, but you omit to mention, that the stone you gave me was a false one." "Ah! Mon Dieu!" coolly replied Andréas. "I am far from denying it. I repeated that to you so often, that you must recollect it. Besides, did you not, when paying me the ten thousand francs, say you knew the stone was false, but that you very much wished to possess it?" "Do not let us play upon words, sir, but let us come to the point. You are going to give me the ring you cheated me out of." "To avoid all discussion on the subject, I tell you, once for all, that I have never had any other ring in my possession, than the one I delivered to you." "If that be the case, you will not mind copying this, and sending it to your mistress?" "Let me see what it's about," said Andréas, taking the paper from Béroli. He read as follows:-- "MY DEAREST,--I hope to make some money in the house from which I pen these lines, but I require my diamond ring for the affair. Bring it to me yourself, to the address I enclose, and do not entrust it to any one else. The bearer of this note will give you my keys. At eleven o'clock precisely, I shall be at the door awaiting you. Take a carriage, so as to be punctual. "ANDRÉAS. "22, Rue Meslay." "Nothing will induce me to write that," exclaimed Andréas. "I will not solicit you long," said Béroli. "Will you do it, Yes or No?" "No, a thousand times, no!" "Baptiste, go and bring the commissary of police," said Béroli, addressing the man on his right. "Go at once, and do not return without him." "A moment," supplicated Andréas, making a sign to the commissionnaire to stop. "Let us see if we cannot arrange this business; what will you take to end the affair?" "I will have no arrangements; I require nothing, but that you should copy and sign this letter." Seeing there was nothing for it but to agree to Béroli's proposal, Andréas began to think, how he could manage to decamp with the ring, as soon as he received it from the hands of his mistress. So, seating himself at the table, on which all the implements for writing had been previously prepared, and under the eye of Béroli, he copied the missive word for word. Two hours afterwards, Andréas was set at liberty, and Béroli had obtained possession of the celebrated ring. This is how it was managed: The _chère amie_ of Andréas, on receiving his note, hastened in a carriage to the house he had indicated, taking the ring with her; but no sooner did the carriage stop at the door of No. 22, Rue Meslay, than a commissary of police, with his badge of office (the scarf), and accompanied by a sergent-de-ville, opened the door of the carriage and got in, directing the coachman to go to the prefecture of police in the Rue de Jerusalem. On their way thither, the commissary explained to the fair messenger, that, having been ordered by the police to keep a watch on No. 22, Rue Meslay, he stopped a man coming out of that house, who was the bearer of a letter, and that after reading the contents of it, he had substituted one of the police for the original messenger. "The law has seized all the property which was in that house, and I am under the painful necessity, madam," continued he, "of arresting you, as being a party concerned in a serious robbery. Allow me to take charge of this article, which otherwise you might make away with." Thus saying, the officer drew the diamond ring from the finger of the lady, though not without some resistance on her part. The clock of the Palais de Justice was striking midnight, as the carriage drove up to the gate. The night was pitch dark. "We must ring up the concierge to open the gate," observed the commissary to the sergent-de-ville; at the same time they both got out, and shut the door of the carriage with assiduous care. Two minutes had scarcely elapsed, when a loud voice exclaimed, "You cannot remain opposite this gate, coachman." "I know that," replied that individual, "but I am waiting for orders. You have not told me where to drive to, Ma'am," added he, putting down one of the glasses. "Where am I to drive you to?" "Where are you to drive me? To the Rue Cadet, where you took me up," said the fair occupant of the carriage, in a tremulous voice. "Go along, my hearties," exclaimed the Jehu, whipping up his horses, "this is my last fare to-night." If my readers have not already guessed as much, I will mention for their edification, that the commissary of police and his assistant, were neither more nor less than two of Béroli's friends; and that, instead of ringing up the concierge, as they had stated, favoured by the darkness of the night, they made off, as quickly as they could, carrying the precious ring, which they soon afterwards delivered into the hands of Béroli. CHAPTER XII. AN INFAMOUS SNARE. A young fool--Envy and covetousness--Aphorisms--Insinuations --Confidences--Influencing the game--Honest men are sometimes rogues--Mushrooms and cheating--The Greek moralist--Example of cheating--Initiation--Maxims and manipulations--Temptation --The Belgian capitalist--The _cartes biseautées_--Easily won --An insolvent gambler--Comedy--The Greek in despair--An infamous scene--Dishonour--Ruin--The faithless trustee-- Separation of the philosophers--A virtuous Greek--Golden hopes --A beard again--A demi-millionaire. The Society of Philosophers generally made Calais the centre of their operations, for the reason that they were often summoned by Achille Chauvignac, who, as my readers may remember, had been the originator of the plot at St. Omer. Chauvignac was especially indefatigable in such affairs, as, without running the slightest risk, he always shared largely in the profits of these transactions. So unprincipled was he, that he continually selected his most intimate friends for his victims. Each gambler was classed as to his means, and also, as to whether he was likely to allow himself to be plucked without remonstrance. Thus, M. B-- was valued at three thousand francs; M. P-- at six thousand; M. C-- was not worth much, being a bad player; but, at any rate, they put him down at a thousand francs. The one who was considered the best, that is, the richest dupe, was M. F--, who was estimated at from fifteen to twenty thousand francs. Andréas and Raymond had gone the round of all the clubs of Calais and Boulogne, but they dared not venture to St. Omer, for fear of being recognised. They sent, in their place, however, two clever sharpers, who originally came from Venice, which city was formerly supposed to be the cradle of roguery. The Society of Philosophers would not certainly have placed the implicit confidence they did, in these two delegates, had it not been, that they were under the immediate _surveillance_ of Chauvignac, who not only looked after them himself, but arranged a system of _espionnage_ between the two Greeks, so that each of them was overlooked by his companion. His plan was, to address one of them privately thus: "Do you know, I have not much confidence in your friend; I much fear he will impose on our society; just take a note of his winnings, and watch him. You shall not go unrewarded for this service." He then went and said precisely the same thing to the other, so that without being aware of it, each Greek was watched by his comrade. The harvest reaped by the society at St. Omer, was very productive, but the largest share went into the pocket of Chauvignac, who, as may be conceived, was not very particular in the just division of the money entrusted to him. Whether it was in consequence of this affair, or from some trifling indiscretion on the part of the philosophers, the credit of Chauvignac seemed on the decline. Every one was astonished to see the money he spent,--a man who had literally nothing--and then his constant trips to Paris, without any obvious reason, and his intimacy with men whose characters were not unsullied--all these circumstances combined to make honest men rather shun his society. Chauvignac was as clever as he was unprincipled; for the latter quality does not prevent a man from possessing talent; the best proof of which is, that a rogue is seldom a fool. Chauvignac was sharp enough, soon to discover the discredit into which he had fallen, and knowing how prejudicial it would prove to his interests, he immediately set about thinking, how he could reestablish himself in the good graces of society. Amongst the young fools who shared with him a life of dissipation, he had formed a small club, at the head of which was a young man named Olivier de X----, who was noted for his elegance and his eccentricities. The family of this wild young fellow, was one of the oldest and most respectable in the country, and much looked-up to. Chauvignac fixed on this young heir, as a means of regaining his place in the good opinion of his fellow-citizens. He affected to be on terms of the greatest intimacy with him, when he met him in public places, and addressed him in a loud tone of voice, in the most familiar manner. But, unfortunately, this apparent intimacy with Olivier, had just the contrary result to what Chauvignac had anticipated: the one lost position, but the other did not gain it. Olivier began to be shunned, but Chauvignac fared no better. The latter, however, as soon as he perceived this, and he was not long in so doing, bethought himself of making Olivier's credit subservient to his views in another way. The parents of Olivier were not wealthy, and could do nothing for their son, so his excessive extravagance had brought him into difficulties and debt. He regarded Chauvignac with envy and admiration; he saw him living like a prince, without any creditors to annoy him. "How is it," said he to Chauvignac one day, "that you, who have no fortune, can gratify all your tastes and fancies, whilst I, who have some small means, am obliged to be economical, besides which, I am in debt?" This query was precisely what Chauvignac had been waiting for. He remained, for some moments, without answering his questioner, intending to give more effect to his words; then, with a diabolical smile, he thus addressed him: "Would you like to be as happy as I am?" "Can you ask me?" "All depends on yourself, to be even better off than I am." "What must I do?" eagerly demanded Olivier. Chauvignac thought his young neophyte sufficiently prepared, to receive what he had to impart. "Listen to me," whispered he, in a mysterious voice. "You have doubtless heard the following proverb, old as the world itself: Men are divided into two classes, Dupers and Dupes. Come, speak frankly, to which of these categories would you like to belong?" "Why you see, you are so abrupt in your question. You come on one so suddenly; it requires reflection." "Agreed," observed this second Mephistophiles, "we will make the reflections together, and will study the subject, in some individuals of that great and motley crowd, which is termed 'society.'" The two friends were, at that moment, standing at the door of one of the largest and best cafés in the town. It was Sunday; the weather was fine, and crowds of pedestrians were lounging up and down before them. "Look," said Chauvignac, "do you see that thin miserable man, with his head bowed down, and his clothes hanging in rags? He is an unfortunate fellow, who has worked all his life to pay off the debts left by his father. He is old: he has hardly bread to put in his mouth. You will observe no one takes any notice of him. Now, look at that stout man, so puffed up with pride and insolence; how pleased he seems with himself, as they say, like a peacock spreading his tail. He has been a merchant, and has made his money by fraud and cheating. He afterwards set up as a banker, and lent money at an usurious interest. He is now a millionnaire. See--he bows with a patronising air to all whom he meets. The first is a dupe, the second a duper." "Or to speak more plainly," added Olivier, "the first is an honest man, the second a rogue." "Be it so--I grant you that," continued the tempter, "but now I will give you another example, of which you will not be able to make the same observation. "You, better than any one else, ought to know an intelligent, generous-hearted, and ambitious young man, who, for want of sufficient means, leads a life of privation and troubles, is overwhelmed with debt, and, if he thinks of playing to retrieve his fortunes, he is sure to lose. Near to him, at this moment, is one of his friends, who, without fixed income or expectations, possesses, nevertheless, a never ending fortune. This man always wins at play, and has not a caprice ungratified. "The former of these is the dupe, the latter ---- is ----" Here Chauvignac paused, to allow Olivier to finish the phrase. "What is it you mean?" asked he, beginning to comprehend the purport of the conversation. "What I mean, is this," replied Chauvignac with a sneer--"To prove to you, that the lucky gamester, whose good fortune you envy, belongs to a society of philosophers, and that these philosophers have certain and easy methods, of turning luck in their own favour." "But," observed Olivier, his sense of right struggling for mastery in his mind. "To cheat at play is an act of dishonesty." "On this point, my dear sir, we do not agree; you are in error, and I will prove it to you. First of all, tell me what you call cheating at play?" "I call winning by underhand tricks, cheating." "Very well; if that be the case, I will soon show you that the most honest man will not scruple to cheat. "For instance, do we not daily see men of the strictest probity, seek to turn luck in their favour by various means. One, in placing himself at the table, will sit opposite the hinges, because he believes it to be a lucky spot. Again, if he wins, he will not count his money, fearing to turn his luck. Another believes in the influence of a certain coin, which he mixes with the rest of his money--but which he will never part with. Others, again, wear amulets, made of the dried heart of a black hen, the head of a beetle, or a bit of the cord with which a malefactor has been hung.[G] "Just tell me what is the object of these mysterious influences, if it be not, as they say in the criminal courts, "_gagner subrepticement le bien d'autrui en faisant tourner à son profit les bénéfices d'une partie_. "In such cases, if the act is not committed, the intention is the same, and ought to be considered as if accomplished. "Between the above-mentioned actions and ours, the only difference is, that one depends on the mind, the other on the fingers. The moral result is the same. "Of this you may be sure, that if these honest folks do not go further, it is because they dare not. I will even say more," continued Chauvignac, carried away by his own sophistry. "Take, for instance, one of these heroes of probity, and show him a method of always winning, with a certainty of never being detected, and see if he will not follow it. Believe me, I know a great deal more than I care to tell." "All that," said Olivier, "proves, at most, that all honest men may not be able to resist temptation; but it does not go to prove, that cheating is not a crime. Besides, it is punishable by law." "That's true," replied the cunning Chauvignac; "but again, we have no proof that the law is right. I maintain, that, far from being reprehensible, the art of turning aside ill-luck and bettering one's fortune, is a thing which ought to be encouraged." Olivier could not help smiling. "I am serious," added Chauvignac. "Yes! The art of winning at play is meritorious. And why? Because it is useful. If the Government had any sense, they would not only encourage cheating, but give a premium for it." "Then I don't know what morality means." "Only, because you have not studied pure philosophy, as I have. Hold--to make you understand it better, I will just give you an example. "How often do we hear of deaths caused by eating mushrooms! Well, if people imagined that all mushrooms were poisonous, of course no one would venture to partake of them. "It is the same with gambling; if people expected to lose every time they played, few would run the risk of trusting to their luck at cards, and play would become what it ought to be, a mere relaxation and amusement. "Thus the Greeks would have done more for morality, than all the moralists in the world. "Therefore, I confess to you, that I, who would not rob any one of a pin, have not only no scruple in doing my best to control fate, but, in cheating, I think I carry out a principle, eminently useful to humanity. "The art of cheating at play, is to me only high philosophy put in practice." Young Olivier had listened with the most intense interest, to the eloquent pleading of his friend in favour of cheating, and it was easy to perceive, that his feelings of probity on the subject, were giving way before the subtle sophistry of the tempter, and that he already began to approve of some of the arguments he had heard in its favour. Chauvignac perceived it, and wishing to continue his work of evil-- "Let us see," added he, in an insinuating manner, "what have we to weigh in your own case? On the one hand, wealth, pleasure, and enjoyment of every description; on the other hand, hard-hearted creditors, misery, and ruin." "But," observed Olivier at length, quite carried away in spite of himself, "one might be discovered, and then--" "How weak and childish you are!--Here, come into this café with me, and you shall see how easily these things are done. "You see yonder big Benoit, with his small annuity. I am going to propose a game of piquet to him, and make him pay for a cup of coffee for each of us. 'Tis a pity he has not more to lose." Benoit is accosted by these gentlemen. The game and the stake are accepted: the result is not long delayed. In two hands the game was over. Chauvignac and his friend left the café, and once in the street, the former put the finishing stroke to his unworthy maxims. "There, it is not difficult, you observe," said he. "Oh! how delightful it is to be able to wrestle with fate, by fleecing a set of simpletons, whom that capricious Dame Fortune loves so often to favour." "Does it take long to learn?" said Olivier, quite bewildered with all he had seen and heard. "That depends upon circumstances," replied his perfidious friend; "it is with this art, as with the piano, one can soon give pleasure; it depends on the professor, and his method of teaching. "But, as we are not far from where I live, come in; and whilst we smoke a cigar together, I'll explain a few things to you." Olivier still rather hesitated to follow him. "Oh! nonsense! it binds you to nothing; you can do just as you please. It is as well to know a little of everything, and at all events, if you do not like to practise the system yourself, it will put you on your guard when attacked. One never knows what may happen." Chauvignac would certainly not have taken so much trouble about the matter, if he had not had in view some act of treachery towards his companion. The conversation ended by Olivier accepting the offer held out to him. Behold them now, seated on a sofa, each with a cigar in his mouth, and Chauvignac with a pack of cards in his hand. "Look! here is a hand, tell me if you see any signs of cheating in any of the cards?" The novice examined the cards with great attention, but not being an adept in the art, failed to discover anything. "You observe nothing in this hand of cards?" said Chauvignac. "They have, however, been subjected to a process that we call biseautage,[H] or having one end made narrower than the other. This system shows the player what cards he is to retain, and how to class them, in the order he requires for playing." Chauvignac, joining precept to example, showed his friend the way it was to be done. "Now," added he, "to prove to you that this trick is not difficult, I will make you do it yourself. Let us sit down at this table, and suppose we are playing for a thousand francs." Although Olivier had no great talent for sleight of hand, he succeeded in learning from his friend how to gain the whole of the five tricks, twice running, at écarté. "This trick," said Chauvignac to him, "is one of the first, as well as the most easy, in the art of cheating. In a little while, I shall teach you how to play with prepared cards, and you will, in time, I hope, become an accomplished philosopher." Olivier made no reply, his mind was in a perfect state of chaos, from the thousand and one thoughts which filled it. The tempter, judging his victim to be now sufficiently compromised, left him to the temptations which he had suggested to him. He made the excuse of having some visits to pay, and the two friends separated. Two days afterwards the Professor went to see his pupil. "Would you like to join me," asked he, "in a little tour of pleasure I am about to make?" "Your kind proposal is badly timed," replied Olivier. "I am not only without funds just now, but I am trying to obtain a thousand francs, to pay a cursed bill of exchange that I signed, and which falls due this very day." "Is that all?" said Chauvignac, taking a banknote for the amount out of his pocket-book--"Here it is; but mind, you must return it to me to-morrow." "You are deranged." "Perhaps I am, but in my insanity, I am mad enough to offer you another thousand francs, to enable you to go and secure thirty thousand which are awaiting you." "Pray explain yourself, or else you will turn my brain also!" "Listen: if ever there was a desperate gambler, it is the Count de Vandermool, a rich Belgian capitalist, and who can well afford to lose a hundred thousand francs (4000_l._). He is just now in Boulogne, and intends remaining there a week. We must bleed this millionnaire; nothing will be more easy, as a friend and colleague of mine from Paris, named Chaffard, is already acquainted with him, so all we have to do is to set to work at once. "You are now one of us. That is well understood, is it not? In a short time you will be able to satisfy your creditors, and to give your mistress a Cashmere shawl." "But you go too quick," said Olivier in a wavering tone. "Wait a bit, I have not yet said yes." "I don't ask you to say 'yes' now, you shall say it at Boulogne--make haste, and go and pay your bill; we shall leave this in two hours. The post-horses are ordered, we shall start from my house--be punctual." The same evening the two philosophers arrive at Boulogne. They alight at the Hôtel de L'Univers, which has been selected for them by their accomplice--by whom they are shortly welcomed. He tells them they have no time to lose, as the Count has spoken of quitting Boulogne the following day. The travellers swallow a hasty dinner, make some slight toilette, and bend their steps towards the apartment occupied by the Count, preceded by Chaffard, who introduces them as two friends of his, who have estates in the neighbourhood. The Count de Vandermool is a man about fifty years of age, he has an open and pleasing countenance; on his breast hang several foreign decorations. The new arrivals are received by him with the most flattering cordiality; he does more; he invites them to spend the evening with him. The invitation, it is needless to say, is accepted. The conversation, at first animated, begins to flag a little. The Count proposes a game of cards, which proposal is also eagerly accepted by the three confederates. Whilst the tables are being arranged, Chauvignac gave his young friend two packs of cards, _biseautées_, to be substituted for those which should be produced by the Count. Écarté was the game fixed on, and Olivier was selected to play with the Belgian; the two others having pretended not to know the game, contented themselves by betting one against the other--as their interests were in common, it was of little consequence which won the bet. Olivier was at first thunderstruck at the assertion of his two friends, that they did not know how to play, but from certain telegraphic signs they made to him, he discovered that it was to prevent suspicion, in case he should win. The wealthy Count would only play for bank-notes. "Metal," he said, "has not an agreeable odour in a drawing-room." The young novice, at first confused by being a party to such a snare, neglected for a time to take advantage of the prepared cards, and following the dictates of his conscience, trusted to the chances of fortune. The capricious goddess, far from being grateful for his trust, forsook him. In two hands, the only thousand-franc note he possessed fell into the hands of his opponent. Now it is, that, pressed on by the glances of Chauvignac, as well as anxious to regain his loss, Olivier essays some of the manoeuvres which his friend had taught him. They were easy to execute, for the Count was so near-sighted, that his nose was almost buried in his cards. Of course the luck now turned, and the bank-notes began to accumulate beside Olivier, who, elated with his success, was indefatigable in his work. The Count Vandermool was a good-tempered player. His repeated losses did not make him lose his jovial good-humour. To look at his happy countenance, you would certainly have thought he was the winner. "I am not in a lucky vein," observed he, good-naturedly, taking a pinch of snuff from a superb gold snuff-box. "In this last trick, I vainly hoped to gain all, and I've got nothing." Olivier was serious, his mind was not in a state to talk lightly. He continued to handle his cards with feverish eagerness. Not wishing, however, to seem wanting in politeness towards so noble a host--"You are admirable to-night," said he to him with a faint smile. "'Admirable,' do you say--Yes, yes, Monsieur Olivier, that's the word. I wish you joy. Go on; give me some cards!" "It is useless to go on. Trump, and then trump. I cut, and it is the king of diamonds, which stands good--this gives me the five points." "Ah! ill-luck has certainly fastened on me this evening," said the Count, "that makes eighty thousand francs I have lost; I see I shall soon make up the hundred thousand. "I think it right to tell you, that I never go beyond that sum, and that if I am to lose it, I shall propose having some supper before I lose my last twenty thousand. Perhaps, that may change my luck; you certainly owe me this much." The proposition to sup, met with general approbation. Olivier, almost out of his wits with joy, at becoming the possessor of eighty thousand francs, could not resist the impulse he felt to testify his feelings of gratitude to Chauvignac. He drew him aside, and shook him warmly by the hand. The wretched man had no idea of the cruel deception which had been practised on him, and which had all been pre-arranged by his two comrades. The rich Belgian capitalist, the respectable count, was no other than a clever Parisian sharper, whom Chauvignac had persuaded to come, for the express purpose of ruining the unfortunate young man, who never perceived, whilst his back was turned, that the count changed the two packs of clipped cards which they had hitherto used, for two packs _biseautées_ in the contrary way. During supper they drank but little, wishing to keep their heads clear. The meal, nevertheless, was very merry; and as soon as it was over, they recommenced playing. "Now," said the Parisian sharper, seating himself at the table, "I wish to end this affair one way or other, quickly. Let us make the stake twenty thousand francs (800_l._)." Olivier, after having won so largely, could not but accept the proposition. It was only just towards his adversary. But, oh! cruel deception! the stake of twenty thousand francs, on which Olivier had so surely counted, passed into the hands of his opponent. A stake of forty thousand francs shared the fate of its predecessor. Breathless, bewildered, and discouraged, Olivier knew not what to do. In vain he manipulated the cards; he got none but the lowest, whilst his adversary had all the trumps in his hand; and as it was Olivier who dealt them to him, he could not complain. In his despair, he looked enquiringly at Chauvignac, who made signs to him to go on. Distracted, and quite beside himself, the poor victim continued to stake enormous sums; and, in his turn, shortly owed his adversary a hundred thousand francs. The pretended count then gave up playing, folded his arms, and thus addressed Olivier: "M. Olivier de X----," said he, in a stern tone of voice, "you must be very well off, to stake such sums; but be careful, for, rich as you are, you must be aware, that if people lose a hundred thousand francs, they must also pay them, as I did. "So now, just pay me the sum you have lost, and then we'll go on playing." "That's only fair, sir," muttered young Olivier; "I am willing to satisfy your demands, but you know that gambling debts ... my word...." "Devil take it, sir," exclaimed the count, giving the table a violent blow with his fist. "What's that you say about your word? It well becomes you to talk of debts of honour. We'll play, if you please, another kind of game, and let us put things as they really are. M. Olivier de X----, you are a knave! Yes; a knave! The cards you have been using are clipped; and it is you who have brought them here." "Sir, you insult me." "You don't say so, sir," said the count, ironically. "Sir, this is too much--I demand satisfaction for this--and that immediately. Do you hear, sir? let us go, and settle it at once." "No, no, let us remain here, and settle _this_ affair of honour. Stay, your two friends will be your witnesses, and I will send to some of my friends, to come and be mine." Scarcely had the sharper uttered these words, than he got up, and rang violently. His servant answered the bell. "Go to the Procureur du Roi, and ask him to come here at once, on an affair of great importance; make haste, do you understand?" "Pardon! sir, pardon! Do not ruin me," said the unhappy Olivier, in a tone of supplication. "I throw myself on your mercy." "Étienne, mind you wait outside that door, and if, in ten minutes, you do not receive orders to the contrary you will do as I told you." "Now then, sir," continued the count, turning to Olivier, "I will talk to you. These cards have been substituted by you in the place of those which I had provided. I insist upon your making these cards up in a packet, and sealing them with the ring on your finger, which bears your crest and coat of arms." In vain Olivier looked from one to the other; neither Chauvignac nor Chaffard gave him any encouragement, but looked at him as much as to say, there was nothing for it but to do as he was desired. Olivier obeyed. As soon as the demand had been complied with, the pretended Belgian again attacked him. "Besides, this is not all, sir; I have fairly won my money, and you will give me a guarantee that it will be paid to me. You will give me bills at sight for the sum of one hundred thousand francs which you owe me." The unhappy Olivier hesitating to comply with this demand, his implacable creditor rose and seized the bell. "Oh! do not ring, sir--do not ring," said the young man, "I will sign the paper." And he signed it. The villainous plot was consummated. Olivier returned to his family, and humbly confessed all that he had done. His old father, rather than bring disgrace on his child, paid the money, esteeming his son's honour beyond all price. The Society of Philosophers had shared in this roguery, in the persons of Chaffard and the Belgian capitalist. To Chaffard was delegated the arrangement of the money department; and so well did he manage the business, that, in a very short space of time, he had the satisfaction of receiving a hundred thousand francs, in exchange for the bills which he held. Chauvignac, ever watchful for his own interest, immediately claimed his portion of the booty. Half the sum (as had been agreed on) was handed over to him, for having arranged the scheme and prepared the victim. The remaining fifty thousand francs were left in the hands of Chaffard, to be divided between the three philosophers. But the cunning rascal finding himself in possession of funds sufficient to give him a year's enjoyment and luxury, and living, as he did, in fear from day to day of being arrested for his numerous misdeeds, instead of going to Paris, directed his steps to Brussels, to play in his turn (but in good earnest) the _rôle_ of a French capitalist. In a moment of weakness, Chaffard had confided his project to Chauvignac, who immediately wrote, and told the two other philosophers of it. Raymond, who was a philosopher in the true acceptation of the word, received the news with great coolness; he had learned to his cost that one must never depend on the honour of a rogue. This fresh _escapade_ of Chaffard did not surprise him; he had rather expected it. With Andréas it was otherwise: furious at seeing himself the puppet of a man whom he regarded as his inferior, if not in bodily strength, at least in intelligence and sagacity, he swore that he would overtake the thief, and make him disgorge his ill-gotten gains. Full of artifices and schemes, he started for Belgium; but, by way of precaution, he took with him, as a fellow-traveller and companion, a celebrated pugilist--a sort of herculean bull-dog, whom he intended to let loose at his antagonist, if occasion required. Once separated from the man, whom he had every reason to regard as his bad angel, Raymond felt no longer sufficient strength to follow the dangerous profession, into which he had been so fatally enticed. The constant dangers by which he was surrounded, a last spark of conscience, and a return of better feelings, made him determine to quit for ever the discreditable career which he was following. Possessed of twenty thousand francs, he had sufficient funds to keep him for awhile, and give him time to find some employment, which would enable him to live honourably. But after some months, led on by his old love of gambling in general and roulette in particular, he visited the various spas and watering-places, where those engines of ruin, gambling tables, are to be found, and where he undertook his famous crusade against the banks and their "croupiers." We know the result of the calculations and computations of Voisin Raymond,--the inevitable fate of all gamesters who count on benefiting by the favours of fortune. * * * * * It took Raymond some days to narrate to me the above story, as, when the clock struck the hour for beginning to play, he immediately quitted me, and thought of nothing but his hypothetical combinations. He was trying a new system, about which, by-the-bye, he would never tell me a word, but I had little doubt that it would prove as fallacious as the former one, and leave him nothing but his own bright dreams as his reward. When I quitted Baden, he was penniless, and I had to add to the loan I had already made him. Since his conversion, I had had good proof, that he preferred suffering the most severe privations, rather than have recourse to his skill in sharping; and this it was which made me advance him a larger sum. When we parted, I left Raymond overjoyed with the hopes of being able to repay me all he owed, in a very short space of time, and even of being able to break the bank with the money I had lent him. These golden visions, alas! were never destined to be realised. Soon afterwards, I went to Paris to resume my "séances," and whilst there, I received a letter from Raymond, making a last appeal to my generosity, to enable him to live until he got a situation he was trying for. Wishing to prevent a recurrence of similar appeals, I did not answer his letter, but wrote to one of my friends at Strasbourg, to send the wretched man fifty francs, without telling him the name of his benefactor. A whole year passed without my hearing any more of Raymond. I thought it very probable he had died of want, when one day, on returning home in a cab, I could not drive up to my own door, as an elegant brougham, which had just driven up, was standing opposite to it. I therefore got out, and what was my astonishment, at recognising in my visitor, Voisin Raymond, extremely well dressed, and sporting all his beard, as in the former happy roulette days, except that it was not quite so long. I almost hesitated to address him, so great was my surprise; I thought I must be the victim of an illusion. "Ah!" exclaimed Raymond (making use of precisely the same words he did at our first meeting at Baden), "how a beard changes a man! especially when that man is transformed into a demi-millionnaire!" "Come in quickly," said I to Raymond, "I am curious to know, to what lucky chance you owe your present prosperity." My visitor followed me without uttering a word, and even after our entrance into the drawing-room, still remained silent. I was the first to speak. "How is it, my friend, that your great good luck has never been mentioned in the newspapers? You know, that when the bank loses, they make a point of giving the fact publicity through the press, in hopes of alluring fresh players?" Still no reply from Raymond; but, after a protracted silence of several moments, he said: "I am doing my best to find some means of prolonging your error; not finding any, I decide to tell you the truth. "You doubtless remember, that when I commenced the history of my life, out of respect for one of the members of my family, I concealed my name. It was out of regard to my brother, who held a high appointment in the magistracy. "This brother, who, thank God! knew nothing of my doings, except that I had run through my fortune, died three months since, without leaving a will. I am his sole heir, and have come into twenty-five thousand francs a year. "This is how I have managed to become a rich man. "I have entirely renounced gambling," continued Raymond. "I am rich enough for all I require, and have no ambition to become more wealthy. "I could now, however," added he, with an air of triumph, "break every one of the banks, if I liked; and what a glorious vengeance I could take for all my former ill-luck! Fortunately, my heart is too full of happiness to leave any room for vengeance." * * * * * Raymond took up his abode in the Marais, where he lived respected. I lost sight of him, when I went to reside in the country; but three years afterwards, I had occasion to come to Paris, and learned that my friend had died, and left all his fortune to various charitable institutions in the capital. THE TECHNICAL PART. We are now come to the most important part of this work. I intend, in it, to explain to the reader, the manoeuvres of the different sorts of Greeks I have just sketched. To make this more intelligible, it will be necessary for me to enter into certain details, which will, I trust, prove interesting. I must preface this, however, by mentioning, that nothing is further from my intention, than to give a lecture on sleight-of-hand. I care more about putting the public on their guard, than about teaching them how the tricks are performed. I shall merely mention what is absolutely necessary, to make those who play, SHARP, and warn them against SHARPERS. GENERAL RULES. THE DIFFERENT TRICKS PRACTISED AT GAMES OF CARDS. 1. The saut de coupe. 2. The passe-coupe, or cut beneath. 3. The enjambage, or cut above. 4. The carte large, or large card. 5. The pont, or bridge. 6. The carte tuilée, or bent card. 7. The filage, or card changed. 8. The enlevage, or card abstracted. 9. The posage, or card replaced. 10. The carte à l'oeil, or glance. 11. The substitution des jeux, or pack of cards substituted. 12. The boîte à la manche, or box of cards in the sleeve. 13. The faux mélanges, or false shuffle. 14. The mélange classificateur, or arranged shuffle. 15. The mélange partiel, or partial shuffle. 16. The éventail, or fan. 17. The queue d'aronde, or dove-tail. 18. The cartes adhérentes ou glissantes, or adherent or sliding cards. 19. The cartes teintées, or tinted cards. 20. The cartes hors d'équerre, or slanting cards. 21. The cartes pointées, or pricked cards. 22. The cartes morfilées, or cards with indented edges. 23. The cartes ondulées, or wavy cards. 24. The cartes tarotées, or enamelled cards. 25. The cartes marquées, or marked cards. 26. The chapelet, or rosary. 27. The bague à marquer, or ring for marking. 28. The tabatière à réflexion, or reflecting snuff-box. 29. The télégraphie, or telegraph. CHAPTER I. THE FALSE CUT. The _saut de coupe_--The passe-coupe--The cut above--The large card--The bridge--The bent card. The art of making a false cut, is the most important artifice employed by sharpers: and the Greek always exerts his best energies to accomplish this feat. In order to show what a false cut is, I must recall to the mind of my reader, the use and end of the regular cut. In all games of cards, it is the custom for the dealer, when he has done shuffling, to present the pack of cards to his adversary to cut: it is a sort of guarantee of good faith, which is also performed even amongst perfectly honest players. The following is the way in which it is generally done:-- The cards are placed by the dealer near his adversary. [Illustration: +---+ | | THE DEALER. | 1 | THE ADVERSARY. | | +---+ ] The adversary cuts, that is to say, he takes away a portion of the pack of cards, and places them beside the dealer, thus making two packets, No. 1 and No. 2. [Illustration: +---+ +---+ | | | | THE DEALER. | 1 | | 2 | THE ADVERSARY. | | | | +---+ +---+ ] The dealer raises the packet No. 2 and places it on No. 1. [Illustration: +---+ | | THE DEALER. | 2 | THE ADVERSARY. | | +---+ ] Thus the two packets are formed into one, and the natural or artificial arrangement of the cards is disordered. It is of great importance to the Greek to prevent this, as it would defeat his plans, and prevent him availing himself of the arrangements he has made against his adversary. It is necessary, then, for his success, that the two packets, whilst in his hands, should regain their first position. For this purpose, he employs different methods, the principal of which are:-- 1. The saut de coupe. 2. The cut beneath. 3. The cut above. 4. The bridge. 5. The large card. PART I. THE "SAUT DE COUPE." The reader who is uninitiated in the mysteries of sleight of hand, will probably think it incredible, not to say impossible, that a Greek can thus transpose invisibly the arrangement of two packs of cards, before the very eyes of his adversaries. Nothing, however, is more true. The treatises on sleight of hand give the method of executing this trick. As this work, however, has not for its object the same sort of instruction, I shall content myself with unveiling here, the preparations and arrangements necessary for the performance of the trick. When the Greek, takes up the packet of cards No. 2, to place them on No. 1, as before mentioned, instead of placing them equally one upon the top of the other [which would prevent his being able to distinguish them], he places No. 2 a little further back than No. 1, so that the latter advances about a quarter of an inch beyond, as exemplified below, in figure 4. [Illustration: Fig. 4.] By means of this projection of the cards, the Greek, as soon as he gets the pack between his hands, slips the little finger of his left hand between the two packets Nos. 1 and 2, and holds himself in readiness "_Sauter la coupe_,"[I] when the opportunity serves. Clever swindlers have yet another, and more adroit, manner of keeping the two packets separate. They will, with the right hand, take up packet No. 2 as if to place it on the other; but, instead of so doing, they manage to keep the two sufficiently apart, to enable them to slip the little finger of the left hand between, in the same way as before mentioned. [Illustration: Fig. 5.] I have just said, that a Greek always waits his opportunity to execute the sliding cut. It is only the new hands who are in a hurry. The experienced sharper always bides his time, and, whilst relating some amusing anecdote, accompanied by a variety of gestures and gesticulations with his other hand, completely draws off the attention of the company, and prevents their watching his performances. For example, "What are the stakes?" he will ask, with an air of unconsciousness, stretching out his hand towards them; and with the same gesture towards the score, he will ascertain the number of points, as if he was not thinking what he was about. But let the "sliding-cut" be performed ever so well, it is very difficult to practise it where the play is high. In such company, every dealer ought to be sober in his movements; for, the least gesture which deviates from the regular rules, in sorting, shuffling, or dealing the cards, is certain to awaken suspicion. But a Greek is, notwithstanding, seldom at fault; if he fail with one trickery, he has another at hand, his _répertoire_ being as varied as it is numerous. PART II. THE PASSE-COUPE, OR CUT BENEATH. All sharpers are cunning, clever, and tricky, but they do not all possess the same facility for tricks of sleight of hand. Many of them not being able to accomplish the sliding cut, so as not to be seen, are obliged to have recourse to other tricks less difficult. Of this number is the "passe-coupe." This trick is of the same use as the preceding one, and, if well executed, stands as little chance of being discovered. In order to explain this trick, it is necessary for me to revert to that paragraph where the cards have been divided into two packs by cutting. [Illustration: Fig. 6. +---+ +---+ | | | | THE GREEK. | 1 | | 2 | THE DUPE. | | | | +---+ +---+ ] The Greek, in taking up the two packets of cards, instead of putting No. 2 on No. 1, slides it in underneath, as in figure 7. [Illustration: Fig. 7.] When he has raised packet No. 2, he places it between the first and second fingers, and whilst raising packet No. 1, artfully manages to slide it underneath. To facilitate this manoeuvre, the rogue takes care to bend the cards whilst he shuffles them. Some Greeks, instead of placing the packet No. 2 between the two first fingers, merely take the cards into their hands, and slide them beneath one another, as above described. But in this latter case the transposition is easily discovered. PART III. THE ENJAMBAGE, OR CUT ABOVE. The "cut above" is a very simple and clever trick, and it is astonishing, when one knows it, to think how easily people are deceived, and that it should not be discovered. However, I candidly confess, the first time I saw it done, I was taken in, as others are. In this trick, the Greek, instead of placing packet No. 2 on packet No. 1, passes the former over without stopping into the left hand, which he holds a little in advance, and places packet No. 1 on the top. This trick, as well as the preceding one, is more especially practised in public-houses and places of low resort. PART IV. THE CARTE LARGE, OR LARGE CARD. The heading of this division sufficiently indicates the nature of the trick I am about to describe. It is to have one card larger than all the rest. When introduced into a pack this card, by its projection, almost forces the pack to divide, wherever the person who places it wishes. If the Greek has previously arranged the cards as he wishes them to be, their being cut, in no way disarranges his plans, as the card alluded to remains where it was placed at the commencement of the deal. The large card is also used by the swindler as a sort of mark, to alter the cut to wherever he thinks it would be most beneficial to him. PART V. THE PONT, OR BRIDGE. The bridge is one of the oldest tricks in use amongst sharpers, and it is almost impossible to be on one's guard against its use, when well done. As in the preceding examples, it is used to make a false cut, and thus to retain the cards as they have been arranged by the sharper to enable him to win. The pack of cards must be held in the right hand, and bent, by pressing them against the first finger of the left. The upper part of the pack must then be bent in an opposite direction, so as to form an arch, as in figure 8. [Illustration: Fig. 8.] This being accomplished, the upper portion of the pack is laid on the top of the other, as if to mix the cards. The two bent cards are thus brought in contact, and it is the gap produced by these two arcs, which forces the cut to be made oftener at that spot than at any other, as represented in figure 9. [Illustration: Fig. 9.] The smallest space between any two cards is sufficient for this purpose. The "carte tuilée," or card bent lengthways, is also used for this purpose. The two portions of the pack, being bent lengthways, and laid face to face, are sure to make the cut at that particular spot, by causing a division in the pack; but this trick is not so good as the last-mentioned, and is, consequently, seldom employed. CHAPTER II. TO CHANGE A CARD. "_Filer la carte_" is to change one card for another. In the hands of an adroit sharper, this change is performed so instantaneously, that it is almost impossible for the quickest eye to detect it. Let us suppose that, in dealing the cards, the Greek discovers, by means which I will hereafter explain, that the card he is going to give to his adversary would be advantageous to himself, he hides, or slips away, the card which ought to have been dealt to his adversary, and gives him, instead, the one which follows. I will just explain how this manoeuvre is managed. When the Greek intends to perform this trick, he takes care, whilst dealing, to push two cards a little in advance of the rest of the pack, as shown in Nos. 1 and 2 in figure 10. [Illustration: Fig. 10.] In a regular deal, No. 1 would be given before No. 2; but if the Greek thinks it to his interest to retain it, he substitutes the second for the first. Thus, by holding the two cards together, between his thumb and forefinger, he pushes them contrary ways, that is to say, he pushes No. 2 forward, and No. 1 backward, as represented in the figure below. [Illustration: Fig. 11.] He then passes over the first card with his right hand, and gives the second. This feat, which I have been obliged to explain thus lengthily, to make it clearly understood, ought to be done instantaneously, and with the rapidity of lightning. Those who are expert, whilst advancing the right hand to give a card, at the same time draw back the left. This manoeuvre completely deceives the eye, and may be practised as often as is necessary for the card in reserve to come into the hand of the Greek. To give an idea how completely a person may be deceived by this trick, I will just relate what once happened to myself. A certain Greek (of whom I have already spoken in my Memoirs) was anxious to show me this trick, and by way of illustrating his theory, selected the King of Spades, and placed it on the top of the pack. He then dealt the cards one after the other, and by thirty-one successive "filages," he so managed, that the King of Spades was the last card of the pack. I acknowledge, and indeed I do so still, that so adroit was he, that though I knew the trick myself, I could not detect him. CHAPTER III. THE ABSTRACTED CARD. When one has not been initiated into the mysteries of sleight-of-hand, it is difficult to believe that a sharper can abstract several cards, and put them back again, under the very eyes of his antagonist, without being detected. Such, however, is the fact. The art of abstracting cards is one of the most useful tricks in sleight-of-hand, and it requires great skill and adroitness to perform the feat cleverly. In order to do this trick, the Greek keeps the cards he wishes to abstract, placed diagonally in his left hand, at the top of the others, and a little advanced towards his right hand; as in figure 12. [Illustration: Fig. 12.] He takes possession of the cards with his right hand, and holds them tightly between the top joints of the four fingers, and the first joint of the thumb, or the _thenar_, as it is termed in medical parlance. The cards are consequently slightly bent, as in figure 13. [Illustration: Fig. 13.] There is yet another manner of abstracting cards; but it is less practised by sharpers, than by conjurors, who often show off the trick in various ways, where it would be impossible for a sharper to make use of it. It simply consists in holding the cards lightly, between the thumb and little finger of the hand which takes up the cards; a very slight pressure will do, and in this manner the cards do not require to be bent. [Illustration: Fig. 14.] My readers will doubtless be surprised to hear, that as many as six cards can be thus hidden in the hand, at one time, without being seen; and it will astonish them even more, when I tell them, that a clever sharper will, with the same hand where the cards are concealed, cut and go on with the game, gesticulating in the most natural way, without any difficulty. CHAPTER IV. THE CARD REPLACED. Once in possession of the cards which he has abstracted, the Greek, whether the game he is playing be Lansquenet, Baccarat, or Vingt-et-un, replaces them in the pack in such a way, that they will be sure when dealt to return to him. This trick is the easiest to execute that I have yet described. The Greek waits, until it is his turn to gather up, either the whole, or a portion of, the pack; then, whilst drawing them towards him, he quietly places the cards he had in reserve on the top, taking care to hide the action, by spreading out his hand over them. CHAPTER V. THE CARTE A L'OEIL, OR GLANCE. In playing, it is sometimes necessary for the Greek to obtain a sight of some particular card in the pack. In order to do this, he resorts to the following manoeuvre:-- One of his little fingers is slipped into the pack, where the card he wishes to see, lies; quick as lightning he glances his eye across it, and with such rapidity is the action performed, that those playing with him cannot see it, particularly as the backs of the cards are turned towards them, and he is gesticulating with his other hand, to draw off their attention. CHAPTER VI. THE SUBSTITUTION DES JEUX, OR PACK OF CARDS CHANGED. The substituted pack--The box in the sleeve. The way this is done depends much on the class of Greek performing the trick. The high-bred sharper, for instance, very seldom makes use of it; he has other far more subtle methods, unknown to his brother rogue of low life. The following tricks, however, may be considered as common to Greeks of every shade:-- A sharper has always under his coat, at the back of his trowsers, one or more little pockets, termed _finettes_, in which are carried the packs of cards he intends substituting for those of the house where he plays. These cards are so placed, that they can be drawn out with great facility, as may be perceived by the sketch on the next page. Before the play begins, the Greek wanders about the room, in the neighbourhood of the card-tables, with his right hand placed, as shown, on his hip, and seizes a favourable opportunity, when he thinks no one is observing him, to substitute his own pack for those on the table, slipping the latter into a deep pocket called a _profonde_, which he has under the flap of his coat. [Illustration: Fig. 15.] Others, more bold in their manoeuvres, do not fear to execute this trick before the very eyes of their adversaries. To do this with ease, pockets are made in the waistcoat, and are called _costières_, or side pockets,[J] because they are made at the left side, a little above the region of the heart. They are entirely hidden by the coat. 1st. In seating himself at the table, the Greek artfully draws out of one of his pockets the prepared cards, and holds them in readiness in his right hand, as I have before described in the chapter on the "Abstraction of Cards." 2nd. He then, with his left hand, takes up the pack which is on the table, as if to withdraw it from its envelope, and places his own pack on the top, carefully hiding both packs with his right hand. 3rd. He manages, in cutting, to put the false pack at the top, and removes the other, in the manner already related in the chapter on "Abstraction." 4th. Finally, he disposes of the original pack in his large pocket, or _profonde_. To accomplish this feat with greater facility, he pretends to draw his chair nearer to the table, which brings his hand in juxtaposition with his pocket. All the operations above described, may be regarded as one, and are performed with infinite address and promptitude, whilst the Greek is entertaining his adversary with some animated and amusing discourse. It is needless to say, that the two envelopes of the cards are identical, the Greek of course having seen to that beforehand. When sharpers find, that they have to be continually changing the packs of cards, and dread detection, should they try the trick too often, they arrange with one of their associates, whom they bribe, by offering him half the profits, to go and take the place of a servant, in those houses or clubs where they intend to cheat. With such an arrangement, the two Greeks quietly pocket considerable sums. Others, less wary, take no accomplice, but change the cards themselves. The Greek first finds out the name and address of the tradesman who furnishes the playing cards to the house or club, which he is in the habit of frequenting. He then goes to the shop, and makes a few trifling purchases, just to pave his way. He does this more than once, and returns again and again. At length, one fine day, he calls at the shop to select, for a friend (he says), a dozen, or half a dozen, packs of cards, according as the shop is a large or a small one. The next morning, pretending that the cards are not of the colour required, he takes them back again. The packets being unopened, the shopkeeper has no hesitation in receiving and changing them for others. But the Greek has passed the night, in opening and re-sealing the packets by a peculiar process known to sharpers. The cards have been marked by him, before returning them to the shopkeeper, who has them now in his shop. The cheat is accomplished, and the Greek is biding his time. PART I. THE BOX IN THE SLEEVE. There is yet another way of changing the pack, under the very eyes of your adversary. It consists in having a tin box fastened to your arm, under the sleeve of your coat, and which is not perceptible. In this box, the Greek carries the cards he has marked for his own purposes. When it is his turn to cut, he stretches out his hand across the table towards the pack, so as to hide it entirely; then, resting his arm lightly on the tablecloth, he presses a spring which opens the box, out of which falls the marked pack,--at the same time that there comes out another spring, which seizes the cards on the table, and draws them into the box. Before concluding this chapter, I ought to mention that, though all these various tricks are each clever in their way, they cannot be employed indiscriminately. The operations in question must depend on circumstances, and the manner of employing them should vary, according to whether they be performed in a smoking-tavern, a gambling-house, a drawing-room, or a club. The Greek knows well what will suit each party with whom he plays, and rarely ventures on the trick without he is sure of succeeding. CHAPTER VII. THE FALSE SHUFFLE. False shuffles: The arranged shuffle--The partial shuffle--The fan--The dove-tail. It may be said that a false shuffle is not cheating, since the cards are but retained in their original order. Such acts, however, are not far removed from cheating, and the persons who are guilty of them may be compared to the receivers of stolen goods, who, though not the actual robbers, are judged to be so by the law. When the pack of cards has been arranged by the sharper, whether he prepares them beforehand, or only in the presence of his adversary, he must be very careful not to disturb them. To avoid this, he has recourse to various methods of evading a proper shuffle. Of these there are four kinds, which vary according to the circumstances required. They are: The arranged shuffle. The partial shuffle. The fan. The dove-tail. PART I. THE ARRANGED SHUFFLE. The arranged shuffle consists in pretending to shuffle, whilst all the time you are arranging the cards, in the order you require them for cheating. Let us suppose, for example, that a Greek, in playing Écarté, places in the pack four cards of the same suit, three of which are trumps, and the fourth is the turn-up card; this he manages to do by arranging the shuffle in the following manner. He divides the pack of cards into two parts, holding one in each hand, as it is usual to do in shuffling in the ordinary way. In mixing the two packs, he knows how to slip in successively, above the four cards, seven others, which will complete the series necessary for the deal. He then hands them to be cut, makes a false cut, and when he has dealt out the eleven cards, the four remaining are three trumps and the turn-up card. The arrangement of the game of Piquet, mentioned in another chapter, is a further instance of this trick. PART II. THE PARTIAL SHUFFLE. The partial shuffle is employed for those games, where only a portion of the cards is distributed at a time, such as Écarté. In this instance, we will suppose the Greek to have arranged eleven cards, so as to enable him to win the game, and it is of consequence that these cards should not be disarranged. He therefore puts these eleven cards at the bottom of the pack, and, at the same time, carefully keeps his little finger between the upper and lower packet, which he avoids mixing, until after dealing the twenty-first card. This done, he performs the _saut de coupe_ a second time, to bring the arranged packet again on the top of the pack, unless, by making the bridge, he gains the same end by forcing his adversary's cut. PART III. THE FAN. The following trick is termed the Fan, because the Greek, to do the false shuffle, spreads the cards out in the shape of a fan. He then divides the pack into two parts, holding, as before, one in each hand; then, by a certain manipulation with the fingers of his right hand, he passes the cards under those in the left, which, to the spectator, gives the effect of mixing the cards; but this is far from being the case. The cards retain the position they would have done if the pack had been cut, as the upper packet has passed beneath the lower one. The operation, consequently, requires to be gone through a second time, to bring the cards into their original position. This shuffle may remain in the above condition as long as the Greek finds it convenient. PART IV. THE DOVE-TAIL. The ways of doing the false shuffle are numerous, each Greek having some special method of his own. All of them are more or less derived from the principles I have just described. It would take too long, as well as be useless, to enter into the details of these proceedings, as they are nearly all the same. The false shuffle, with which I am about to close this chapter, is a peculiar one, and is very often used by sharpers. To prevent any suspicions which might be raised by the use of the preceding shuffle, the Greek sometimes employs the Dove-tail, which consists in separating the cards into two packs, and then shuffling them one with the other; but, instead of finishing the shuffle by equalising the pack, the Greek manages to leave them at an angle as they are represented in figure 16 below. [Illustration: Fig. 16.] Then begins an operation which is hidden by his right hand. The Greek, after having passed packet No. 1 across packet No. 2, twists round the lower portion in a semicircle towards the right, which completely separates it from the other, and allows him to replace it beneath packet No. 1, as it originally was. CHAPTER VIII. DOCTORED CARDS. Cartes biseautées--Tinted cards--Sticky or slippery cards-- Slanting cards--Pricked cards--Cards with indented edges-- Wavy cards--Chequered cards--Marked cards. PART I. THE CARTES BISEAUTÉES. The Biseautée Card was one of the principal methods of cheating in the last century. The trick, at that period, was only known to the adepts of the higher ranks, and with it they succeeded in victimising numbers of people. It is now chiefly made use of in public-houses, for it is so plain and palpable an artifice, that it could not fail to be discovered by more intelligent people than those who frequent these resorts. The real signification of "biseautées" cards is, that they are larger at one end than at the other, as in figure 17. To do this, the Greek, with a pair of sharp scissors, cuts both sides of every card, beginning at the twentieth part of an inch, and going off to nothing. [Illustration: Fig. 17.] All the cards being equally clipped at one end, if they are placed contrariwise, it is evident the edges will protrude the smallest bit possible beyond the other cards, and can be easily discovered by the sharper, however carefully they may have been shuffled by the opposite party. What answers with one card, will do so equally with all. Thus, we will suppose the Greek has put all the court cards one way, and the common cards the other, he can, by feeling the cards in cutting, cut a court card or not, as he pleases. This I merely give as one example, for slanting cards can be used in various other ways. Some Greeks make use of cards cut on both sides, in two opposite ways: it is the same thing under another form. For instance, the cards represented below are cut so that the edge of some are convex, as in figure 18, and others concave, as in figure 19. [Illustration: Figs. 18 and 19.] The result, with these cards, is the same as with the preceding, only that the latter afford a greater scope for cheating. The more expert a sharper is, the less is it necessary to cut the edges of the cards; indeed, I have seen some so slightly cut, that you were obliged to examine them with the greatest minuteness to find it out. PART II. THE TINTED, OR STAINED CARD. When white cards are not of first-rate quality, many of them are slightly tinted or stained; that is to say, the purity of the white varies. This imperfection is caused by the bad quality of the card-board of which they are manufactured. From these slight shades, the Greek can, after seeing them for a few moments, recognise many of the cards. If there are no blemishes or stains on them, the Greek contrives to give them various tints, which he alone can perceive. To this end, he rubs very lightly over, with a cloth dipped in blacklead, such of the cards as he wishes to know again. The person with whom the Greek is playing, even if he were warned of this trick, could scarcely observe the marks. It requires the lynx eyes of the sharper to distinguish the imperceptible shades. We ought also to mention that the Greeks have each their particular _forte_. One who has an excellent eyesight, and sensitive touch, will make use of the marked cards; another, for other reasons, will have recourse to sleight of hand. PART III. THE ADHERENT, OR SLIDING CARDS. By the foregoing it will be observed, that a Greek is always ready to profit by the slightest differences in the cards; but what my readers will scarcely find credible is, that even a pack of new cards, when first taken out of its envelope, will furnish him with the means and signs of recognising the court from the plain cards. This cheat is most practicable, when the cards have not been kept in a perfectly dry place. The Greek, in dealing, presses his left thumb on the cards, as if to disengage the upper ones, and push them towards his right hand. When the cards are damp, the plain ones slide more easily than the court cards, the reason for which, is to be thus accounted for:-- That in manufacturing the court cards, and in order to give a brightness to their colours, a preparation of gum is used, which is easily affected by the damp, and becomes slightly sticky; this is why they do not slip with such facility as the others. The higher class of sharpers are much in the habit of using this trick, which they perform with a sensitiveness of touch of astounding delicacy. The lower order of Greek is obliged to prepare the pack beforehand, and rubs the court cards lightly over with soap, and the others he paints with an extremely pure resin. PART IV. THE "HORS D'ÉQUERRE," OR SLANTING CARDS. I was once requested by a magistrate, to examine some packs of cards which had been seized in a gambling-house, and many of which had been used for the game of Vingt-et-un. I acceded to his request, and it was only owing to my knowledge of mechanism, that I was enabled to discover the trick, by means of which the _banquier_ of the gambling-table could distinguish, whilst dealing, whether the card he took from the top of the pack was higher or lower than a ten. All the court cards and aces were cut on the slant at the top, so as to prevent them being quite straight, as in figure 20, but much less so in reality than is here represented. [Illustration: Fig. 20.] To discover this very slight alteration it required a most practised eye; but slight as it was, it was sufficient for the sharper; and, according to these indications, he either took the upper card, if it were to his advantage, or dealt to himself the lower one by the "filage."[K] In this manner he could also, at the end of the deal, retain or give himself the card he required. PART V. THE "POINTÉES," OR PRICKED CARDS. These marks are made by the Greek to distinguish all the high cards. With the point of a pin, a little blunted, he pricks the card in the corner at the side of the picture, so as to produce a minute elevation on the upper surface. Some Greeks improve on this trick, by pricking between the two card-boards, and afterwards pasting them together again. In this way, nothing is to be seen on the upper part of the card but a small roughness, which, should it ever be remarked, would pass for a defect in the card-board. Others, who are still more adroit, instead of making any mark above, do it from beneath, and in this manner the mark is completely hidden by the painting, and can only be discovered by the touch. PART VI. THE CARDS "MORFILÉES," OR WITH INDENTED EDGES. This trick very much resembles the preceding one, only that it is done in presence of the dupe. Each time that a card which will be favourable to his play, passes through the hands of the Greek, he makes a small dent with his nail on the edge of it. This mark is easily felt by the Greek. It must be confessed, that those amongst the Greeks who are adepts at this trick, have an extreme delicacy of touch, which they preserve by always wearing gloves, when they are not playing at cards. Some of them even rub the ends of their fingers with pumice stone, or dip them in certain acids, which give extreme sensibility to the skin. PART VII. THE "ONDULÉES," OR WAVY CARDS. The above marks, or waves, are also made whilst playing. When the Greek observes any cards, which will suit him to perform the trick he is about to play, he makes, at the bottom of the left-hand corner, a little fold, or arch, inwards. This alteration, be it ever so slight, produces a kind of lustre on the card, which the eye of the Greek can immediately detect. This trick is generally employed in cheating at Piquet. The Greek, in this way, marks all the aces and high cards in any of the suits. With certain arts of _legerdemain_, which I have before alluded to, he can so arrange all, or part, of his hand, that no play of his adversary, be it ever so good, could stand against it. PART VIII. THE "TAROTÉES," OR FIGURED OR CHECQUERED CARDS. It often happens that, in packs of playing-cards, the backs of which are ornamented with figures and designs, these ornaments are not placed exactly in the same spot on each card. If examined attentively, it will be seen, that the designs are not always the same distance from the edge of the card. The manufacturer himself, and players in general, pay little attention to these irregularities, but the Greek turns them to account, and makes them useful in his tricks. By the time the cards have been dealt two or three times round, he can distinguish many of them. Sharpers are themselves often the manufacturers of their own cards, and can, therefore, arrange and place their designs where they please. For instance, let us suppose that the design consists of a series of lozenges, placed one above the other. The Greek would so arrange them that, at the edge of the card, the lozenge should be entire for the ace. Then, as it approaches the edge, it is cut in half for the queen, quarterly for the king, and three-quarters for the knave. In the same way, on the upper side of the card, the lozenges, by similar arrangements, would point out the spades, hearts, clubs, or diamonds, and also show the principal cards in the game of Piquet. All this would seem to be the effect of chance, and no one could assert that there was anything fraudulent. PART IX. THE MARKED, OR SPOTTED CARDS. This trick of marking cards, is equal to any of the most refined abbreviations used in stenography, as here, by the aid of a single spot, any one of the thirty-two cards in the game of Piquet may be known. We will imagine, for example, a design formed of spots, or some other device, arranged symmetrically, as these sorts of patterns usually are. For instance, as in figure 21. The first large spot, beginning from the top of the card, on the left hand, will represent a heart; the second, in descending, a diamond, the third a club, and the fourth a spade. Now, if, by the side of any of these, another spot is added, it will immediately serve to show what card it is. [Illustration: Fig. 21.] The mark should be placed near one of the original spots, as shown below in figure 22, which, when placed at the top, shows it is an ace; going round to the right of it, the next spot would be a king, the third spot a queen, the fourth a knave, and so on to the seven. [Illustration: Fig. 22.] It must be clearly understood that only one spot is to be made, as in figure 21, where that which is added to the third spot, would (according to the rules I have laid down), mark the eight of clubs. After these explanations, I feel convinced, my reader has already made up his mind, never again to play with cards on which there are devices. "If these are the sort of tricks one is subject to," exclaims he, "I'll take care that I never play with anything but plain cards again." Unfortunately, even these can be tampered with, as I have already shown in speaking of tinted cards; of which I will now give another proof. In the year 1849, the judge of the Criminal Court of the Seine, begged me to examine a hundred and fifty packs of cards, which were supposed to have been tampered with. They were found in the possession of a man, whose antecedents were far from being as pure, as the colour of his cards. The cards were in fact all white, and had hitherto defied the most minute inspection. It was impossible for the most practised eye to discover, that they had been altered or marked in any way. They seemed all of the best quality. I spent nearly a fortnight in examining (not only with my naked eye, but with a strong magnifying glass) the card board, the shape, and the almost imperceptible shades, of each of these one hundred and fifty packs of cards. I could detect nothing; and tired out, I was going to give the same opinion as the experts who had previously examined them. "There is certainly nothing wrong with these cards," exclaimed I, one evening, in a pettish tone, throwing the pack from me across the table. All at once, on the shining back of one of the cards, near one of the corners, I thought I saw a dull-looking spot, which had before escaped me. On looking close at it, it disappeared; but strange to say, as I went far off from it, it re-appeared. "How glad I am," cried I aloud, enthusiastically. "Now I see what it is. It's all right. This then is the mark!" and following the rules, used by sharpers, I satisfied myself, that on every card there was the same spot, which, being placed in various parts, were distinctive signs of the card and the suit. The following was the way the thing was done. We must imagine the cards divided into eight divisions perpendicularly, and four horizontally, as in figure 23. The former will indicate the value of the card, the latter the suit. The mark is placed where each of these divisions intersect one another. The above is the way the cheat is performed, and practice does the rest. I must be allowed to decline mentioning the method, by which these mysterious marks are made on the cards. My object being, as I have already stated, more than once, to expose the tricks of sharpers, but not to show how they are done. Suffice it to say, that when looked at closely, these spots are invisible; but when viewed from afar, the reflection of a strong light makes the card shine, but leaves the spot dull. At first sight, it would seem a difficult task to distinguish one card from another, by an isolated spot on the back of it. However, if my readers will attend to what I have told them, and look at the example given in figure 23, they will see that it does not belong to the second, nor the fourth perpendicular division; and by the same rule, they will observe, that the spot is in the second horizontal division, and represents, therefore, the queen of diamonds. [Illustration: Fig. 23.] From all this, it is evident that a swindler plays and stakes--I will not say his honour, but his liberty, against fortune; and that, by reason of the importance of the stake, he ought to have devoted the most serious attention to an art, on which all his future depends. CHAPTER IX. THE CHAPLET, OR ROSARY. The rosary is a particular arrangement of the cards, according to certain words in a sentence, which is learnt by heart. In other words, it is a sort of mnemonics, or artificial memory, to enable people to cheat at play. There are several sorts of "_chapelets_," more or less ingenious. The best are those which recall to one's mind a feeling, a thought, or even only an amusing combination. One of the oldest rosaries consists of two Latin verses, every word in each of which represents one of the fifty-two cards of a pack-- Unus, quinque, novem, famulus, sex, quatuor, duo, Rex, septem, octo, foemina, trina, decem; which may be translated thus: Ace, five, nine, knave, six, four, two, King, seven, eight, queen, three, ten. These thirteen cards are also arranged according to their suits, namely--spades, hearts, clubs, diamonds, as follows: 1. Unus (ace) of spades, 2. Quinque (five) of hearts, 3. Novem (nine) of clubs, 4. Famulus (knave) of diamonds, 5. Sex (six) of spades, and so on, by following the words of the rosary and the suit, to the last card. I will now give a sentence or rosary, for the thirty-two cards used in the game of Piquet-- Le Roi dix-huit ne valait pas ses dames; Or-- Le Roi, dix, huit, neuf, valet, as, sept, dame. Which means-- The king, ten, eight, nine, knave, ace, seven, queen. In this, as well as in the preceding example, the cards are classed according to their suits, as above described; only, at the end of the rosary after the queen, instead of putting the suit which follows, for the king which comes after, they arrange so that the king and queen should be of the same suit. Were this not done, one would require four kings of spades, four tens of hearts, &c., &c. The following example will show what I mean: ARRANGEMENT OF A ROSARY OF THIRTY-TWO CARDS: 1. The king of spades. 2. The ten of hearts. 3. The eight of clubs. 4. The nine of diamonds. 5. The knave of spades. 6. The ace of hearts. 7. The seven of clubs. 8. The queen of diamonds. 9. The king of diamonds. 10. The ten of spades. 11. The eight of hearts. 12. The nine of clubs. 13. The knave of diamonds. 14. The ace of spades. 15. The seven of hearts. 16. The queen of clubs. 17. The king of clubs. 18. The ten of diamonds. 19. The eight of spades. 20. The nine of hearts. 21. The knave of clubs. 22. The ace of diamonds. 23. The seven of spades. 24. The queen of hearts. 25. The king of hearts. 26. The ten of clubs. 27. The eight of diamonds. 28. The nine of spades. 29. The knave of hearts. 30. The ace of clubs. 31. The seven of diamonds. 32. The queen of spades. It must be remembered that, when the cards are thus arranged, however often the pack is cut, the order of the cards remains the same. When a Greek has substituted a pack of cards, arranged _à chapelet_ for another, and has made a false shuffle which does not alter them, he will easily know what cards his adversary holds, by looking at his own hand. For example at Écarté, if he holds-- The eight of hearts, The nine of clubs, The queen of clubs, The king of clubs, The ten of diamonds; He will know that his adversary has-- The king of diamonds, The ten of spades, The knave of diamonds, The ace of spades, The seven of hearts. The turn-up card will be the eight of spades; and knowing all the other cards which follow after this, he can demand or refuse them, as he judges best. It is, at the games of Vingt-et-un, Baccarat, and Lansquenet, that this cheating is the most dangerous, as well as the most easily accomplished. The packs are changed beforehand, and even though they may be really properly shuffled, it will be some time before the order of the cards is completely altered. Some few cards may be displaced, but the Greek manages to play on, and to know the card which is coming, by having seen the one which precedes it. CHAPTER X. THE RING FOR MARKING. The Greek sometimes carries his trickery even into the domains of science; of which the instrument I am about to describe is a proof. If this jewel had not been invented for the sole purpose of cheating, one would have been tempted to admire it. The ring, shown in figure 24, is known by the name of a _trépan_. It is hollow, and forms a kind of reservoir, which is filled with very liquid ink. This liquid would escape by a small opening, at the point A, but that the capillary attraction retains the ink at its mouth. In short, it is a kind of pen with a reservoir. As this point is hidden in the inside of the hand, the Greek can, at any moment, mark the cards he pleases, with an almost imperceptible spot, before the very eyes of his adversary. These spots can, as I have before explained, by the manner in which they are placed, mark particular cards. [Illustration: Fig. 24.] The Greek also makes use of this instrument to cheat at dominoes. For this purpose, the ring is a very massive one, and the point alluded to is made of steel, and very sharp. It is easy to understand, that when the Greek has the dominoes in his hands, in moving them about on the table, he can put a mark on them, so as to know them again. The point of the ring, fine as it is, is blunted, so that the marks it makes are so light and shining, as to awaken no suspicion, and it is only to the eyes of the sharper, who has made them, that they are visible. CHAPTER XI. THE REFLECTING SNUFF-BOX. As I am on the subject of curiosities of art, here is another, which is also very clever. It is difficult to believe that a snuff-box can be made an instrument for cheating. The Greek, when placing himself at the table to play, puts down a snuff-box, on the lid of which is a small medallion of the size of a franc, enclosing a miniature. It is the portrait of a lady exquisitely painted. The eyes of the players naturally turn to this object, and they sometimes even take it up to admire, or display it to their friends. When the game has begun, the Greek takes a pinch of snuff, which gives him the opportunity of drawing the box towards him. But, at the same time, he presses an invisible spring, which withdraws the portrait, and in its place out comes a convex glass, which is of the greatest utility to him; for, when he is dealing, this mirror being underneath the cards which he deals to his adversary, he has only to look in it to see the reflection of the cards he is giving. During the evening, the Greek makes the medallion return, and offers a pinch of snuff to his victims. CHAPTER XII. APPLICATION OF THE PRECEDING PRINCIPLES. Arrangement of the pack--Coups de piquet--How to repique and capot an adversary--How to repique and capot an adversary although he has shuffled the cards--Abstraction and substitution of cards--Coup d'écarté--Jeu de règle--Lansquenet--Baccarat--Vingt-et-un, &c. &c. ARRANGEMENT OF THE PACK. It is a well-known fact that, by the aid of the principles which I have herein laid down, a clever Greek will gain at every game, by giving himself the cards which are favourable to his interest. But it must not be believed, that these sharpers are so unskilful as to cheat always by sleight of hand. They would very soon be discovered. These intelligent rogues husband their resources, and act with prudence. They usually only deal themselves what is called a "_jeu de règle_," or hand which is sure of making three tricks; and their adroitness and tact, coupled with this slight advantage, is sufficient to ensure to them the favours of fortune. In most cases, the Greek only uses his arts according to the circumstances required. The more able player he is, the less is it necessary to call cheating to his aid. If he finds he has an indifferent player for his opponent, he only plays the regular game, and reserves his rogueries for another occasion. But, as it often happens that the proverb, "a new hand always wins," is verified, he takes care to be on the defensive, and to use his weapons if required. For this reason, it is quite impossible to give an exact definition of the play of a Greek; but as I am anxious to enlighten my readers on his marvellous powers, I will just give one example of the _haute école_, or high school, as they say at the Cirque Olympique (the Astley's of Paris). It is the greatest _coup_ that it is possible to make at piquet. In this trick, which is done in the presence of his adversary, and without any previous preparation, the Greek can win the game with a first hand, by a hundred and sixty-three points.[L] In perusing the following details of the different manipulations, which serve as the basis of all sorts of cheating at games of cards, I hope my readers will take this warning, which is the real purpose of my work:--that it is dangerous to hazard large sums of money on chances which can be so easily turned against them. PART I. THE "COUP DE PIQUET." How to Repique and Capot one's Adversary. The trick I am about to describe, dates from the last century. It was the invention of a juggler named Comus, who performed it with his eyes bandaged. From this interesting combination, have originated all the other _coups de piquet_, so often displayed by jugglers. I shall here give a description of how it is done, as it will make what I have mentioned in the preceding chapter, more easy to understand. In taking up the pack of cards, the juggler, with a pretended awkwardness, shuffles the cards in such a manner, that many of them are turned face to face. This enables him, under the pretext of turning them the right way about, to select and place at the bottom of the pack a sequence of eight cards in any suit, a king and three aces. Once in possession of these twelve cards, he slightly bends the corners, which leaves a ridge that he can easily discern. (See part vii., chapter ix.) He then hands the cards to his adversary to shuffle. Whilst this is being done he has his eyes bandaged with a handkerchief, which, however, does not prevent his seeing through the interstices caused by the projection of his nose. He then takes back the pack, and whilst pretending to shuffle, he finds the marked cards, and places them where he wishes, as will be explained in the following part. Some jugglers, instead of bending the cards, with the greatest _sang froid_, pass the twelve cards above alluded to, underneath the others, and then pretend to shuffle. PART II. THE "COUP DE PIQUET." How the Greek is enabled to Repique and Capot his Adversary, although he has Shuffled the Cards. As I am addressing those who are supposed to know piquet, I need enter into no details about that game. In playing the first hand, the Greek must secure a _sixième-major_ (or sequence of six cards from the ace downwards, which counts sixteen), a quatorze of aces (the four aces), and a quatorze of kings (the four kings), as seen by the table below:-- 1. The ace of spades. 2. The king of spades. 3. The queen of spades. 4. The knave of spades. 5. The ten of spades. 6. The nine of spades. 7. The ace of hearts. 8. The ace of diamonds. 9. The ace of clubs. 10. The king of hearts. 11. The king of diamonds. 12. The king of clubs. His adversary must be the dealer, as it is in playing the first hand, that the selection of these twelve cards is managed. This difficult trick is done in the following manner. It is customary, before beginning to play, for each person to cut for the deal. The Greek, in mixing the cards, with a rapid glance, seeks for an ace, which he passes under the pack, and putting in practice the principles which I have pointed out in the first chapter, part 5, figure 9, he makes the bridge. "Let us see," exclaims he, putting the pack on the table, "who shall deal?" He cuts first himself, at the bridge where the ace (the highest card in cutting at piquet) is placed, and as it does not often happen that his opponent cuts another ace--"You shall deal," says he, "we will make the game one hundred and fifty points." The first hand is not of much importance; the Greek leaves to chance the distribution of the cards. He well knows that his adversary will not gain the game in one hand; he, therefore, only thinks of making himself master of the cards before mentioned. Twelve cards are dealt to him by his adversary, and five others are in reserve for him in the "_talon_." It is most probable that, out of these seventeen cards, he will find some of the number mentioned in the preceding list. He must, at all hazards, prevent those cards getting into his opponent's hands, and must keep them near him for the following hand. Consequently, he discards the weakest cards in his hand, and makes a little heap of them on his right hand, on which he places successively, and without concealment, all the aces, kings, and spades, he can get from his adversary. We will imagine that, by the time the hand is played, he has only been able to obtain six of the cards he wants. To secure the other six, still in the pack, he has recourse to the following manoeuvre. Whilst playing, he has intentionally left all the tricks he has gained face upwards; and, as it is his turn to deal, he does the same thing with those of his adversary. Profiting by the moment when the latter is marking his points, in taking up the pack, the Greek selects the cards required, and places them underneath with those which he has already secured. If my readers are not "_au fait_" at tricks of cards, they will doubtless find the explanation I have given, both tedious and difficult of comprehension. It is really nothing; it resembles those tricks of sleight of hand, which require long explanations to make a very short operation understood. But that is not the question; my sole wish being to make myself understood, which has perhaps caused me to be rather prolix. The Greek having, in the twinkling of an eye, put the twelve cards he wanted at the bottom of the pack, then places them, so that they will all return to him in the deal, and whilst pretending to shuffle the cards, he puts alternately on the pack, 1. Three cards from the bottom. 2. Three indifferent cards taken from the middle of the pack. 3. Three cards from the bottom. 4. Three indifferent cards. 5. Three cards from the bottom. 6. Three indifferent cards. After which, a false shuffle, a false cut, and a deal of three at a time. It will be seen that, out of the twelve cards which were placed under the pack, nine must have come back to the Greek in the course of the deal; the three others come to him in the exchange. He therefore has in his hand: 1. A sixième-major in spades, 2. A quatorze of aces, 3. A quatorze of kings: with which he gains the game by capoting his adversary. In this hand, then, he has made a hundred and sixty-three points. This selection of cards, and their arrangement, is a specimen of what can be done by cheating; however, a Greek usually will not venture to do it on so large a scale; but contents himself with a quatorze of aces or kings, or even a simple quint. The selection of these cards is simple and easy, compared with the former trick. PART III. THE "COUP DE PIQUET." Abstraction and Substitution of Cards. In former days, it was the fashion at piquet, when the deal was finished, to divide the _talon_ into two unequal packets, and place them one on the top of the other, in the shape of a cross. Now, however, these eight cards are left in one packet. This new fashion has given rise to a fresh roguery, which, though a very audacious one, is no less difficult to discover, where the parties are not cognisant of it. Once known, it is quite another thing. This rascality is executed in the following manner: The sharper, in dealing, gives himself three cards too many. He then intentionally places the _talon_ a little nearer to himself than to his adversary. The latter, not thinking about it, does not perceive that his opponent has taken extra cards, being at that moment as much occupied with taking up and sorting his cards, as with the discard. Whilst his adversary is thus occupied, the sharper hastily takes the three worst cards in his hand, and conveys them by a method I have pointed out, and places them on the _talon_, pushing it at the same time, as if to place it nearer to his antagonist. This movement is so natural, that the artifice is completely concealed. Thus the Greek is not only relieved of his three bad cards, but he passes them on to his adversary, so that he gains an advantage in more ways than one. PART IV. THE "COUP D'ÉCARTÉ." The King and the Vole. Before commencing this article on Écarté, I wish to point out an error very generally diffused among players. When speaking of a swindler, people are apt to say, "He is a man who turns up the king whenever he pleases." This is a decided error. A Greek, if he is clever, will never do anything so imprudent. He knows very well that, by turning up a king too often, he arouses suspicion, and only marks one point; whereas, by keeping it in his own hand, he enjoys the advantage of marking two. In the same way, a sharper of experience will never deal himself so good a hand as that which I am about to describe, because such an assemblage of trumps would create doubts in the mind of his opponent. The following hand must, therefore, only be regarded as an example, of what can be done by tricking at écarté. ARRANGEMENT OF THE PACK. The Greek, whilst shuffling the cards with apparent indifference, has quietly introduced underneath the pack a sixième-major, or sequence of six cards from the king (the highest card at écarté) downwards. This done, nothing is easier than for him to arrange the cards, so that they will fall to him in the deal. To effect this, while pretending to shuffle, he puts alternately on the pack-- 1. Four cards from beneath (good). 2. Three cards from the middle (bad). 3. Two cards from beneath (good). 4. Two cards from the middle (bad). This performance ended, he makes a false cut, as described in the first chapter, and deals. Contrary to his principles, he will turn up the king, and hold in his own hand a sequence from the queen of trumps downwards. PART V. A JEU DE RÈGLE.[M] From the preceding tricks, it will be seen that it is necessary for the Greek, before he begins playing, to put a certain number of cards into the pack, both at the top and underneath, all of which he arranges in readiness to be dealt to him. This he does whilst pretending to shuffle them, and almost always in the midst of an animated conversation about the hand which has just been played. All this he performs so naturally that it is never observed. A sharper, who understands his business, never amuses himself with essaying "_tours de force_," but is content with a few good cards, of which he knows how to make the best use. His manner of acting under such circumstances is very simple. Let us suppose that the first hand has been played out, and it is now the Greek's turn to deal. He gathers up, as usual, the eleven cards which are on the table; but, in so doing, he, with great dexterity, separates all the cards of one suit, and places them on the _talon_, the rest he puts underneath. Suppose the cards chosen by him are the following:-- 1. The king of hearts. 2. The ace of hearts. 3. The ten of hearts. 4. The seven of hearts. In order that the last of these cards may be turned up, and that the three others may be in his own hand, he need only put above them the first cards that come, to make the number eleven, which can be easily done whilst pretending to shuffle. After which, he makes a false cut, by means of the Bridge, or any other of the methods given in the first chapter, and deals. The Greek now holds in his own hand the king, ace, and ten of hearts. As to the other two cards he trusts to chance, not caring much whether they are good or bad. Should you have any doubts about the honesty of your adversary, the way to detect this cheat is to watch the cards which are taken up, and especially to observe whether those cards, which have been used in a previous hand, do not appear again in his play. PART VI. LANSQUENET. The "Dépôt de Portées." This trick is about the most simple and dangerous that I have yet described, and the performance of it is unfortunately very easy. The Greek must place on the pack, at the moment when he is dealer, a series of cards, called "portées," so as to secure beforehand several _refaits_. These "portées" are composed of ten cards, and are arranged, for example, as follows:-- 1. Queen. 2. Queen. 3. Ten. 4. Seven. 5. Ten. 6. Nine. 7. Nine. 8. Ace. 9. Eight. 10. Ace. When this "portée" is exhausted, the Greek passes on the cards. These cards are placed in such a manner about the sharper, as to allow him to get at them with ease. To show you how this is done, I must strip my sharper of his coat. It will be seen that, in the waistcoat of the figure on the next page, there are two pockets, called "costières," which are made on the left side. When it is his turn to deal, he leans forward on the table, and, in so doing, brings his hand as near as possible to his "portées;" thus he can, when he pleases, take them out, as is shown in the fourth chapter, and put them on the pack. The Greek having his coat buttoned at the top, this proceeding is prevented from being seen, and the opening at the bottom enables him to put his hand inside, without it being noticed. [Illustration: Fig. 25.] Some Greeks are expert enough to abstract several _refaits_ from the pack itself, and put them into their side-pockets in readiness for their next hand. Others keep them hidden in their hand, and await an opportune moment for replacing them on the pack. So that, in this manner, there are never more cards in a pack than there ought to be. PART VII. ON GAMES WITH FOUR PLAYERS. It may be imagined, that in a game where there are four people playing, cheating is impracticable, since the cards the sharper ought to deal, are collected and shuffled by another person. The reader may remember that in one of the chapters, at the beginning of this work, I have given him a concise explanation of this very subject. This explanation I will now complete. At the game of Bouillotte, for example, a Greek makes an agreement with an accomplice, whom he places near him. This accomplice, while collecting and shuffling the cards, arranges them for the following hand. The trick will cause no suspicion; for it is not to the Greek who deals the cards, but to his confederate, that the good hand comes. Besides, these gentlemen always pretend to be unacquainted with each other. There are numerous other tricks in which no second party is required, and which are all contained in the general rules I have laid down. * * * * * Again, I have sometimes heard it observed, that a Greek cannot exercise his vocation in the higher class of clubs, as they are so strictly watched. He will certainly not venture, in these _réunions_, in the midst of a crowd of lookers on, all more or less interested in the game, to _sauter la coupe_, _filer la carte_, &c., &c. But, can he not have recourse to other deceptions, where there is no danger of discovery? The marked cards, for example: can he not bribe a servant, by offering him half the profits, to let him have the packs of cards before giving them to the players? The telegraph also is equally available, even before the most critical observers. The Greek of fashionable life has sufficient tact and _finesse_ to cope with any situation, however difficult, in which he may be placed; and when he makes up his mind to cheat, he generally succeeds. If he does not venture on sleight of hand in public, he makes use of it in small parties, where the players are not conspicuous for their intelligence and perspicacity. Far be it from me to say, that wherever there are players, there must be rogues; on the contrary, I believe that in many clubs such a character is unknown; still, that is no reason that sooner or later a Greek might not gain entrance there, and exercise his infamous vocation. CHAPTER XIII. ENTERTAINING TRICKS. Piquet--Écarté--Baccarat--Impériale--Whist--Bouillotte-- Bézigue--&c., &c. In the former chapter I have given various examples of serious cheats performed by Greeks. I shall now present to my readers, a series of what may be termed entertaining tricks; they are done in such a way that a juggler may, whilst amusing his spectators, show them how easily they may be cheated at every game. Let us go back to the preceding _coup de piquet_, which we will now perform in a more agreeable manner. We will suppose the juggler to have in his hand-- 1. A sixième of spades. 2. A quatorze of aces. 3. A quatorze of kings. His adversary is the elder hand; it is for him to call; he announces a _sixième_ from the queen; for, as he has the chance of a sequence in three suits, it is most probable that he will succeed with one. "Six cards," says he. "What do they count?" "Fifty-four." "That's not good. Is that all you have to declare?" "Yes; for it is not likely that my three queens will turn out valueless." "Indeed!" You then spread your _sixième_ major on the table, and say--sixteen and six make twenty-two; and _quatorze_ of kings (you show them) ninety-six; and _quatorze_ of aces, a hundred and ten. These two _quatorzes_ have all this time been hidden in your left hand. Here I must explain, _par parenthèse_, something which it will be necessary for my readers to know, so as to understand what follows. While continuing the counting of this _coup de piquet_, we will secretly prepare a _coup d'écarté_, which we will execute after this game. Let us take up the counting where we left off. "A hundred and ten," we have said. "A hundred and eleven," you say, taking up the nine of spades of your _sixième_, and putting it on one side--"a hundred and twelve," putting the ten on it; and, continuing your calculation, you do the same with the other four cards; with this difference, that when you come to the king, you put the ace before him, so that he may be the last card in the pack. In finishing your counting, you put the three kings and the three aces on these six cards, which brings it to a hundred and twenty-three. This, with forty for the _capot_, makes a hundred and sixty-three. The pack not being played out, the cards have not been shuffled, and it is easy, with the slight preparation I have just pointed out, to arrange the following _coup_. PART I. ÉCARTÉ. An Amusing Game at Écarté. According to the arrangement of the cards mentioned in the preceding trick, you have in hand six spades, three kings, and three aces, which you put on the pack. You then take up, with apparent indifference, the three cards of your discard, which you have left close to yourself, and place them under the two first cards; then, by a false shuffle, you pass two of the undermost cards of the pack to the top. This manoeuvre arranges the cards in the following manner: Two indifferent cards. Two spades. Three indifferent cards. Four spades--one of which is a king, and will serve as the turn-up card. Afterwards come the three kings and three aces. This operation is performed whilst a conversation is being carried on, and without your having declared your intention to continue playing; then you place the pack on the table. "You see," say you, "the danger of playing at cards. A sharper would not make a joke of it, and, with such chances at his disposal, he would soon see the bottom of your purse." "By the bye, do you know another game for two to play at? Écarté, for instance?" "Yes; I do." "Oh! very well! Then let us play a game at écarté." We take the pack already prepared; we make a false shuffle, a false cut, and we deal the cards. "I am going to turn up the king," you say. "Here he is; and I have a handful of trumps." You throw down the five trumps in succession on the table, saying, "Trump, trump," &c., &c. PART II. CONTINUATION OF THE GAME. Another Amusing Trick. "The _vole_ and the king. I mark three; it is your turn to deal," presenting the pack to your adversary; and, at the same time, drawing out five or six cards which you keep hidden in your hand, according to the principles laid down in the third chapter, figure 13. The adversary shuffles the cards, and, that he shall not notice the diminution of the pack, you distract his attention by an animated conversation. Something in this style. "Have you any knowledge of sleight of hand?" "I don't think so." "I am sorry for it, as I would have taught you a trick." "Oh! that's of no consequence; show it to me all the same." "With pleasure. But you must first practice a whole year to _sauter la coupe_," &c., &c. Your _vis-à-vis_ then hands the cards to you to cut, and deals. Taking up your cards, you pass in underneath, those you had secreted, being careful to press them very forcibly one against the other. "Ah! Well, what game did you say we were to play at?" "At écarté; I thought you said at écarté." "Then why do you give me so many cards?" spreading out the cards side by side. "A false deal. You've lost your deal," you exclaim, at the same time passing with a rapid glance all the cards in review before you. This hasty glance, rapid as it is, has been long enough to show you, out of these eleven or twelve cards, which is the dominant suit. You select four of them, and, as you ought to recollect, the three kings and three aces were amongst them. To the four above-mentioned you add the king and the ace of hearts, and place them all together at the bottom of the pack; then, by an operation similar to that described for piquet, whilst pretending to shuffle, you put on the top of the pack-- 1. Four cards from the bottom. 2. Three indifferent cards from the middle. 3. Two cards from the bottom. 4. Two indifferent cards. The pack is accordingly thus arranged for playing. Eleven prepared cards. That is to say-- 1. Two chance cards. 2. Two hearts. 3. Three chance cards. 4. Three hearts. 5. A heart, as the turn-up card. You make a false shuffle, a false cut, and then proceed to deal. "I turned up the king just now," you observe, in finishing the deal. "This time I shall keep it in my own hand." You mark the king, and make the point, which wins the game. PART III. THE "COUP D'ÉCARTÉ." In which your Adversary is made to Win. Thus, as I have just explained, in collecting the cards, you select a _sixième-major_ in whichever suit you please, put it at the bottom of the pack, and add in succession the following: 1. One card from the bottom. 2. Three chance cards from the middle. 3. Three cards from the bottom. 4. Two chance cards from the middle. 5. Two cards from the bottom. A false shuffle, a false cut, and then deal first two, then three. In arranging your cards you must not let the king be the turn-up card. PART IV. A GAME AT ÉCARTÉ. In which the Adversary loses a Bet he has made, judging from what he has already seen of the Hand of the Dealer. Put on the top of the pack the following eleven cards: 1. The queen of hearts. 2. The ace of hearts. 3. The king of hearts. 4. The knave of hearts. 5. The ten of hearts. 6. The nine of hearts. 7. The king of diamonds. 8. The seven of hearts. 9. The seven of clubs. 10. The seven of spades. 11. The eight of hearts. Then make a false shuffle, a false cut, and deal by twos and threes. The cards by this manoeuvre will be thus divided: THE DEALER. The king of hearts. The knave of hearts. The seven of hearts. The seven of spades. The seven of clubs. THE ADVERSARY. The queen of hearts. The ace of hearts. The ten of hearts. The nine of hearts. The king of diamonds. The turn-up card is the eight of hearts. "Oh! good Heavens!" you exclaim, laying down your trio of sevens on the table, "what dreadful cards!" But you are careful not to display the king and knave of hearts. "But, notwithstanding" (you continue), "I have such luck, that even with this bad hand I may win the game after all." Your adversary, knowing the splendid hand he holds, falls into the trap, and bets largely that he will make the point. He plays with confidence, but let him play as he will, he cannot help losing three tricks, as two of his trumps must fall to your small cards, and your seven of trumps will prevent his winning with the king of diamonds. You still have in your hand what is vulgarly called the "_fourchette_," or alternate cards, to win the game with. PART V. BACCARAT. A Game of Baccarat which is advantageous to the Banquier. You place at the bottom of the pack, sixteen cards in the following order: 1. A nine. 2. A court card. 3. A nine. 4. A court card. 5. A nine. 6. A court card. 7. A nine. 8. A court card. 9. An eight. 10. An ace. 11. An eight. 12. An ace. 13. An eight. 14. An ace. 15. An eight. 16. An ace. CLASSIFICATION. Place in succession on the top of the pack, sixteen times consecutively: 1. The last card. 2. Two chance cards. 3. The last. 4. Two chance cards, and so on. A false cut, and deal one card at a time. The "banquier" will have, from the beginning, at each _coup_, nine or nineteen; and will in this way win on all sides. This example of recreative cheating at baccarat, is only given as a specimen. A Greek would fear to win in this way, on so large a scale, and especially by these _coups d'emblée_. PART VI. IMPÉRIALE. A Capot at Impériale. Put at the bottom of the pack the following thirteen cards: 1. Three kings. 2. Three queens. 3. A sixième major in hearts. 4. A seven of hearts, as the turn-up card. CLASSIFICATION. Put in succession at the top of the pack: 1. The four last cards. 2. Three chance cards. 3. The three last cards. 4. Three chance cards. 5. The three last cards. 6. Three chance cards. 7. Three last cards. 8. Three chance cards. After which a false cut, and deal three cards at a time. The dealer will have in his hand: 1. An impériale of kings. 2. An impériale of queens. 3. An impériale for the sixième. And when he has finished the hand, he will, besides the above, have two other impériales for the twelve tricks, which will give him the game. PART VII. WHIST. A Game at Whist in which you gain every Trick. Place on the top of the pack twelve cards of the same suit, and arrange them with a false shuffle, by the following operations: 1st. Having taken the thirteen cards in your right hand, put the last one on the top of the packet of the thirty-nine others, which you hold in your left hand. 2nd. Then immediately slide that card, with the three others which follow, on the packet in your right hand. 3rd. Afterwards, again slide the last of this packet on the top of those in your left hand, and proceed as before, to place them with three others, on the top of the pack. Go on with this routine until the whole of the pack of cards in your left hand are finished. This false shuffle is a most complete deception. A false cut and deal. With the thirteen trumps in his hand the dealer cannot fail to win every trick. PART VIII. A GAME AT WHIST. In which each Player holds an entire Suit, but which, however, does not prevent the Dealer from winning every Trick. All the cards must be separated in suits, namely: hearts, diamonds, spades, and clubs, one of each alternately, without reference as to their being high or low in their classification. Make a false shuffle, and hand the cards to be cut, without any fear of their being disarranged by this proceeding. They must be dealt one at the time. After the deal, every person will have a sequence of thirteen cards, but the dealer will have the advantage of having all the trumps in his own hand. PART IX. BOUILLOTTE. A Brelan-carré, or Four Cards of the same sort. Put at the bottom of the pack, four cards of the same sort, for instance, four sevens, four tens, &c. Then, for the arrangement of them, put in succession on the pack: 1. The two last cards. 2. Three chance cards. 3. The last card. 4. Three chance cards. 5. The last card. 6. Three chance cards. A false shuffle, and false cut; when you deal, you will have in your hand four cards of the same sort, whilst your adversaries will only hold what chance has given them, which, under any circumstances, will not be equal to what you have. PART X. A GAME AT BOUILLOTTE. In which you win, after having induced your Adversaries to stake on their Cards. Put the following thirteen cards under the pack: 1. Four nines. 2. Three queens. 3. Three kings. 4. Three aces. Then put in succession, on the top of the pack: 1. The two last cards. 2. The third, the sixth and the ninth before the last. 3. The last card. 4. The second, the fourth and the sixth before the last. 5. The four last cards. A false shuffle, a false cut, and deal. Each player, possessing three cards of the same sort, feels almost certain of winning. It is not surprising, therefore, that each person stakes on his cards; but the dealer, having four cards of the same sort, marks higher than any of his opponents; and is, of course, the winner. PART XI. BÉZIGUE. A curious Game at Bézigue, in which, with a single hand of Thirty-two Cards, you make, at the first "coup," five hundred and ten points, without your Adversary having been able to mark a single one. This game is very amusing, and merits a description of its _mise en scène_. This we shall give after the cards are cut. Put at the bottom of the pack, the seventeen cards which follow: 1. Ten of hearts. 2. Ten of clubs. 3. Ten of diamonds. 4. King of hearts. 5. King of clubs. 6. King of diamonds. 7. Ace of hearts. 8. Ace of clubs. 9. Ace of diamonds. 10. Ace of spades. 11. King of spades. 12. Queen of spades. 13. Knave of spades. 14. Ten of spades. 15. Nine of spades, 16. Seven of spades. 17. Eight of spades. CLASSIFICATION, UNDER PRETENCE OF SHUFFLING. Place in succession on the top of the pack: 1. The five last (five spades). 2. Three indifferent cards. 3. Three cards from the bottom of the pack (three spades). 4. Four indifferent cards. The classification above mentioned, ought to answer for both packs. The "talon," or stock, must then be arranged, so that all the cards necessary for you to win the game with will come successively into your hands. For this purpose, you must change the form of your false shuffle, and continue thus: 1st. Take in your right hand, the fourteen first cards, which have been placed on the top of the pack. 2nd. Hold the rest of the pack in your left hand between the thumb and four fingers, then slip in successively under the packet in your right hand: 1st. With the thumb of the left hand, the cards on the top of this packet. 2nd. With the four fingers of the same hand, the bottom card of the same packet. 3rd. With the thumb of the left hand, the upper card, and so on, to the end of the packet. To be certain that you are doing it all right, you have only to look at the last card, which ought to be a ten. The cards should appear in the following order: 1. Three useless cards. 2. Three good cards. 3. Three useless cards. 4. Three good cards. 5. The seven of spades (the turn-up card). 6. The eight of spades. 7. A useless card. 8. The ace of hearts. 9. A useless card. And in the same way for the aces, the three kings, and the three tens, which ought to be separated from each other by indifferent cards. Then a false cut, and deal three cards at a time. "When the game of Bézigue was first invented," you say to your adversary, "they used to play with the same number of cards as at Piquet, making five hundred points the game; and, in consequence of the small quantity of cards, each player had never more than six cards in his hand at a time. Let us do things as they ought to be done, and play it in that way." You deal--"Three, three, three, three," you say, and turn up a seven of spades, which marks ten points 10 The dealer has a sequence of six in spades. "I beg to inform you, sir, before looking at my hand, that whatever be the card you may play, I shall take it with the nine of trumps, so as to count a _mariage_ in that suit." You take up your cards. "You see I am right. I take the trick and mark forty 40 "I am now going to draw out of the _talon_ the eight of trumps, with which I shall take the trick again, in order to mark my two hundred and fifty 250 ---- 300 "I require two hundred points yet to win the game. Let us see what will be the most expeditious mode of doing so. The four aces will count a hundred, for example." You take in an ace. You then play one of your trumps to be the first to draw, and, each time you draw, you say, "Here is another,--now another," &c., until you have drawn out the fourth ace. "This ought to be the ace of ..." (as the other three aces have been named before drawing, you can name the suit of this last ace without hesitation). "I mark a hundred" 100 "Let us now endeavour to get eighty for the four kings. Here is one, now another, &c., and here is the fourth. I mark eighty 80 "Remember, sir, that I warned you that I would make five hundred points, before you marked one. But if you have the _brisques_ (the four tens) you may count them. I will, however, save you unnecessary trouble, by getting them myself," and you take them in, one after the other. "The turn-up card is yours by right, but, that it may not injure me I am going to trump it, which makes me game. Thus, ten for the last card, and twenty for _brisques_, make thirty, which, added to four hundred and eighty, make five hundred and ten." It must be understood, that in this game you must take every trick, so as to be always the first to play. This game is certainly a difficult one to play, but it has the advantage of producing a very brilliant effect. PART XII. A "COUP DE PIQUET." In which you repique with Cartes-blanches,[N] and gain the Game in spite of being capoted. This Game consists of one hundred points. Arrange a pack of cards beforehand in the following manner: 1. Ace of diamonds. 2. King of diamonds. 3. Queen of diamonds. 4. Ten of clubs. 5. Nine of clubs. 6. Eight of clubs. 7. Knave of diamonds. 8. Ten of diamonds. 9. Ace of spades. 10. Seven of clubs. 11. Ten of hearts. 12. Nine of hearts. 13. Queen of spades. 14. Knave of spades. 15. Nine of spades. 16. Eight of hearts. 17. Seven of hearts. 18. Nine of diamonds. 19. Seven of spades. 20. Ace of hearts. 21. Ace of clubs. 22. Eight of diamonds. 23. Seven of diamonds. 24. Eight of spades. 25. King of hearts. 26. Queen of hearts. 27. King of clubs. 28. King of spades. 29. Ten of spades. 30. Queen of clubs. 31. Knave of clubs. 32. Knave of hearts. As this arrangement of the cards, would be much too long a proceeding to enact before your adversary, the best plan is to have a pack of cards ready prepared, and to exchange them for those on the table, before beginning to play. Make a false cut, and deal three at a time. After which, you commence by showing cartes-blanches (which counts ten), then discard the seven, eight, and nine of diamonds; and, if required, the eight of spades. If your adversary leaves, as he ought to do, a card on the _talon_, you have, by the _rentrée_ of the queen of clubs, the knave of clubs, and the knave of hearts, a sixième in clubs, and a quint in hearts, with which you repique, and make a hundred and seven points. You will be the winner, even if you are capoted. For, your adversary having discarded, according to the rules of the game, the queen, knave, nine, and seven of spades, has taken for his _rentrée_ the king and queen of hearts, the king of clubs, and the king of spades. He will hold in his hand a quint major in diamonds, a quatorze of aces, and a quatorze of kings, with which, had they been good, he would have made one hundred and forty-nine points. PART XIII. A CLEVER "COUP DE PIQUET." In which you allow your adversary to choose:--1st. In what suit he would like to be capoted and repiqued; 2nd. Whether he wishes to have the cards dealt to him by twos or by threes; 3rd. To select whichever of the packs he pleases. The following is the order that the cards must be placed in, before you hand them to be cut:[O] 1. The queen of clubs. 2. The nine of clubs. 3. The eight of clubs. 4. *The seven of clubs. 5. The ace of hearts. 6. The king of hearts. 7. The knave of hearts. 8. The ten of hearts. 9. The queen of hearts. 10. The nine of hearts. 11. The eight of hearts. 12. *The seven of hearts. 13. The ace of spades. 14. The king of spades. 15. The knave of spades. 16. The ten of spades. 17. The queen of spades. 18. The nine of spades. 19. The eight of spades. 20. *The seven of spades. 21. The ace of diamonds. 22. The king of diamonds. 23. The knave of diamonds. 24. The ten of diamonds. 25. The queen of diamonds. 26. The nine of diamonds. 27. The eight of diamonds. 28. *The seven of diamonds. 29. The ace of clubs. 30. The king of clubs. 31. The knave of clubs. 32. The ten of clubs. The four cards marked with an asterisk are large cards. By the arrangement of the cards in the order above, it is evident that, if the pack is cut where one of the large cards, which are the last of each suit, is placed, there will always remain in the talon eight cards of the same suit; consequently, if your adversary wishes to be repiqued in clubs, in cutting the pack at the first large card, which is the seven of clubs, you necessarily put the eight clubs at the bottom of the pack, and you will have for your _rentrée_ a quint major in clubs. This will be the case with all the suits in cutting at the seventh card. Your adversary having expressed a wish to be repiqued in clubs, his wish will be gratified if the cards are dealt two at a time. THE FIRST PLAYER. THE SECOND PLAYER. Ace of hearts. Knave of hearts. King of hearts. Ten of hearts. Queen of hearts. Eight of hearts. Nine of hearts. Seven of hearts. Ace of spades. Knave of spades. King of spades. Ten of spades. Queen of spades. Eight of spades. Nine of spades. Seven of spades. Ace of diamonds. Knave of diamonds. King of diamonds. Ten of diamonds. Queen of diamonds. Eight of diamonds. Nine of diamonds. Seven of diamonds. "RENTRÉE" OF THE FIRST "RENTRÉE" OF THE SECOND PLAYER. PLAYER. Ace of clubs. Nine of clubs. King of clubs. Eight of clubs. Knave of clubs. Seven of clubs. Ten of clubs. Queen of clubs. If, on the contrary, your adversary wishes to have the cards dealt in threes, the following will be the result: THE FIRST PLAYER. THE SECOND PLAYER. Ace of hearts. Ten of hearts. King of hearts. Queen of hearts. Knave of hearts. Nine of hearts. Eight of hearts. King of spades. Seven of hearts. Knave of spades. Ace of spades. Ten of spades. Queen of spades. Seven of spades. Nine of spades. Ace of diamonds. Eight of spades. King of diamonds. Knave of diamonds. Nine of diamonds. Ten of diamonds. Eight of diamonds. Queen of diamonds. Seven of diamonds. "RENTRÉE" OF THE FIRST "RENTRÉE" OF THE SECOND PLAYER. PLAYER. Ace of clubs. Nine of clubs. King of clubs. Eight of clubs. Knave of clubs. Seven of clubs. Ten of clubs. Queen of clubs. When your adversary has named the suit in which he wishes to be repiqued, and which we will suppose to be clubs, you must cut at the seven of this suit, and then tell him he is at liberty to have the cards dealt to him in twos or threes, whichever he pleases. The cards having been dealt out, either in one way or the other, you then tell your adversary that he may, before looking at them, select whichever of the packs of cards he likes, provided he will agree to be second hand. Should the cards have been given in twos, and each one retains his own hand, you must discard the nines of hearts, spades, and diamonds, and two queens of any suit. The _rentrée_ will be a quint major in clubs, a quatorze of aces, and a quatorze of kings, with which, of course, you make a repique. If, on the contrary, your adversary chooses to be the first player, you will discard the sevens of hearts, spades, and diamonds, and two eights of any suit. This will give you, for your _rentrée_, the same quint in clubs, a quatorze of queens, and a quatorze of knaves, which will equally produce a repique. If your adversary, instead of having the cards dealt in twos, prefers that they should be given in threes, and that he keeps his own hand, you must discard the king, the eight and the seven of hearts, and the nine and eight of spades, so as to have for your _rentrée_ a quint major in clubs, a tierce from the queen in diamonds, three aces, three queens, and three knaves, with which you repique. If he chooses to be the first player, you will discard the queen and the nine of hearts, the knave and the seven of spades, and the ace of diamonds. By this you will have, for your _rentrée_, the same quint major in clubs, a tierce from the nine in diamonds, three kings, and three tens, which will make twenty-nine points. In playing, you will only make sixty the game. Although we have supposed the repique to have been asked for in clubs by your adversary, it must be clearly understood, that it may be similarly done in any other suit; and it is only necessary, as has been already explained at the beginning of this chapter, to cut at the seven of the suit called for. CHAPTER XIV. MINOR CHEATS OF MEN OF THE WORLD. Ruses and Frauds allowable by custom in Society. In the ordinary affairs of life, it is easy to know the difference between honesty and roguery: conscience and the laws have traced a line of demarcation, about which all right-minded people agree. In the matter of play, it is not the same thing: one knows perfectly where roguery ends, but it is very difficult to say where it begins? Let me hasten to give an explanation, without which my readers will have a right to call me to task. "Do you mean to pretend," they will say, "that a man of sense is not capable of discriminating between honesty and roguery?" This would, indeed, be giving too great a position to cheating. I at once disclaim the assertion of any such opinion; none believe more in honesty than myself. But for that firm belief, this work would probably never have seen the light. But let a man be ever so upright and just in his play, there are houses where certain licences are allowed, where the play is not high enough, to make it worth a man's while to cheat. These peccadilloes, may for want of a better appellation, be termed clever manoeuvres, finesses, ruses, and mental sleight-of-hand. Of these I will just mention a few, beginning with the most innocent, and progressing by degrees, until I come to actual sharping. At the same time I must request my readers to fix their own limits, where honesty ends and roguery begins. * * * * * For instance, if you are playing with an awkward adversary, who, in arranging his cards, classes his trumps too ostensibly, ought you, therefore, to avoid taking advantage of this awkwardness, as a guide to your adversary's hand? * * * * * Again, if your adversary, through carelessness, shows his cards, or if, by holding them too near the candle, they are rendered transparent: is it necessary to tell him of it? * * * * * Then, in playing Écarté. What is to be said of an adversary who consults the bye-standers, as if he had the right to do so, as to whether he shall play or not, and who, after a little hesitation, decides to discard? From thus acting it might be supposed, that he had a first-rate hand, and that prudence alone prompted the question. Do not be taken in: He will discard all his five cards. He wished to deceive his adversary, and if the latter is inexperienced, he will succeed in so doing. * * * * * Another man will, before proposing, look at his counters, as if to mark the king, then, after giving you this false alarm, he asks for cards, and is only too glad if you acquiesce in his request: for not only had he no king at all, but a very bad hand. * * * * * You are still playing at Écarté, and you have three points, but your adversary is doubtless in ignorance of the fact, since he inquires of you, where you are? "I count three," you reply. This announcement seems to make him decide not to stand on his own cards, so he proposes. From this, you would suppose he had a good hand. You would be wrong in this case to refuse, so you accept and give him _five_ cards, as all this little bye-play was intended to intimidate you. He had nothing at all. * * * * * Some players endeavour to depict on their countenances, the contrary of what they really feel. If they have a good hand, they eagerly ask for cards, and when they have a bad one, they pretend to hesitate. Others, with good cards, pretend to be in a bad temper, and frown; whilst, with bad cards, they appear gay and anxious to begin to play. * * * * * It sometimes happens that a player, at the end of a game, is puzzled which of the two last cards he is to throw down. One of them may save the vole, but he is not sure which. Instead of playing according to the proverb, which says _qui garde à carreau n'est pas capot_, he holds down his hand, so that his adversary may see both cards, and fixes his eyes upon those of his _vis-à-vis_, which very naturally, are bent on the card which is against himself. The other profits by this look, and saves himself from being capoted. This is an infallible criterion, but is it a right thing to do? The following anecdote is related on this subject, and will not be out of place here: At a game of Piquet, in which many were greatly interested, one of the players was on the point of being capoted. He had but two cards to play, the king of hearts, and the king of spades. One of these would save him, if he only played the right one; but which? He laid them both down on the table, and, after some hesitation, he decided on playing the king of spades, when he felt some one press his foot. Accepting this indication as a warning, he changed his intention, played the king of hearts, and lost the game. It was the king of spades he ought to have played. Vexed at the error he had committed, he asked who it was that pressed his foot, and found out it was his adversary. The latter apologised, pretending it was by accident. In this instance, again, the reader must judge for himself of the honesty of both the players. * * * * * When a game of Écarté is being played, it is not considered right, first to bet on one side, and then on the other. Whether you bet or not, you always continue on the same side. There are people, however, who even manage to win on both sides, and this is the way they manage it: Two persons agree to make their interest common, and place themselves on opposite sides of the table. If a good hand is dealt to either party, the accomplice makes a sign to his friend, and he accordingly bets high. The other, meanwhile, makes no bet this time. When fortune appears in favour of the opposite party, the stakes change sides. These manoeuvres are very innocent, no doubt, but they are not acknowledged. * * * * * In games of four players, as in Whist, for example, you ought to make no communication whatever to your partner, except such as are authorised and allowed by the rules of the game. To this no objection can be made, as it is equally open to both sides: but some players make a series of signs, and nervous contractions of the muscles of the face, which enlighten their partner considerably as to what sort of hand they have. * * * * * In playing Écarté, whilst shuffling the cards, some players allow their adversary to see the card at the bottom of the pack. There are some persons who take advantage of this negligence. This is the little manoeuvre which they employ:-- The dealer offers the cards to his adversary to cut. This is done in such a manner as to leave only about eleven cards, which will, of course, go on the top of the pack. The observer, therefore, well knows, that if that card is not in his own hand, it must be in that of his adversary; and every Écarté player is aware, of how much consequence it is, to know even one card in the hand of your adversary, in that game. The following facts I particularly commend to the attention of my readers. Every one knows, that in certain games, Écarté especially, the cards are apt to run in suits, the reason of which is evident, as, in playing, one is always obliged to follow suit. Without you try the thing yourself, you will scarcely believe it; but if the cards be ever so well shuffled, it is very difficult to separate any two or three cards, which have been played together. An expert player will derive great advantage, from the glimpse he obtains whilst his opponent is shuffling the cards. Let us suppose, for example, that he has seen amongst the cards a sequence from the king, as the king, queen, and knave of hearts. It is more than probable, that the above cards, after the shuffle, still remain together; and if, after the deal, you have the king in your own hand, and it was the second of the two cards dealt to you first, you may be pretty sure that the queen and knave, following close after, are in your adversary's hand. On the other hand, if the knave is the first card of the three next that are dealt to you, your adversary will have the king and queen. Again, if the king is turned up, the two others will be the next to follow in the _talon_. To obtain these results, may not a person, in spite of himself, be led into neglecting to shuffle the cards too well? * * * * * It often happens at the game of Bouillotte, that a player who has a bad hand, proposes to play for a very considerable stake; this is done merely to alarm his opponent. This _finesse_ sometimes succeeds, but it is of too gross a character, to be tolerated in many clubs. * * * * * As a _finale_ to this collection of minor tricks, more or less allowable in play, I will cite an anecdote, which, true or not, the world gives the credit of to M. de Talleyrand. Talleyrand was once playing at Bouillotte; he had just dealt the cards, and was waiting, according to the rules of the game, to stake. The two first adversaries allowed their turn to pass, without risking anything. "Ten louis," said the third player. "Twenty," said Talleyrand. "Forty," said the adversary. "I stake my all," continued the Diplomatist, pointing to the hundred louis before him, and, at the same time, he let a card fall out of his hand on the table. It was a nine; he took it up again hastily. His adversary had just time to see the card, and, although he had a _brelan_ of kings, he thought it more prudent to stop betting. He concluded that Talleyrand must have a first-rate hand, to back it so heavily. He was led to this opinion, because the turn-up card was a nine, and in all probability, the nine which fell from the hands of the Diplomatist, was one of a _brelan_ of four. Each player laid his hand on the table; Talleyrand gained with three odd cards, amongst which was the nine he had dropped insidiously on the table to deceive his adversary. Here I had better stop; for, if I continued such stories for many more pages, I fear that the heading of this chapter would be insensibly merged in those which have preceded it. My readers must, however, by this time, be sufficiently edified on the nature of the rogueries I have exposed, and will be strengthened in the opinion, that an honourable player ought only to take the advantages offered him by his own good fortune or good play. * * * * * My task is ended. Allow me, dear reader, to disclose to you an apprehension, which has haunted me throughout this work. This apprehension you will more easily understand if I preface it, by way of illustration, with the following apologue. You have, doubtless, witnessed the singular spectacle of two men fighting in the public highway, and, suddenly reconciled, turning their united strength against the officious persons who separate them. In a similar manner, does not the author of these pages run the same risk? May it not happen, that the losers and the winners, the dupes as well as the rogues, may regard him as their common enemy? The infatuated gamblers will reproach him for making them afraid of being robbed, and thereby preventing them from playing. The Greeks will be sure to hate him, for having unmasked their knaveries. These considerations, you see, have not prevented me from following out the task I had imposed upon myself, and, whatever happens, I trust the public will give me credit for a wish to enlighten them, and for having had their interest more at heart even than my own. BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. FOOTNOTES: [A] In the United States of America this perfidious scheme was brought to great perfection, and carried out by the bankers themselves at these establishments. Robertson, in his Memoirs, thus describes it:--In the centre of the tables for play a mechanical spring is concealed, which, by being touched, can make the ball enter the division of "pair" or "impair" at pleasure. If "Pair" is the favourite, and large stakes are on it, the spring under the table is touched, and, by tightening by the hundredth part of an inch all the "pairs," the ball is forced to enter the "impairs," which are larger. Whilst this was going on, the victims were pricking their cards and reckoning their chances of winning, but what could the most learned calculator do against a push of the knee? [B] Benazet is the name of the proprietor of the gambling-tables. [C] M. Ancelot. [D] Two well-known public-houses in the vicinity of the Marché de la Halle. [E] Pair, Impair, Passe, Manque, Rouge, Noir, and the thirty-eight numbers in Roulette. [F] To martingale, is to double your stake each time that you lose. [G] See the interesting work of Edouard Gourdon, "Les faucheurs de Nuit"--the chapter on fetishes. [H] See the technical part of this work on cards "_biseautées_." [I] "_Sauter la coupe_" is, to pass the lower packet of cards on the top of the other, without being seen. [J] See the figure in the article on Lansquenet, page 228. [K] See page 170. [L] One may also make as many as two hundred points by having the four tierce majors in your hand; but the smallest _quart_ in the hand of your adversary, if it were only the tens, greatly lessens your advantages. [M] _Jeu de règle_ is a hand to be played without discarding. [N] "Cartes-blanches" is a hand at Piquet without a court card--it counts ten. [O] For this trick, like the preceding one, the pack ought to be prepared beforehand, and the packs changed before the game begins. Transcribers' Notes: Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced quotation marks retained. Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained. Page 40: "one of the betters." was printed with that spelling. Page 90: "clandestine hell" was printed that way, not as "hall". Page 259: "where it begins?" was printed with the question mark. Footnote J (originally on page 179) refers to a figure on page 219, and a "2" was handwritten over the "1", but the figure actually appears on page 228. The reference has been corrected in this eBook. 
23587	----	Transcriber's note: Typesetting errors have been corrected, but what appear to be the author's spellings have not been changed. LoC call number: F353.D4 FORTY YEARS A GAMBLER ON THE MISSISSIPPI BY GEORGE H. DEVOL. A CABIN BOY IN 1839; COULD STEAL CARDS AND CHEAT THE BOYS AT ELEVEN; STOCK A DECK AT FOURTEEN; BESTED SOLDIERS ON THE RIO GRANDE DURING THE MEXICAN WAR; WON HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS FROM PAYMASTERS, COTTON BUYERS, DEFAULTERS, AND THIEVES; FOUGHT MORE ROUGH-AND-TUMBLE FIGHTS THAN ANY MAN IN AMERICA, AND WAS THE MOST DARING GAMBLER IN THE WORLD. ILLUSTRATED. FIRST EDITION. DEVOL & HAINES. CINCINNATI: 1887. Entered according to Act of Congress, the 6th day of October, 1887, by DEVOL & HAINES, In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C. [All rights reserved.] PREFACE. The author of this book has written the stories as they would recur to his memory, and no effort has been made at classification. They are not fictitious; many of the persons named are now living, and they can and will testify that the stories are founded on facts. He belongs to the celebrated Devol family of Marietta. His grandfather, Jonathan Devol, was an officer in the Revolutionary War, and was well known to the pioneer history of Ohio. He was one of the passengers on the _Mayflower_, which he constructed for the use of the first company of emigrants to Ohio. He erected a house on the Campus Martius in 1788, and was joined by his wife and six children in December of that year. He was one of the committee to explore the country in search of suitable places for mills and farming settlements. In 1791 he repaired to Belpre with his family. He succeeded in clearing a patch of land, and built a log cabin not far below the house of Captain William Dorce. The news of the Big Bottom massacre reached him while attending court at Marietta, and he hurried home. Mrs. Devol, hearing that the Indians were on the war-path, ordered the children to lie down with their clothes on, ready for the danger signal. He became famous by building the floating mill. In 1792 he built a twelve-oared barge of twenty-five tons burden for Captain Putnam. The author's father was Barker Devol, who died at Carrollton, Ky., on the 8th day of March, 1871, at the age of 85. He was a ship-builder, and worked with his father at Marietta. He left a widow and six children, who are all living, except one, the youngest being George H. Devol. The Author. CONTENTS. A Religious Captain A Cold Deck A Woman With a Gun A Shrewd Trick A Paymaster's Bluff A Crazy Man A Good Night's Work A Euchre Hand A Good Stake-Holder A Mile Dash An Honorable Man A Bull Fight A Duck Hunt A Hard Head A Square Game A Coward Ancient Gambling Boyhood Days Blowing Up of the Princess Beat a Good Hand Butler in New Orleans Broke a Snap Game Before Breakfast Bill Would Gamble Bill's Present Caught a Sleeper Collared the Wrong Man Called a Gambler Control Over Suckers Caught Again Caught a Whale Caught a Defaulter Canada Bill Close Calls Cheap Jewelry Cold Steel Didn't Win the Bags Don't Dye Your Whiskers Didn't Win the Key Dicky Roach and I Detectives and Watches Even the Judges Do It Eight Hundred Dollars Against a Pistol Fifty to the Barkeeper Fight With a Longshoreman Foot Race Forty Miles an Hour Fights Got Up Too Soon Got Off Between Stations Good Luck Governor Pinchback General Remarks George, the Butter Home Again Hard Boiled Eggs He Knew My Hand Her Eyes Were Opened He Never Knew He's One of Us How I Was Beat He's Not That Old Indians Can Play Poker It Made a Man of Him I Had Friends It Was Cold I Raised the Limit It Shook the Checks Jew vs. Jew Judge Devol Knocked Down $300 Kickers Leaving Home Leap for Life Lost his Wife's Diamonds Lucky at Poker Lacked the Nerve Left in Time My First Keno My Jew Partner My First Love Marked Cards My Crooked Partner My Partner Alexander Married His Money My Cards My Little Partner Mules for Luck My Visit to Old Bill Monumental Gall Mule Thieves My Partner Won McCoole and Coburn Mobile Now a Gambler Nipped in the Bud No Play On This Boat No Money in Law Narrow Escapes No Good at Short Cards On the Circuit Put Ashore for Fighting Pittsburg's Best Man "Pranking" With a New Game Posing as Nic Longworth's Son Quick Work Red and Black Rattlesnake Jack Reduced the Price Saved My Partner's Life Sold Out by a Partner "Snap Games" Sinking of the Belle Zane Snaked the Wheel Stolen Money Signal Service Settled Our Hash She Kissed Me Salted Down Strategem Saved By His Wife "Short Stops" The Game of Rondo Ten Thousand in Counterfeit Money The Frenchman and the Horse Hair The Chicken Men and Their Silver The Hungry Man The Big Catfish The Sermon on the (Mount) Boat The Monte King The Daguerreotype Boat The Black Deck-Hand The Juergunsen Watch The Cotton Man Taught a Lesson They Paid the Costs The Boys from Texas The Quadroon Girl The Captain Spoiled the Game Too Sick to Fight The Gambler Disguised The Best Looking Sucker The Alligators The Big Sucker The Crazy Man The Brilliant Stone The Hidden Hand The Three Fives The Killer The Deck-Hand The Black (Leg) Cavalry The Paymaster's $3.500 The U. S. Detective's Bluff The Young Man From New York The Yellow Jeans The Jack Fish The Black Man The Persuader The Lap-Robe The Preacher Away From Home The Cattle Buyer The Green Cow-Boy The Police Signal The Good Deacon The Natchez and the Lee The Trick Knife Two Forty on the Shell Road The Arkansas Killers The Englishman and His Gun Traveling Keno The Two Judges Tapped the Till War With Mexico Was in With the Judge Won and Lost With a Poker William Jones (Canada Bill) Forty Years a Gambler on the Mississippi. BOYHOOD DAYS. "I'll serve his youth, for youth must have his course, For being restrained it makes him ten times worse; His pride, his riot, all that may be named, Time may recall, and all his madness tamed." My Dear Reader: I first saw the light of day in a little town called Marietta, at the mouth of the Muskingum River in the State of Ohio, on the first day of August, 1829. I was the youngest of six children, and was the pet of the family. My father was a ship carpenter, and worked at boat-building in the beginning of the present century. I had good opportunities to secure an early education, as we had good schools in the West at that time. I had very little liking for books, and much less for school. When my parents thought me at school, I was playing "hookey" with other boys, running about the river, kicking foot-ball, playing "shinny on your own side," and having a fight nearly every day. I hardly ever went home that I did not have my face all scratched up from having been in a fight, which innocent amusement I loved much better than school. When I was hardly ten years of age, I would carry stones in my pocket and tackle the school teachers if they attempted to whip me. My father was away from home at his work most of the time, and my mother (God bless her dear old soul) could not manage me. She has often called in some passer-by to help her punish me. I can now see I richly deserved all the punishment I ever received, and more too. When there was company at our house, and my mother would be busy preparing a meal, I would get my bow and arrows and shoot the cups off from the table, and then run away. I guess I was about the worst boy of my age west of the Allegheny Mountains that was born of good Christian parents. I have often heard the good old church members say: "That boy will be hung if he lives to be twenty years old." But I have fooled them, and am still on the turf, although I have had some pretty close calls, as you will see by reading this book. LEAVING HOME. In the year 1839, while at the river one day, I saw a steamer lying at the wharf-boat by the name of _Wacousta_. The first steward said I could ship as a cabin boy at $4 per month. I thought this a great opportunity, so when the boat backed out I was on board without saying anything to my parents or any one else. My first duty was to scour knives. I knew they would stand no foolishness, so at it I went, and worked like a little trooper, and by so doing I gained the good will of the steward. At night I was told to get a mattress and sleep on the floor of the cabin; this I was very glad to do, as I was tired. About four o'clock in the morning the second steward came up to me and gave me a pretty hard kick in the side that hurt me, and called out: "Get up here, and put your mattress away." I did get up and put away my bed, and then I went to the steward who kicked me and said: "Look here! Don't kick me that way again, for you hurt me." He let go and hit me a slap in the face that made my ears ring; so into him I pitched. I was a big boy for only ten years old; but I struck the wrong man that time, for he hit me another lick in the nose that came very near sending me to grass, but I rallied and came again. This time I had a piece of stone coal that I grabbed out of a bucket; I let it fly, and it caught him on the side of the head and brought him to his knees. By this time the passengers were getting up to see what was the matter; the pilot and first steward soon put a stop to the fight. I told my story to the boss, and he took sides with me. He told the officers of the boat that I was the best boy to work that he had; so they discharged the second steward at Cincinnati, and you can bet I was glad. I remained on the _Wacousta_ for some time, and thought myself a good steamboat man. I knew it all, for I had been there. The next boat I shipped on was the _Walnut Hills_, at $7 per month. You could hear her "scape" (whistle) for a distance of twenty miles on a clear day or night. I would get up early in the morning and make some "five-cent pieces" (there were no nickels in those days) by blacking boots. PUT ASHORE FOR FIGHTING. I quit the _Walnut Hills_ after three months, and shipped with Captain Patterson on the _Cicero_, bound for Nashville. The first trip up the Cumberland River the boat was full of passengers, and I had a fight with the pantryman. The Captain said I should go ashore. They brought me up to the office, and the clerk was told to pay me my wages, which amounted to the large sum of one dollar and fifty cents. I was told to get my baggage; but as two blue cotton shirts and what I had on my back was all I possessed, it did not take me long to pack. My trunk was a piece of brown paper with a pin lock. They landed me at a point where the bank was about one hundred feet high, and so steep that a goat could not climb it. They commenced to pull in the plank, when the steward yelled out to the Captain, "that he could not get along without that boy," and asked him to let me go as far as Nashville. I was told to come aboard, which I did, and I remained on that boat for one year, during which time I learned to play "seven-up," and to "steal card," so that I could cheat the boys, and I felt as if I was fixed for life. I quit the _Cicero_, and shipped with Captain Mason on the steamer _Tiago_. Bill Campbell, afterward the first captain of the _Robert E. Lee_, was a cabin boy on the same boat. He is now a captain in the Vicksburg Packet Line. During the time I was on the _Tiago_ the Mexican War broke out. WAR WITH MEXICO. "Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations who had else, Like kindred drops, been mingled into one." When the Mexican War broke out, our boat was lying at Pittsburg. The Government bought a new boat called the _Corvette_, that had just been built at Brownsville. A cousin of mine was engaged to pilot her on the Rio Grande. His name was Press Devol. He was a good pilot on the Ohio, from Cincinnati to Pittsburg, but had never seen the Rio Grande, except on the map. I thought I would like to go to war, and to Mexico. My cousin got me the position as barkeeper, so I quit our boat, and shipped on the _Corvette_, for the war. Jack McCourtney, of Wheeling, was the owner of the bar. There was a man aboard, on our way down, who took a great liking to me. He was well posted on cards, and taught me to "stock a deck," so I could give a man a big hand; so I was a second time "fixed for life." When we got down to New Orleans they took the boat over to Algiers, took her guards off, and part of her cabin, and we started across the Gulf; and you bet my hair stood up at times, when those big swells would go clear over her in a storm. But finally we landed at Bagdad, and commenced to load her with supplies for the army. I soon got tired of the Rio Grande, and after cheating all the soldiers that I could at cards (as there was no one else to rob), I took a vessel, and came back to New Orleans. When I landed there, I was very comfortably fixed, as I had about $2,700, and was not quite seventeen years old. Here I was in a big city, and knew no one; so I went and got a boarding house, and left all my cash, but what I might need, in the care of an old gentleman that looked something like my father. I thought he must be honest, as he looked like him, and he proved himself so. I then picked up courage, and said to myself, "I believe that I will go home." But to pay passage was all foolishness, as I was such a good hand on a boat, so I shipped on the steamboat _Montgomery_, Captain Montgomery, and Windy Marshall (as they called him) Mate. I shipped as second steward, at twenty dollars per month. The boat was full of people, and the card tables were going ever night as soon as the supper tables were cleared. We had been out from New Orleans two days and nights before I picked up a game. One afternoon in the texas, I beat my man out of $170; and as there was no "squeal" in those days, I was all right, although they did not allow any of the crew to play with passengers. We got to Louisville, where the boat laid up and paid off her crew, and I came on to Cincinnati. HOME AGAIN. "Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise; We love the play-place of our early days." "Well, now I'll go home to the folks," I said, "and see if they will forgive me." I thought I would take home some presents, so I bought about $400 worth of goods, including coffee, sugar, teas, etc., and took the old steamer _Hibernia_, of Pittsburg, Captain Clinefelter, master. You ought to have seen me when I stepped on the wharfboat at Marietta, my birthplace, dressed to death, with my gold watch and chain, and a fine trunk I had bought in New Orleans for $40. I got my groceries off the wharfboat, and hired a wagon, and I took it afoot, as in those days you could not get a hack except at a livery stable. My mother knew me at first sight. Father was working at the ship- yard at Port Homer, on the other side of the Muskingum River, and did not come home until night. I stopped at home a year, and had a fight nearly every week. I then came to Cincinnati again, where I met my brother Paul, who was working at calking steamboats. He coaxed me to stay with him, saying that he would teach me the trade. I consented, and soon was able to earn $4 per day. We worked together a few years, and made a good deal of money; but every Monday morning I went to work broke. I became infatuated with the game of faro, and it kept me a slave. So I concluded either to quit work or quit gambling. I studied the matter over a long time. At last one day while we were finishing a boat that we had calked, and were working on a float aft of the wheel, I gave my tools a push with my foot, and they all went into the river. My brother called out and asked me what I was doing. I looked up, a little sheepish, and said it was the last lick of work I would ever do. He was surprised to hear me talk that way, and asked me what I intended to do. I told him I intended to live off of fools and suckers. I also said, "I will make money rain;" and I did come near doing as I said. THE GAME OF RONDO. After shoving my calking tools into the river, I went to keeping a "Rondo" game for Daniel and Joseph Smith, up on Fifth Street, at $18 per week. Hundreds of dollars changed hands every hour, both day and night. At the end of six months I was taken in as a partner, and at that time the receipts of the game were about $600 every day. I had money to sell (or throw away), and, for a boy, I made it fly. In a short time the police began to raid us, and we would be fined fifty dollars each about once a month. Then they raised it to $100, and next to $500. This was too much, so we had heavy oak and iron doors put up; but the police would batter them down, and get us just the same. One night they surrounded the house, broke down the door, and arrested my two partners; but I escaped by the roof. The next day I went up to the jail to take the boys something to eat, when they nabbed and locked me up also. They put me in the same cell with Kissane, of the steamer _Martha Washington_ notoriety, who was living in great style at the jail. They fined us $500 each and let us go, and that broke up "Rondo." After retiring from the "Rondo" business, I took passage with Captain Riddle on the steamer _Ann Livington_ bound for the Wabash River, to visit a sister, who lived near Bloomfield, Edgar County, Ills. There were no railroads in that part of the country in those days. My sister's husband bought 3,000 acres of land near Paris, at $1.25 per acre, and the same land is now worth $300 per acre. During my trip up the river I formed the acquaintance of Sam Burges, who was a great circus man. Captain Riddle and Burges got to paying poker, and the Captain "bested" him for about $200. I told Burges that I could make him win if he could get me into the game. So, after supper, they sat down to play, and I was a looker-on. Burges asked me to take a hand, which I did, and on my deal I would "fill" his hand, so that he soon had the Captain badly rattled, and he lost about $900. The old Captain was getting "full," and I looked for a fight sooner or later. Burges invited all to take a drink, when the Captain refused, and told Burges that he was a "d----d gambler." Burges called him a liar, so at it they went. The Captain was getting the best of it when we parted them, and it was all we could do to keep Burges from shooting. I got one-half of the $900, and no one called me a gambler either. As the boat was going through the "draw," at Terre Haute, she took a "shear" on the pilot, and knocked down her chimneys. The Captain went up on deck, cursed the pilot, went down on the lower deck, knocked down two deck-hands, and raised cain generally. Burges expected he would tackle him again, but the Captain did not want any of that gun. When we arrived at the landing, I got off, and went to my sister's. I remained there about one month, and had a good time shooting wild turkeys and chickens. On my return trip I got into a game of poker, and took in a few hundred. I stopped off at Louisville a short time, and then shipped for Cincinnati, where I remained until I was very near broke. NOW A GAMBLER. "If yet you love game at so dear a rate, Learn this, that hath old gamesters dearly cost; Dost lose? rise up. Dost win? rise in that state. Who strives to sit out losing hands are lost." I left Cincinnati for St. Louis; and when I landed there, I had just $40 left. I secured a boarding house, and started to take in the town. I made inquiries for a faro bank, and at last found one; and I bolted in as if I was an old sport. I stepped up to the table, and asked the dealer for $40 worth of checks. I then commenced to play, and won; and, pressing my good luck, in two hours had $780 in checks in front of me. I told the dealer to cash my checks, and I walked out. The next day I was on my way to St. Paul, as at that time there was a great emigration in that direction. I took passage on a steamer that had nearly 300 people on board, going there to buy homes, and, of course, they had plenty of money with them. After the supper tables were cleared, a game of poker was commenced; then another, then another, until there were five tables going. I sat at one of the tables looking on for a long time, until at length one of the gentlemen said to me, "Do you ever indulge?" I said, "Hardly ever, but I do not care if I play a while." The bar was open, and they all appeared to enjoy a good drink, but I never cared for anything stronger than a lemonade. The result was that they all got full, and I thought I might as well have some of their money as to let the barkeeper have it, and I commenced to try some of the tricks I had learned. I found they worked finely, and at daybreak the bar and I had all the money. I got about $1,300, which made me $2,000 strong. When we arrived at St. Paul I struck another bank, and to my sorrow. I found one conducted by Cole Martin and "King Cole," two old sports, who soon relieved me of my $2,000. I then was without a cent, and too game to let the gamblers know I was broke. After I had been there about a week, one of them stopped me on the street, and asked me why I did not come around and see them. He said: "I don't ask you to play, but come and dine with us." I accepted his invitation, and went around that evening, and had as fine a bird supper as I ever sat down to. MY FIRST KENO. "'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, But to support him after." The next day I visited another club-house, where they had keno going at fifty cents a card. I had seen it before, and took a great fancy to the game. I inquired how much an outfit would cost. They said they had two keno sets, and if I wanted one they would sell it to me for $250. Now came the tug of war--how to get the keno. I at last thought of a plan, and that was to borrow the amount of one of the dealers who had won the $2,000 from me. So I made a bold front and told him what I wanted to do, and he gave me $300 in cash, saying at the same time, "Pay me when you are able, as I like to help a young man who tries to help himself." I bought the keno set, and had $50 left, which paid all my debts and started me in business. Cole Martin, one of the men who loaned me the money, said to me: "Now, after the faro bank closes to-night, at my house, if you bring your keno over I will help you get up a game." "All right," I said; so I took it over, and opened on the billiard tables, and he brought all of his players into the room, and said, "Let us start this young man's game." They commenced playing at $1 per card at twelve o'clock, and at six in the morning they were playing at $20 per card. I was taking out 10 per cent. They all got stuck. That night my receipts amounted to $1,300. The result was they put the carpenters at work to fit up a nice room for me, and in eight months my part of the game was $33,000. Then I began to think I was a blooded boy, and soon began to take the girls out riding and to wine suppers, and to play the bank higher than a cat's back, as the old keno game was a great producer. About this time the town of Winona was looking up. There were but two or three little frame houses, but a great many people got off there, going back in the country. So I went down there and bought a raft of great lumber, hired carpenters, and put them to work building houses. They soon had five or six done, and in about a week after they were finished, you could stand outside and throw a big dog through the cracks. But they were full every night at $1 per head, bringing their own blankets and sleeping on the floor. I sent and got another keno set, and opened a bar room, and was making money like dirt, when one day a man walked in with a bucket of water, and commenced pouring it on one of my billiard tables that I got in Chicago, and which cost me $500. I walked up to him and asked him what he was doing? He told me to go to h--l. I let fly, caught him on the neck, and down he went, and he lay there for some time. Finally they took him to where he and his wife were stopping, and that night he died. Then I commenced to think about getting out of that hot box. I got together what money I could, and carried a canoe to the river, and started for Dubuque. There were no telegraph lines at that time. I had been there but a few days before the news came to me that the doctors had held a post mortem examination, and decided the man had had delirium tremens, and could only have lived a short time. They sawed open his skull, and found his brain a jelly in the center. So I went back and found his wife, gave her one of the houses which I had built and $700 in money. I then put a man in charge of my business, and went back to St. Paul, where my keno games were still going on. But the man I left in charge of my business at Winona sold all he could and skipped out, and that was the last seen of him till I went up the Missouri River two years after, when I found him in Kansas City. At that time there were but three or four houses and a hotel down at the river bank. It was a great point for the Santa Fé traders. I became acquainted with a man named McGee, who owned the largest part of Kansas City. He was a great lover of the game of "seven- up," so we commenced to play at $10 a game, and I beat him out of five lots (as he had no money), which I afterward sold at $10 a piece. Twelve years ago, as I passed through there, I saw those same lots bringing $600 per foot. I went from there to St. Joe, Omaha, and Council Bluffs, and broke a great many fellows playing poker. I then settled down at dealing faro in St. Joseph, Mo. After staying there one year I went to St. Louis, where I remained two or three months, and then went to New Orleans. I landed there in 1853. The yellow fever was raging, there being 300 deaths per day. Then was the time, if there was any fright in the young gambler, for it to have shown itself; but I made up my mind that if I had to go I might as well go then as at any other time. I was taken down with the fever, and nurses were scarce; but I got an old colored woman, and told her to stick to me, and I would give her $25 per day as long as I was sick, and if I handed in my checks she might have all I left. In twenty-three days, by the grace of our good Maker, I was up eating chicken soup. They watched me so close I could get nothing else. During this time I got an answer from a letter written to my partner at St. Paul, telling him to sell out as best he could, and to send me my part, which he did. INDIANS CAN PLAY POKER. The year I was in St. Paul they paid off a lot of Indians a short distance from the town. I was told that the Red Man was a good poker player, and was always looking for the best of it. They paid them in silver; so I got some of the hard money, hired a horse and buggy, got some whisky, and started out to give them a game, more for the fun and novelty of the thing than to win their money; for I had the old keno game running, and she was a good producer. When I got among the savages, they were having a war dance. After the dance they smoked the pipe of peace and drank my whisky, and I smoked their pipes. After the friendly smoking was over, they started in to playing poker. They invited and insisted on me changing in, so at last I sat down and took a hand. One of the old bucks soon began to cheat. He had an old hat in front of him, and inside of the hat he had a looking-glass, so that he could see on his deal every card he dealt out. I knew he was after me, so I told him to put the hat away and play fair. He saw that I was no "sucker," so he put it away. We played for some time, and it was all I could do to keep even by playing on the square with big "injins," as I found them very good card players. I held out a hand, but had to wait some time for the "wild man of the forest." At last there was a big "blind and straddle," and I kept raising it before the draw. They all "stayed," and drew two or three cards (I do not remember which). I took one, and when we came to "show down," I was the lucky fellow. This was too much for the bucks, so three of them dropped out, and left an old chief and myself single-handed. As I was over $150 ahead of the game, I played liberally, to draw the old chieftain on; and as he had one of his bucks walking around behind, and talking "big injin" all the time, he was getting the best of me. I knew that my hands were being given away, but I did not let them know that I was onto their racket. I waited my chance, and clinched onto four fours and a jack. I kept "going blind," until the chief got a good hand, and then he came back at me strong. We had it hot and heavy. I let the buck see my hand until it came to the draw, and then I shifted the hand, and came up with the four fours and the jack, but the warrior did not see me get _that_ hand. I then made a big bet. The old chief called his squaw, and she brought him a sack of silver. He then "called" me. We showed down; the money was mine; and then you should have seen the fun. The buck that had been giving my hand away started to run. The old chief jumped up, grabbed his tomahawk, and lit out after him. I jerked off my coat, dumped all the silver into it, jumped into my buggy, and lost no time in getting out of that neck of the woods. As I was going at a 2:40 gait, I looked back and saw the buck and old chief going through the woods. I never knew whether the old man caught the buck or not, but I do know he did not catch me. I took desperate chances to win that pot, and I was very lucky in not losing my scalp. I never inquired when the Indians were to be paid off again, for I had no notion of paying them a visit. Any one who has a desire to play poker with "big injins" has my consent; but I would advise them to play a square game, and keep their eye skinned for the big "buck" that talks to the chief. A RELIGIOUS CAPTAIN. I was on board the steamer _War Eagle_ going from Dubuque to St. Paul. The Captain was a member of the church, and did not allow any gambling on his boat; and any one caught at that innocent pastime would be put ashore. While walking over the boat I met a gentlemen who I thought had money (and I hardly ever made a mistake in my man). I invited him to join me in a drink, and then steered him into the barber shop. I told him I had lost some money betting on cards, but I did not mind very much, as my father was wealthy. While I was showing him how I had lost the money, my partner came, and after watching me throw the cards for a little while, he wanted to bet me $100 he could pick the card. I threw them again, and told him to put up. He "turned," and won the money. Then, turning to the man, he showed him one of the corners turned up, and wanted to bet me again. I told him I would not play with a man that beat me. The man then asked me if I would bet with him. I said I would, providing the other fellow would not tell him which card to turn, which was agreed to. The man then got out his big roll, and put up $100. I told him if he won I would only bet him the one time; and if I won I would only be even; and that I would not bet less than $500. He put up the $500, and turned the wrong card. After putting the money out of sight, I began to throw the cards again; for I saw a diamond stud and ring worth about $1,000. While the cards were on the table I turned around to spit, and my partner marked one of the cards with a pencil, and let the man see the mark. He then bet me $500, and won it; then he walked away. The man began to get nervous and feel for his money; but he had only about seventy-five dollars left, and wanted to bet that. I told him I had just lost $500, and would not bet less than $1,000. He insisted on betting the $75, but I told him to keep it for expenses, and that I would bet him $500 against his stud and ring. Up they went, and I put up $500. Over went the marked card, and he lost again. Out he went, and when I saw him again the Captain was with him. I knew what was in the wind, and I stood my ground. The Captain said to me, "Have you been gambling on my boat?" "I do not know what you mean by that question," says I. "You don't? Well, I will tell you, my boy; you give this gentleman back all the money and jewelry you won from him, or I will have my men take it from you, and then land you on the bank." I laughed at him, and told him to bring up his whole crew, and I would suffer the death of John Rodgers before I would give up one cent. He ordered up the mate and crew. I backed up against the side of the boat, and told them to call for cards, as I "stood pat." They said they did not want any, for they could see by my looks I had the best hand, or at least I would play it for all it was worth. The Captain then said, "You must go ashore." I said, "Land her; both sides of the river are in America, and that big brick house up there is where I live." The old fellow could not help laughing at my cheek, and so concluded to let me alone. I have often had steamboat captains tell me I must give up the money or go ashore, and I had them to tell the suckers to go and get more money and try it again. I have also had them to say they would put the suckers ashore, and that would break them all up. A sucker thinks when he sees a mark on a card that he is robbing the gambler, and he is just as much of a robber and gambler as the other man. When two persons bet, one _must_ lose; and there is no law in this country to compel a man to bet his money or jewelry on anything. So my advice is, don't you do it. A COLD DECK. I was aboard the _Sultana_, bound for Louisville, and got into a five-handed game of poker. When we landed at the mouth of the Cumberland, two of our party got off to take a boat for Nashville; that left our game three-handed. For fear that another would get away, I thought I must get my work in without further delay; so I excused myself for a few moments and went to the bar. I got a deck just like the one we were using, and "run up" three hands, giving one three aces, one three kings, and myself four trays. We played a short time after my return, and on my deal I called their attention to something, and at the same time came up with the "cold deck." The betting was lively. I let them do the raising, and I did the calling until it came to the draw. They each took two cards, and I took one, saying "If I fill this flush, I will make you squeal." I knew they both had "full hands," and they just slashed their money on the table until there was over $4,000 up. Then I made a "raise" of $1,200, and they both "called." "Gentlemen, I said, "I suppose you have me beat; I have only two pair." "Oh!" says one, "I have a king full;" and the other one said, "I have an ace full." "Well, boys, I can down both hands, for I have two pair of trays." The game came to a close, for there was no more money on the other side. CAUGHT A SLEEPER. I was playing poker once on the steamer _General Quitman_. The party were all full of grape juice. Along about morning the game was reduced to single-handed, and that man I was playing with was fast asleep, so I picked up the deck and took four aces and four kings out, with an odd card to each. I gave him the kings and I took the aces. I gave him a hunch, and told him to wake up and look at his hand. He partly raised his hand, but laid it down again and I knew he had not seen it. I gave him a push and shook him up pretty lively, and he opened his eyes. I said: "Come, look at your hand, or I will quit." He got a glimpse of it, and I never saw such a change in a man's countenance. He made a dive for his money and said: "I will bet you $100, for I want to show you I am not asleep." I told him I thought he was "bluffing." I said in a joking way: "I will raise you $1,000." So he pulled out all his money and laid it on the table, and said: "I will only call you, but I know I have you beat." I showed down four big live aces, and he was awake sure enough after that. He never went into any more of those fits, and we played until they wanted the table for breakfast. I used to make it a point to "cold deck" a sucker on his own deal, as they then had great confidence in their hands. My old paw is large enough to hold out a compressed bale of cotton or a whole deck of cards, and it comes in very handy to do the work. I could hold one deck in the palm of my hand and shuffle up another, and then come the change on his deal. It requires a great deal of cheek and gall, and I was always endowed with both--that is, they used to say so down South. TEN THOUSAND IN COUNTERFEIT MONEY. We had a great "graft," before the war, on the Upper Mississippi, between St. Louis and St. Charles. We would go up on a boat and back by rail. One night going up we had done a good business in our line, and were just putting up the shutters, when a man stepped up and said "he could turn the right card." My partner, Posey Jeffers, was doing the honors that night, and he said, "I will bet from $1 to $10,000 that no man can pick out the winning ticket." The man pulled out a roll nearly as large as a pillow, and put up $5,000. Posey put up the same amount, and over the card went for $5,000; but it was not the winner. "Mix them up again," said the man, and he put up the same sum as before. He turned, and Posey put the second $5,000 in his pocket. The man then went away as if to lose $10,000 was an every-day thing with him. We then closed up our "banking house," well pleased with ourselves. The next day we were counting our cash, and we found we had on hand $10,000 in nice new bills on the State Bank of Missouri, but it was counterfeit. We deposited it in the (fire) bank, as we had no immediate use for it. BLOWING UP OF THE PRINCESS. I was on board of the steamer _Princess_ on a down trip when she was carrying a large number of passengers, and there were fourteen preachers among them, on their way to New Orleans to attend a conference. The boat was making the fastest time she had ever made. I had a big game of "roulette" in the barber shop, which ran all Saturday night; and on Sunday morning, just after leaving Baton Rouge, I opened up again, and had thirty-five persons in the shop, all putting down their money as fast as they could get up to the table. I was doing a land-office business, when all of a sudden there was a terrific noise, followed by the hissing of escaping steam, mingled with the screams and groans of the wounded and dying. The boat had blown up, and was almost a total wreck. There was but very little left, and that consisted mostly of the barber shop, which was at the time full of gamblers, and not one of them was hurt. The steamers _Peerless_ and _McRay_ came to our aid; one boat looked after the dead and wounded, and the other took us lucky fellows out of the barber shop. One hundred souls were landed Into eternity without a moment's warning, and among them were the fourteen preachers. It was a horrible sight; the bodies were so mangled and scalded that one could not have recognized his own brother or sister. Captain William Campbell (now of the Vicksburg Packet line) was steward of the _Princess_ at the time of the explosion, and there was not a man on the boat that worked harder to save life and relieve the wounded. He richly deserved his promotion, and is now one of the best captains on the river. A WOMAN WITH A GUN. I was on a boat coming from Memphis one night, when my partner beat a man out of $600, playing poker. After the game broke up, the man went into the ladies' cabin and told his wife. She ran into his room and got his pistol, and said, "I will have that money back, or kill the man." I saw her coming, pistol in hand, and stepped up to the bar and told the barkeeper to hand me that old gun he had in the drawer, which I knew had no loads in it. She came on, frothing at the mouth, with blood in her eyes. I saw she was very much excited, and I said to her: "Madame, you are perfectly right. You would do right in shooting that fellow, for he is nothing but a gambler. I don't believe your pistol will go off; you had better take my pistol, for I am a government detective, and have to keep the best of arms." So I handed her the pistol, and took hers. Just a moment later out stepped the man who had won the money, and she bolted up to him and said: "You won my husband's money, and I will just give you one minute to hand it to me, or I will blow your brains out in this cabin." Well, you ought to have seen the passengers getting out of the cabin when she pulled down on him; but he knew the joke and stood pat, and showed what a game fellow he was. He told the woman her husband lost the money gambling, and he could not get a cent back. Then she let go; but the pistol failed to go off, and he got her to go back into the cabin, and pacified her by giving her $100. After taking the charge out of her pistol, I returned it to her. So, reader, you can see what a gay life there is in gambling. THE FRENCHMAN AND THE HORSE HAIR. I knew a Frenchman who used to travel the river playing the wheel, who made a great deal of money and sent it to France. One night he opened a $1,000 snap at faro and I was to loan him my tools. He shuffled his own cards, as he was too smart to use any other; and I went down on deck and pulled some hairs out of a horse's tail, and came back and got one of the coppers and fastened a hair to it. A copper is used to make a bet lose and take the banker's side. When the copper is off, the bet is open. So I got my partner to buy a big lot of white checks, so that I could get my small bet behind them. My checks were $12.50 apiece; he was playing white checks at 25 cents. We took one corner of the table, side by side. He placed his checks between the dealer and me; then I would put my little stack behind his checks, and when the dealer made a turn he would have to rise from his seat to see if my bet was coppered or not. If the card lost that we were on, I would let the copper remain; if it on, I gave the horse hair a little jerk and pulled the copper off, and we both won. I used to take it off when he was going to pay the bet, for fear he would get his fingers tangled in the hair; and in this way we won the bank roll, which made the Frenchman very sick. SAVED MY PARTNER'S LIFE. We were once coming down on the steamer _Belle Key_, of Louisville, and my partner was doing the playing that day. We had won some big money, and were about to quit, when up stepped a very tall man, who looked pale and sickly. He watched the game for some time, and then pulled out a $1,000 note and laid it on the card he wanted, and of course he lost. He did not say a word, but started back to this room. I thought he acted strange, and I concluded to keep an eye on him. Pretty soon out he came with an overcoat on his arm, and he walked up as near the table as he could get, and commenced to push one of the crowd away so as to get closer. Finally he got at my partner's back, with me close at his heels, when he commenced to pull from under his coat a large Colt's pistol. As he leveled it to shoot him in the back of the head, I knocked him stiff, and the gun dropped on the floor. It was cocked, but it did not go off. They carried the man back to his room, put cold water on him, and finally brought him to. He sent for me, and went I went back he reached out his hand, and said: "Friend, you did me a kindly act, for I had made up mind to kill that man. I am glad it happened so, for it was all the money I had, and it was raised by my friends, who, knowing that I never would reach home again, were sending me to Florida, as all the doctors have given me up; and I thought I would kill him, as I do not expect to get off this boat alive. I have got consumption in its last stages." So I pulled out $1,000, counted it out to him, and he cried like a child. His pistol I gave to the mate, as I thought he had no need of such a weapon. LEAP FOR LIFE. Another time I was coming up on the steamer _Fairchild_ with Captain Fawcett, of Louisville. When we landed at Napoleon there were about twenty-five of the "Arkansas Killers" came on board, and I just opened out and cleaned the party of money, watches, and all their valuables. Things went along smoothly for a while, until they commenced to drink pretty freely. Finally one of them said: "Jake, Sam, Ike, get Bill, and let us kill that d----d gambler who got our money." "All right," said the party, and they broke for their rooms to get their guns. I stepped out of the side door, and got under the pilot-house, as it was my favorite hiding place. I could hear every word down stairs, and could whisper to the pilot. Well, they hunted the boat from stem to stern--even took lights and went down into the hold--and finally gave up the chase, as one man said I had jumped overboard. I slipped the pilot $100 in gold, as I had both pockets filled with gold and watches, and told him at the first point that stood out a good ways to run her as close as he could and I would jump. He whispered, "Get ready," and I slipped out and walked back, and stood on the top of the wheel- house until she came, as I thought, near enough to jump, and away I went; but it was farther than I expected, so I went down about thirty feet into the river and struck into the soft mud clear up to my waist. Some parties who were standing on the stern of the boat saw me and gave the alarm, when the "killers" all rushed back and commenced firing at me, and the bullets went splashing all around me. The pilot threw her into the bend as quick as he could, and then let on she took a sheer on him and nearly went to the other side. The shooting brought the niggers from the fields to the bank of the river. I hallooed to them to get a long pole and pull me out, for I was stuck in the mud. They did so, and I got up on the bank and waited for another boat. I was always very stubborn about giving up money if any one wanted to compel me to do it, but I wish I had one-quarter of what I have given back to people that did need it. I have seen many a man lose all he had, and then go back into the ladies' cabin and get his wife's diamonds, and lose them, thinking he might get even. But that was always a good cap for me, for I would walk back into the cabin, find the lady, and hand her jewels back; and I never beat a man out of his money that I did not find out from the clerk if his passage was paid. If not, I would pay it, and give the man some of his money to assist him to his destination. By so doing I was looked upon as being a pretty good robber--that is, if you call it robbing; but I tell you that a man that will bet on such a game as monte is a bigger robber than the man who does the playing, for he thinks he is robbing you, and you know you are robbing him. THE CHICKEN MEN AND THEIR SILVER. At one time, before the war, silver was such a drug in New Orleans that you could get $105 in silver for $100 in State bank notes; but the commission men would pay it out to the hucksters dollar for dollar. They would put it in bags and label it with the man's name and the amount. At this time I was coming out on the steamer _John Raine_, and, in looking around for customers, I found fifteen chicken men on board, who had sold their "coops," and had their sacks of silver setting in the office, as there was no room for it in the safe. After supper I got my men in the barber shop, pulled out my three cards, and began to throw them, at the same time telling the men I had lost $1,000 at the game, and that I was going to practice until I could throw equal to the man that had beat me out of my money. They all took a great interest in the game, and could turn the right card every time for fun. About this time the "capper" came up, and said he was positive he could guess the card, and kept insisting on betting me $100; so at last I concluded to bet him, and he lost the $100. Then the fun commenced. One of the chicken men saw the corner of the "right" card turned up; so he jumped up, and wanted to bet me $500 that he could pick out the "right" card. I told him I did not want to bet, but if he made it $2,000 I would bet him, and if I lost I would quit. At the same time I pulled out a large roll of small bills, with a hundred dollar bill on the outside, and laid it on the table. The chicken men held a council of war, and of course they all saw the corner of the "right" card turned up. They went for their sacks of silver, and planked down four of them, with $500 in each. I put up and said: "Gentlemen, you must all agree on one card, and select one man to turn it, as I must have the two chances." They picked out their man; he turned the card with the corner turned up; but, of course, it was not the "right" card. The boat was just landing to take in sugar, so I said, "Gentlemen, I will have to bid you good- by, as this is my sugar plantation." I called two of the porters and told them to take my sacks ashore. They said, "All right, Massa George." You should have seen the chicken men look at me when I landed with my sacks; and all the niggers came to shake hands and say, "Glad youse back, Massa George," (for I knew all the niggers on the coast). After the boat pulled out, I opened one of the sacks and gave each black one of the "chicken" half- dollars. They guarded the money until another boat came down, which they hailed, and I was soon on my way back to New Orleans to catch some more suckers. THE HUNGRY MAN. I was on board the _John Simonds_ coming out of New Orleans one night. I had a very lively game of "red and black," and did not close up until two o'clock in the morning. We were sitting around the stove in the bar, drinking, smoking, and telling stories, when there was a man came in whom I had not seen since the boat left New Orleans. When he came aboard he was pretty full of "bug-juice," and had been asleep. When he woke up, of course he was dry, and had come into the bar to get a drink. I said to him, "You look dry, and you are just in time to join us." After thanking me, he took a drink, and then told me he had missed his supper. I told him I would send the porter into the texas, and get him a lunch, which I did. I then thought if I can get some more of that "go- your-money" whisky into him, I can size him up. So after taking another round, I said to him, "You should have been up when the big betting was going on." He said, "What was it?" I said, "There was a great tall fellow sat down to the table just after supper, and called all the men in the cabin to come and see how he had lost $2,000 of his father's money. He pulled out a lot of cards and began to throw them on the table, and said to us, 'If you see the same fellow who got my money, don't you bet with him, for he has two chances to his one.' I can't explain just how he did it, for I haven't got any of the cards." The barkeeper then said, "I have some of the fellow's cards that he left when he got off the boat." I said, "Let me have them and I will try and show the game." I took the cards and bent them, and then said, "You ought to have seen him throw them through those long fingers; it would have made you laugh." I was throwing and explaining when my partner came in. After looking on for a little while he asked me if I would bet on the game. I pretended not to hear him, but invited them both to take a drink. Then my partner offered to bet the drinks. I took him up, and he lost. While we were talking he picked up the cards and turned up one of the corners of the winner, and then let the other man see what he had done. I commenced to throw them again, when my partner wanted to know if I would bet just as they lay. I said I would after the shuffle. He said, "You beat me out of the drinks; now I will bet you $100 I can pick up the card the first pick." "Enough," says I, and up went the money in the "hungry" man's hands. Over went the card, and my partner caught me for $100. I said, "Give him the money, as he won it fairly." The stakeholder threw down his bread and meat, jumped up, pulled out his money, and said, "I will bet you $500 I can turn the right card the first time." I saw he had about $1,500 or $2,000, so I said, "I will make but one bet, and then quit; I will bet you $1,500." "Enough said, I'll go you." The money was put up, and over went the card; but, as luck would have it, he turned the wrong one; and, to tell the truth, I was glad of it. He then pulled out $400 in gold and wanted to bet that; but I told him to keep it, for I did not want to win it from him, but wanted to keep what I had. We sat down and had a drink, and in a short time the man went out on the guards. My partner and I were talking and laughing about how we won the money, when all of a sudden in rushed the man with his clothes all torn and very much excited. We asked him what had happened, when he told us that two fellows had grabbed and robbed him of the $400 in gold. We got the mate and watchman, and searched the boat until we found one of the robbers in a fireman's bunk, down on the lower deck. We got all the money from him and returned it to the man. The other robber could not be found. We turned the one we had captured over to the police of Baton Rouge, and that was the last we ever heard of him. I took the next boat back to New Orleans. COLLARED THE WRONG MAN. I had been attending to business pretty faithfully, and had accumulated some wealth, when it struck me I must take a rest; so when I arrived in New Orleans I laid off. I was playing the "bank" one night, and was a big loser. There was a big fighter came in and sat down at the same table, and in a short time he began to pick up checks. I thought he would take some of mine next, and I was not in the humor to let any one take my checks. Sure enough, he clinched onto a stack I had on the nine. I said to him, "Those are my fifty." He raised up, took me by the collar, and said, "You're a d----d liar." I thought I would get the old head ready for business once more, so I argued the question with him until I saw an opening, and then I let him have it just between the eyes. He dropped all in a heap, and it was some time before they could get him to sit up. He was pretty badly hurt; his nose was broken down flat with his face; the blood was running out of his ears, and I thought it was about time for me to get out. I cashed in my checks and quit the game over $6,000 a loser. So you see a man must fight at times, even when he has quit his regular business, and is laying off for a rest. MY JEW PARTNER. I was on board the steamer _Sultana_ one evening, coming up from New Orleans, when a "Jew" came up to me, tapped me on the shoulder, and said: "Mr. Devol, I have heard of you for years, and have sat at the same table with you in New Orleans playing the bank. I caught her this trip for over $4,000; but I have often wished I could make as much money as you do; you bet I would take better care of it than you. Come, let us go and have a nice drink." I told him I did not drink anything but wine; and I was very glad he had beat the bank, for they nearly always beat me; but I could hold my own with any man at poker. He said: "Oh, Mr. Devol, I know that no one can beat you at poker, and I would like to put my money in with you and have an interest." Something struck me immediately that I might as well have the $4,000 as not, so I said to him: "I will see Mr. Bush (my partner), and let you know after supper." The first thing to be done was to manufacture a sucker to play me a big game of poker. I knew several good boys on board; some were gamblers and some were horsemen. I selected one of the horsemen, and took him to my room to teach him the ropes. I said to him: "I will cold deck you, and give you three kings, a seven and a eight, and you must put your thumb over one of the spots on the eight, so that the Jew will think you have a king full on sevens when he sees your hand. I will have an ace full, and will bet you $200 or $300 before the draw; then you raise me $5,000." After giving him full instructions, so there would be no mistake, I gave him a big roll and let him out, with instructions not to know me until the time of the game. I told Bush the plan, so after supper we opened up with our three cards and took in a few hundred dollars. After we had closed for the evening, I picked up my manufactured sucker and commenced a divvy game of poker. I told my Jew partner to see every hand that the other fellow held, and to attract his attention so I could cold deck him. I came up with the ice and bet $250 before the draw. The sucker came back and raised me $5,000. The Jew was behind him and saw his king full on sevens; he then came around and saw my ace full on trays. I pretended to be a little short, and called for Bush to bring me some money. Then my would-be partner commenced to get out his money, and was in such a hurry (for fear he would not be in time) that he tore the buttons off his vest. He put up his $4,000; Bush got $1,000 from John C. Heenan (the prize fighter, who was on the boat), and I called the bet. The game had attracted the attention of all the passengers; they were all around us, some on the tables and chairs, and every one was holding his breath waiting for the result, except my Jew partner, who was so delighted with the sure thing of having won one-half of the money that he could not keep still a moment, but kept dancing around, rubbing his hands and smiling as if he had sold a suit of clothes without coming down a cent. When, to everybody's great surprise, the sucker said, "Gentlemen, I have made a mistake in my hand; can't I take my money down?" The Jew said: "Oh, we don't rectify no mistakes in poker." The sucker looked up at him and said: "What in the h--l have you got to do with this game?" The Jew said: "I thought you was bluffin'." The sucker then said: "Hold on, gentlemen, we have not drawn yet. I thought I had a king full on sevens." He then threw down the seven and eight and called for two cards. The Jew said: "We don't care for your mistake," and then walked around behind the sucker to see what he would get in the draw. I dealt him off two cards, but the Jew did not get to see what he got. They had sent me some money from the office, and I bet him $500. The sucker hesitated a moment, and then bet $5,000. I put up all the money I had, my big single stone, pin and ring, but that was not enough. Then the Jew put up his Juergunsen watch, a large cluster pin and ring, and called the bet. The sucker said, "I have two pair." The Jew was so glad (thinking I had won) that he could not keep still, but went up and down like a jumping-jack. I showed down my ace full, and then the sucker showed down two pair of kings. You should have seen my "new partner." He threw up both his hands, groaned, and fell over on the floor dead. We had to throw water in his face to bring him around, and when we got him up he started for the guards, saying: "I go drown myself; I don't want to live." Some one ran and got him a life preserver, and told him to put it on before he jumped overboard. He finally quieted down and went to his room. I took the horseman into my room, gave him $200 in money and my "partner's" diamonds. He was the lion of the boat, and did not have to pay for drinks from there to Louisville. I got off at Baton Rouge at daybreak, and was soon on my way back to New Orleans; and when I arrived there, every one I met would ask me about my bad luck. My friends were sorry for me. I could have borrowed almost any amount of money. The papers came out all over the country that Devol had at last found his match. I saw the Jew in St. Louis some years later. He knew me, and said: "Mr. Devol, come and let us get a good drink. See that clothing store? That's mine. I never play poker since that time on the boat; don't you remember?" SOLD OUT BY A PARTNER. One night I was coming up the river on the steamer _Morrison_. I had a partner with me named Charles Bush. He was a good, big- hearted fellow, but did not know much about beating a sucker out of his money. I had to teach him how to handle the blokes. Well, Bush and myself had made some money, and were sitting around looking at the gamblers. There were twenty-five of them on board, going to the Memphis races. Finally one of the sports, named Dennis McCarthy, said to me, "Devol, I will play you seven-up for $100 a game." So I turned to Bush and asked him if he wanted any interest in it. He said "No," so he sat down alongside of me, where he could see my hand. We commenced to play. I could see Bush working a toothpick in his mouth, from the corner to the middle and then over to the other side. I thought I noticed when the toothpick was in the left side of his mouth I always had one trump; when he had it in the middle of his mouth I had two trumps; when in the right side I had no trumps. McCarthy beat me six straight games. The last game we played we were six and six. I saw Bush take the toothpick out of his mouth. I looked at my hand and saw no trumps. McCarthy stood his hand, and led. He had no trumps either, but as he had some large cards in his hand he made the game, which put him out. Bush was sitting on my right; so I let go with my left, caught him between the eyes, and straightened him out on the floor. They got a piece of beefsteak and put it on his eyes, and he went to bed. There was a big six-foot fellow named Anderson, who said that any man that would hit another for nothing was a scoundrel, and he could whip him. He was not posted, and did not know why I hit him, so he made this bluff. I said to him, "Take off your coat and come and see me." He took off his coat, and after he got it off he weakened, and picked up a big iron poker that lay by the stove. I pulled out old "Betsy Jane," one of the best tarantula pistols in the Southern country, and told him to drop the poker, which he did. "Now," said I, "if you want it on the square, I am your man." So at it we went, and I hit him and knocked him clear through the office door. I then reached down and caught him by the collar, raised him up and struck him with that good old faithful head of mine, and the fight was all over; for I had broken every bone in his nose. The clerks came rushing out of the office, the Captain and passengers also came, and the Captain asked me what was the matter. I told him, and the mate spoke up and said Devol was perfectly right, for he had seen it all. I offered to pay for the door and chairs we broke, but the Captain would not accept one cent. I went back to the room to see Bush, for I was sorry I had hit him, although I thought he was guilty. I told him to get up and look out for me, and I would open faro bank for the gamblers, which he did. They all changed in except the big fellow with the broken nose; he went to bed. The result was, we broke every one of them, and then got off at Baton Rouge; they went to Memphis, where the races commenced in a few days. Bush was with me for three years after that; and many a night I have sat and dealt for a big game, and in the morning would divide several hundred dollars with Bush, who was in bed and asleep. THE BIG CATFISH. My old partner (Bush) and I had been up all night in New Orleans playing faro, and we were several hundred dollars winners, and thought we would walk down to the French market and get a cup of coffee before we went to bed. We saw a catfish that would weigh about 125 pounds; its mouth was so large that I could put my head into it. We got stuck on the big cat, and while we were looking at it an old man came up to me and said: "That is the largest catfish I ever saw." Bush was a little way off from me just at the time, and knowing I would have some fun (if not a bet) with the old man, he kept out of the way. I said to the old gent: "You are the worst judge of a fish I ever saw; that is not a cat, it is a pike, and the largest one ever brought to this market." He looked at me and then at the fish, and then said: "Look here, my boy, where in the d---l were you raised?" I told him I was born and raised in Indiana. "Well, I thought you were from some hoop-pole State." We got to arguing about it; and I appeared to be mad, and offered to bet him $100 that the fish was a pike. Says he, "Do you mean it?" I pulled out a roll, threw down $100 and told him to cover it. He lammed her up, and I said: "Who will we leave it to?" We looked around and saw Bush, with a memorandum book in his hand and a pen behind his ear, talking to a woman who sold vegetables, and he was acting as if he was collector of the market. I said: "May be that man with the book in his hand might know." The old fellow called Bush, and said to him, "Do you belong about here?" "Oh, yes; I have belonged about here for a good many years," says Bush. "Well, sir, you are just the man we want to decide our bet," says the old gent. "Well, gentlemen, I am in somewhat of a hurry; but if you don't detain me too long, I will be glad to serve you to the best of my ability," said Bush. "We want you to tell us what kind of a fish this is." "Well, gentlemen, that can be done easily." "Out with it," said the old gent. Bush braced himself up, and said: "I have been market-master here for twenty years, and that is the largest _pike_ I ever saw in this market." "Well! Well! Well!" says the old man; "I have lived on the Tombigbee River for forty-five years, and I never saw two bigger fools than you two." I invited the old man and the "market-master" to join me in a cup of coffee. Bush accepted, but the old one from the Tombigbee declined, saying "he did not drink with men that did not know a catfish from a pike." We bid him good morning and went home, and we were both sound asleep in a short time; for we felt we had did an honest night's and morning's work. THE SERMON ON THE (MOUNT) BOAT. "The hypocrite had left his mass, and stood In naked ugliness. He was a man Who stole the livery of the court of heaven To serve the devil in." I was coming from New Orleans on board the steamer _E. H. Fairchilds_, bound for Louisville. She was literally packed with people. After supper, on Saturday evening, we started a game in the barber shop, which was kept up until Sunday morning. Over $8,000 changed hands, and I was a big winner. After eating my breakfast I went out on the guards to take a smoke before going to bed. While I was enjoying my cigar, a fine looking old gentleman about sixty years of age came up to me and entered into conversation. Presently the Captain joined us. The old gentleman said he was a minister from Louisville, and would like to preach in the cabin. The Captain gave his consent. The minister placed his arm in mine, and, before I was aware of what we were doing, he had me half way down the ladies' cabin, and then it was too late to back out or get away. He sat me down near where he was standing. I was impressed with his discourse, for it was full of practical sayings. He spoke of gambling in very plain terms, and of the game that had been kept up all night in the barber shop. He said: "It was a pity that such a fine looking gentleman as the one who sat near him should play cards for money." To tell the truth, his remarks on the subject of my business did make me feel a little mean. He did not look directly at me, but I thought he was getting close to home. The collection amounted to considerable, and I chipped in my share liberally. After the morning services were over I retired to my room to take a sleep, and it was not long until I had forgotten that we had an old preacher on board. I spent that Sunday evening reading until near midnight; most of the passengers had retired. There was but one passenger in the cabin, and he was sitting with his back to me, reading. I approached him, and found it was the minister. I had changed my dress so that he did not recognize me. I sat down near him, and he began talking about the gambling game of the night before, and he handled the gamblers without gloves. I sided with him in his views, and then trumped up a story of how I had been roped into the game, and had lost $1,000; but that my father was rich, and gave me all the money I could spend, and that I did not mind the loss very much. He became very much interested, and asked a great many questions. I told him I had picked up some of the tickets that they played the game with, and had them in my room, and if he would like to see them I would go and get them. "Oh, I would like very much to see the way it was played, and I will go to your room if you will show me." We went to my room, and I showed him the old three-card monte racket. I let him play with the cards until he thought he knew all about them, and he said to me: "My dear sir, I can't see how you could lose money on such a simple thing. I would not fail to pick out the right ticket every time." I said to him, "I'll make you a proposition; I will throw the tickets, and put up $100 with you. If you gain the money, you are to donate it to your church; and if I get it I will do the same, for I want to show you how I lost playing them." The old fellow accepted my proposition, for he wanted to give the money to his church (and so did I). Of course I displayed a big roll, and told him I would just as soon make it $200 as $100. He agreed, and we put up. He turned the ticket, but he failed to pick the right one. It was such a simple thing that he got excited, and put down $200 more, and again he failed to pick out the right one. We kept on until the old sucker lost an even $1,000, then I said to him, "I am really sorry, for I had rather lost the amount myself. This money will do me no good, and it would hardly benefit your church; we have had lots of fun, and I want you to gain the money back. I will put up the $1,000 against your watch and chain, and when you gain it back we can have a big laugh over it." He put up his handsome watch and chain (that had been presented to him by his congregation), and, as he was playing in hard luck, I soon had the "ticker." He bade me good night, and went to his room. I went to see the Captain, and when I showed him the reverend gentleman's watch, with the inscriptions on it, he could hardly believe his own eyes. After having a good laugh with the Captain, I went to the minister's room, and found him on his knees. When he saw me he said, "I have just been praying for you." I replied, "Brother, hadn't you do a little of that for yourself?" "Oh," says he, "I have prayed mostly for myself this night." "Well," I said, "since you have prayed for yourself, and me too, here is your watch, chain, and $100. 'Go and sin no more.'" He said (with tears in his eyes), "God bless you." I left the boat at Natchez, and did not get to see the old gentleman again. I caught a preacher once for all his money, his gold spectacles, and his sermons. Then I had some of those queer feelings come over me (and when they came upon me I could not resist their influence), so I gave him his sermons and specks back. At one time there were fifteen preachers on the Jackson Road, going to a conference at Hazelhurst. I got in among them, and, just for fun, I opened up monte, and I caught five out of the fifteen for every cent they had. I tell you, my dear readers, preachers are but human, and some of them will steal the livery of the court of heaven to serve the devil (Devol) in. FIFTY TO THE BARKEEPER. I was in the St. Charles bar-room one morning--having been up all night playing the bank--when a good looking old fellow walked in and called for a champagne cocktail. I turned to him and said, "Have one with me; I drew $6,000 out of the Havana Lottery last evening, and I would like you to join me." He accepted the invitation; and while the barkeeper was mixing the drinks, I slipped out some monte cards, and began playing them on the counter. I told the old gentleman it was a kind of lottery I saw a man play, and I wanted to learn it. He looked at the game, and turned the card for fun, then for the drinks and cigars. Finally he said, "I will bet you twenty-five dollars I can turn the card." I said, "If I bet, it will not be less than $100." He got out his wallet, and there was plenty of money in sight. I then pretended that I wanted to back out, and I offered to treat to a bottle of wine. He said, "No sir; I hold you to the bet." I then acted a little huffy (as he thought), and offered to bet him $1,000. He put up $1,000; and as I saw some left, I said, "Here is $500 more, and I will bet but once." He put up the extra $500. I said to him, "You know you must turn over the baby card the first time, or you lose." "All right," he said, and at the same time he grabbed a card as though he thought it would get away, and turned it over; but it was not the baby, and I was $1,500 winner, and did not have to divide with a capper, as I played the old sucker single-handed. I invited him to take another drink, and then bid him good morning. As I was going out, I rolled up a fifty-dollar bill into a little ball, and shot it at the barkeeper. He caught it on the fly, and put it in his pocket. I went to my room and slept until evening, when I was up and ready for the bank again. LOST HIS WIFE'S DIAMONDS. I was playing poker with a gentleman on board the steamer _John Simonds_, bound for Louisville, late one night, and had won a few hundred dollars from him, when he got up without saying a word, and went to the ladies' cabin. In a short time he came back with a small velvet-covered box in his hand, and said to me, "Come, let us finish our game." He opened the box, and I saw it was full of ladies' diamond jewelry. I said: "What are you going to do with those?" Said he, "I will put them up as money." "Oh, no, I have no use for ladies' jewelry." "Well," says he, "if I lose I will redeem them when we get to Louisville." I told him I was not going above Vicksburg. "Well," says he, "if you win, leave them with the clerk and I will pay him." I then loaned him $1,500 on the jewelry, and we sat down to play. It was about 3 A. M. when we commenced, and before they wanted the tables for breakfast I had won the $1,500 back. We drank a champagne cocktail, and he went to his room. The barber was at work on me, so that I was a little late for breakfast, and the steward had to take me into the ladies' cabin to get me a seat. There was a gentleman, a very beautiful lady, and a sweet little child at the same table; the lady's eyes were red, as if she had been crying. I looked at the gentleman, and saw it was the same persons who had lost the diamonds. Somehow, my breakfast did not suit me; and the more I looked at that young wife and mother, the less I felt like eating. So at last I got up and left the table. I went to my room, got the little velvet box, wrapped it up, and carried it back. They were just leaving the table when I returned. I called the chambermaid, and told her the lady had left a package, and for her to take it to her room. After it was gone I felt better, and I eat a square meal. The gentleman came and thanked me, and wanted my address; but as I never had any one to send me money lost at gambling, I told him not to mind the address; for I knew if I did not give it, I would not expect anything, and therefore would not be disappointed. THE MONTE KING. After getting well of the fever in New Orleans, I took a trip up the river on one of the Vicksburg packets. On this trip I met a man by the name of Rollins, who was the first man I ever saw playing three-card monte. Seeing I was pretty smart, he proposed a partnership. We commenced depredations on the packets. He did the playing, and I was the capper. I represented a planter's son traveling for my health. The first party that we fell on to was a nigger trader, who had forty-five big black coons on board, taking them to New Orleans to sell. We found him an easy victim, and downed him for $4,100 and four of his niggers. We were afraid to win any more from him on account of a squeal, but he acted very honorably and made out a bill of sale. Well, here I was a slave-holder with plenty of money. My partner was one of the best that I ever worked with, except Canada Bill, whom I shall speak of later. We sold our slaves at one of the yards for $4,400; they averaged $1,100 apiece, and in twenty minutes after I saw one of them put on the block and bring $1,700. We knocked about the city, spending our money freely; riding to the lake, eating big suppers with the girls; and all were friends, for we would not allow any person to spend a cent, and the flowing champagne was a great luxury in those days. The next trip we took was on a Red River packet. We went as far as Shreveport and back on the same boat; and on the trip, clear of expenses, we were $6,000 winners, as it was no more trouble to win $1,000 then than $1 now. Well, the gamblers began to get a little jealous of us, and at the same time we lost heavily at their games when we played, as we were both good suckers at any game except our own. One night one of them struck my partner, and I jumped in between and told them I did all the fighting for both; and at it we went, and the result was I did him up; for I always kept myself in good condition by using dumb-bells and taking other exercise. When I was twenty-five years old, I did not think there was a man in the world that could whip me in a bar-room or on the street. After I got away with this gambler, they made up their minds that they would get a man who would make me squeal. We continued working the boats and making plenty of money, and every time we got out in the city both of us would lose a big sum of money; and then perhaps I would have to fight, for they were looking for a man to start a fuss with me. One night we had been down to the lake and had a big supper, and we drove up opposite the St. Charles Hotel and went in. There were about twenty-five gamblers standing in a saloon called the Jewel. I saw at a glance they were drinking and full; I also saw two of my men that I had whipped previously. Well, I could not show the white feather, so I called for a basket of wine and invited all to join me, when one of the party stepped out into the middle of the room, took off his coat, and said: "I can whip any man in the room." I looked around, and saw it was a job to either kill or whip me. I saw at a glance I had only one friend in the house; that was Captain Smoker, of the Vicksburg Packet Company. I knew he could be of no service to me. The door was locked. I turned to the challenger and said: "I know who you mean this for," and I untied my cravat. I had a single stone on my shirt that cost me $2,600. I took off my coat and vest, and handed them all to the barkeeper. The enemy was a powerfully built man, six feet and one inch high, and weighed thirty-five pounds more than myself; at that time I weighed 195 pounds. Well, to tell you the truth, it was a pretty hard fight; but I got one good lick at him with my head, and that won the battle for me. It took all the fight out of him. He said, "That will do." The doors were thrown open, and in less than a minute there were 1,000 people in there. We were both arrested and taken to the station-house, or calaboose, where we gave bail, Captain Smoker going on my bond. While they were signing our bonds, my opponent made some remark that I did not like, and I hit him a good crack in the neck and brought him down on his knees, but they parted us; and the next day, when we appeared in court, the Judge said he had a notion to fine us $100 apiece for not sending for him, as he wanted to see it himself; "but I will let you go this time." The man's name was John Mortice, of Natchez, Miss. Well, to tell you the truth, I was pretty well used up, but I staid in my room till I got all right again. We made several successful trips after that together. At last we parted, and he went to California, and soon after died. I was then king of the monte men, and did all of the playing myself. I got a man named Charlie Clark to do the capping for me, and we made a world of money. "Eph" Holland, Alexander, and I were coming out of the Red River one night. The boat was full of people, and a great many were playing poker. It was 2:30 A. M., when a large and powerful man rushed out of the ladies' cabin with nothing on but his night-shirt, and with a large butcher-knife in his hand. He rushed to one of the tables, where there were seven seated, and before they could rise he plunged the knife up to the hilt in two of the men. I jumped up and ran out into the hall, determined to kill him if he made a break for me; but the Captain hallooed at me, "Don't shoot, he is a crazy man." He had been brought on board at Alexandria by his wife, who was taking him to an asylum. He came rushing through the cabin towards the hall, and I snatched up a big iron poker; for I made up my mind I would lay him out if he came within reach. He picked out another man and started for him, and they had it all around the guards. The poor fellow that he was after was almost scared to death. I jumped inside of the door, and as he came brandishing his knife I dealt him a heavy blow on the side of the head, which brought him down. We then got rope and tied him, and kept him in that position till the engineer made hand-cuffs for him. THE DAGUERROTYPE BOAT. "Good heaven! that sots and knaves should be so vain, To wish their vile remembrance may remain And stand recorded at their own request, To future days a libel or a jest." Before the war, "Eph" Holland, my partner Alexander, and myself were waiting for a boat at the mouth of the Red River. There was a little boat lying at the landing, nicely fitted up for a daguerrotype gallery, and I proposed to the boys that we have our pictures taken all together, and I would pay for it, as I thought it would make a pretty group. They agreed, so we went on board the boat and let the artist take us all in a bunch. Holland was in the middle, and the picture flattered him; so he insisted on having a dozen copies. I saw that the picture did not do me justice, so I wanted "Eph" to sit alone, telling him it would cost less. He said he would pay the bill, for he could see it was the contrast that showed him off to so great an advantage. Well, to please him we let the artist draw a bead on us eleven times more; for at that time they could only take one picture at a shot. Holland paid the entire bill, which was so large that I asked the daguerrotype man if he would sell out. "Oh, no; I am making too much money," says he. Then I thought, I will try and get some of it; at least the amount that poor "Eph" had paid for his vanity. I told the old story of how I had lost my money, and began to throw the cards. I soon had them guessing; Alexander turned up the corner of the winner, and then bet me $100 that the artist could turn it. I took him up, and lost the money. The artist got excited and wanted to bet his money. The result was, I won all he had, and told him I would give him a chance to get even, and would bet all he had lost against his boat and contents. He accepted the proposition. Holland made out a bill of sale, the artist signed it, and in a short time he had lost his home and business. Then I said to him: "You have played in bad luck, so I will pay you a salary to manage the business for me." He accepted the employment. We bid him good bye, and took a boat for New Orleans. Two weeks later I saw my picture boat at Bayou Sara. I went on board, and my employee was glad to see me (or at least he said he was). I asked him about the business, and he told me he was losing money; so I told him I would like to sell out. He wanted to know my price; I told him $150. He offered me $40 cash, and his note for the balance; so I thought, as he had been losing money for two weeks, I had better sell. I have his note yet, and the first time I see Holland I am going to try and sell it to him. There was no money in the business for me, as it was outside of my line; and I have come to the conclusion that a man should stick to his legitimate business. "Eph" Holland was sorry afterward that he ever had his picture taken in a group, for the next time he went to New Orleans he was arrested on the street and taken to the Chief's office, and there he saw his "group" picture in the rogues' gallery. He tried to explain how it was that his picture came to be grouped with two unknown horse-thieves, but the Chief couldn't see it. Then Eph sent for his friends, who went on his bond, and he was let off until the next morning. As he and his friends were leaving the Chief's office he caught sight of me, and then he "dropped," and said to me, "George, _you_ gave that picture to the Chief." I said, "What picture?" Then Eph said, "Boys, come on; it's all on me." The Chief joined us; and when Eph had settled the bill, he said to me, "George, the next time I have my picture taken I will go it alone." I said to him, "Eph, all is vanity and vexation of spirit." PITTSBURG'S BEST MAN. Before the war there were a great many coal boatmen traveling on the river. I was coming up at that time with Captain Forsyth, on the steamer _Cambria_. Some of the coal boat crew traveled in the cabin, and others on deck. I got into a game with one of their bullies. They said he was the best man in Pittsburg. In the play I bested him out of a few hundred dollars, and he did not like it a bit. He went down on deck and told his party there was a BOY up stairs who had won all his money. "If he comes on deck I will let you know, and we will throw him down and take the money away from him." The news came to me, and I prepared for the boys by putting my money and jewelry in the office, took my pistol and went down on deck. The bully was there; he pointed me out to the gang. They commenced to gather around me. I backed up against a hogshead of sugar, telling them not to come any nearer to me or I would hurt some of them. They took the hint, but began to abuse me. The mate and some of the boat's crew came back into the deck-room, and then I commenced to open out on them. "Now," said I to the bully, "perhaps you can whip me, but I can tell you in a few words you never saw a boy more willing to fight than myself; and if you will give me a boy's show, we will see who is the best of the two." He said, "I can whip you in a minute;" and so saying, he took off his coat. I threw mine off in quick time, ready for a fight. It was a good one. He hit me as hard as ever Sullivan hit a man; but I kept dodging my head, so he would hit that, and he soon had his right hand as big as any man's head. I at last commenced to give it to him about the head pretty lively. And talk about a head! His looked like the hind-quarter of a beef. Finally one of the crew called out enough for him, for he was not able to do so. They carried the big bully up stairs and laid him in his bed. To tell the truth, he was the toughest man I ever had anything to do with; for he was a powerful man, weighed two hundred pounds, and could hit like a jack a-kicking. The Pittsburgers did hate to see their man get whipped, as he was their leader. The news went to Pittsburg, and they could hardly believe that he could get the worst of a rough-and-tumble fight. At one time I was crossing the levee at New Orleans about 6 o'clock in the evening, when a big fellow jumped from behind a cotton bale and struck me on the head with an iron dray-pin, which he held in both hands. The blow staggered me, and I fell on my knees. I caught hold of the dray-pin until I recovered myself, when I got hold of him and took the pin out of his hand. I downed him; and was just getting ready to go to work, when the police rushed in and pulled me off. I would have given $100 if they had let me alone just half a minute. They took us both to the lock-up. I put up money for both of us to appear, as I wanted to get at him again; but he called on the police to accompany him to his place of business. He was a boss drayman, and a particular friend of a stevedore I had whipped a year previously, and he had it in for me. DIDN'T WIN THE BAGS. There was a man in New Orleans before the war that supplied the steamboat men with silver to pay their deck-hands. He could buy it at a discount, as it was a drug on the money market at that time. I have often seen him with his two heavy leather bags, on his way from the bank to the boats. One day my partner (Charlie Bush) and I were in a saloon on Camp Street, when in walked the "silver man," carrying his heavy leather bags. I gave Bush the wink, and began throwing the cards on the counter. The man got stuck looking at the game; and when Bush bet me $100 and won it, he got more interested and bet me the drinks, which I lost; then he bet me the cigars, and I lost again. I then said to him: "You can't guess the winner for $500." He said, "I will bet you $100 I can." I told him I would not bet less than $500; then Bush said, "I will bet you," and we put up the money, and Bush won it. Old "silver" got excited when he saw Bush pocket the $500, and I said to him, "I will bet you $1,000 against the silver in the two bags." He knew there was not near $1,000 in the bags, so he jumped them up on the counter, and said, "It's a go;" and then he stood close and watched me throw them, until I said "Ready;" then he made a grab, and turned over the wrong card. If he had been struck by lightning, he could not have acted more dazed. He dropped into a chair and lost all control of himself, and I felt a little sorry for him; but "business is business." So I picked up the bags and started to go, when the fellow came to his senses and said: "Hold on; you did not win the bags." I saw he had me on the bags; and as I knew he had them made for the business, I said to him: "If you get me something to put the money in, you can have the bags." He jumped up and ran out; and when he returned with a meal-sack, he found the barkeeper and his two bags, but not Bush and me. We had bought some towels of the barkeeper, dumped the silver into them and lit out, for fear that the little old silver man would bring back a "cop" to hold us, in place of something to hold the silver. The little fellow was game, and did not say anything about his loss. The next time I met him he requested me to say nothing about the play; and every time we met we would take a drink, and laugh over the joke. The last time I met my silver friend he was crippled up with the rheumatism so he could hardly walk, and he was "dead broke." I gave him $10 (for past favors), and I have not seen him since; and I expect he is now in his grave, for it has been many years ago since I won the silver, but not the bags. THE BLACK DECK-HAND. Charlie Clark and I left New Orleans one night on the steamer _Duke of Orleans_. There were ten or twelve rough looking fellows on board, who did their drinking out of private bottles. Charlie opened up shop in the cabin, and soon had a great crowd around him. I saw that the devils had been drinking too much, so I gave Charlie the wink, and he soon closed up, claiming to be broke. Then we arranged that I should do the playing, and he would be on the lookout. I soon got about all the money and some watches out of the roughs, besides I beat seven or eight of the other passengers. They all appeared to take it good-naturedly at the time; but it was not long before their loss, and the bad whisky, began to work on them. I saw there was going to be trouble, so I made a sneak for my room, changed my clothes, and then slipped down the back stairs into the kitchen. I sent word for Clark to come down. I then blackened my face and hands, and made myself look like a deck- hand. I had hardly finished my disguise, when a terrible rumpus up stairs warned me that the ball was open. The whisky was beginning to do its work. They searched everywhere; kicked in the state-room doors, turned everything upside down, and raised h--l generally. If they could have caught me then, it would have been good bye George. They came down on deck, walked past, and inquired of a roustabout who stood by me if he had seen a well-dressed man on deck. He told them "he had not seen any gemman down on deck afore they came down." They had their guns out, and were swearing vengeance. The boat was plowing her way along up the river; the stevedores were hurrying the darkies to get up some freight, as a landing was soon to be made. The whistle blew, and the boat was headed for shore. Those devils knew I would attempt to leave the boat, so as soon as the plank was put out they ran over on the bank, and closely scanned the face of every one who got off. There was a lot of plows to be discharged, so I watched my chance, shouldered a plow, followed by a long line of coons, and I fairly flew past the mob. I kept on up the high bank and threw my plow on to the pile, and then I made for the cotton fields. I lay down on my back until the boat was out of sight, and then I came out, washed myself white, and took a boat for Vicksburg, where I met Clark the next day, and we divided the boodle that he had brought with him. He told me that after I had left the boat they got lights and went down into the hold, looking for me, as they were sure I was still on the boat. It was a pretty close call, but they were looking for a well-dressed man, and not a black deck-hand. HARD BOILED EGGS. I was going from Baton Rouge to New Orleans on the steamer _Grand Duke_, one New Year's eve, and had spent a great deal of money at the bar for wine. The barkeeper was an Italian with a great name, which was Napoleon. I said to him, "Nap, I hear you have sixty dozen eggs on board; suppose you treat me to an eggnog." "Oh, no; me no treat; if you pay, me make some." "If you don't treat me to an eggnog, I will quit buying wine," I said, and walked out. I went to Daniel Findlay, the steward, and told him how stingy old "Nap" was to me. Dan said, "Never mind, George; I'll fix him and his eggs." He told the cook to fire up, and then get those sixty dozen eggs and boil them hard as h--l. After they were all hard- boiled, they put them into cold water, and then put them back into the box. I went back to the bar, and waited until Dan sent me word that all was ready; then I said to old Nappy, "I was only in fun; I wanted to see if you could make a good eggnog." "I make good eggnoggy as anybody," said Nap. "Well, I tell you what I will do; if you will make enough to treat all the passengers, I will give you $10," I said. "All right," says he, and started to the storeroom to get his sugar, milk, eggs, etc. He soon returned, loaded down with stock. He got out his large bowl, and then cracked one of the eggs. It didn't crack to suit him; he looked at it, and then said to me, "Lookey dat! a chick in the first egg!" He threw that one out of the window, and then cracked another, which was just like the first; then he said, "Me boughty the egg for fresh; no good; all rot." Then he broke another, and another, and finally he broke one open and found it hard boiled; then he said, "Who biley the egg? Me give five dollie to know who biley the egg!" His Italian blood was up to fever heat, and it was some time before we could get a drink of any kind. He sold the eggs in market when we got to New Orleans. We did not have our eggnog that New Year's eve, but we had the best laugh at the expense of old Napoleon that I ever had in my life. "SNAP GAMES." I was coming down from the Memphis races on the _R. W. Hill_. There were about twenty-five gamblers on the boat, and they were all crazy for a game of faro. I told them I had a set of tools on board that I would loan them if they wanted to open. They accepted the offer, and took turns in opening "snaps." Some opened as high as $1,000 at a time. I was playing poker, and did not pay much attention to their game. After supper I told them that I would open a $1,000 "snap," and they could tap it when they pleased. When I sat down to deal, I had a matched set of boxes; you could not tell one from the other. One box was fixed for all the cases to lose, and this I kept secreted. They knocked me out of $400 on one deal; on the next deal I shuffled up the same cards and put them in the box, so they could see that everything was on the square. As I did so, my partner tipped over a big lot of silver on the layout, which he had stacked up on purpose to draw their attention, and I came the change on the boxes and threw my handkerchief over the box I held in my lap. Everything went on all right. The first case that showed on the case-keeper they all jumped on to play it open, as they wanted to break the snap, as then I would open another; but the case lost, and I was a good big winner over the last deal. When it came to another case, they played it to win, and it lost; but they did not think anything was wrong, so they kept firing away till they were all pretty well crippled in money matters. They played the deal out, and nearly all were broke. At the end of the deal I said, "Boys, I will have to quit you, as it is too much of a seesaw game;" and then they commenced to smell a rat, and you would have given $100 to have heard them cursing for not watching me shuffle that deal. The game closed with nearly all the money won; some of them I had to loan money, to pay their expenses. THE JUERGUNSEN WATCH. I won a Juergunsen watch one time from a Jew. I put $1,000 against it. After I got the watch the Jew came to me and said: "Look here, I want to tell you something. I bought that watch for $5. It is not worth that much, so help me gracious; but I bought it for a brother on a farm, and he don't know the difference. I'll tell you what I do; I will give you $10 for it, for I don't want to fool him, as I am going out there now." I told him it was good enough to give to a boy, and I would keep it for a black boy I had. "I tell you what I do; rather than let a nigger boy get it, I'll give you $15." I said "No." He kept raising till he got to $400. As I knew I could get no more, I let him have it. After he got the watch he commenced to laugh and said he cheated me, for the watch cost him $600. I knew what they cost, for I had priced the same watches, and they were worth $600 at that time. It was one of the finest make, split seconds, and had an alarm. The cases were very heavy, with a diamond in the stem that would weigh a karat. The Jew thought he had beat me, but he seemed to forget that I had beat him first. IT MADE A MAN OF HIM. "Yet fondly we ourselves deceive, And empty hopes pursue; Though false to others, we believe She will to us prove true." On my way up the river on board the old steamer _Natchez_ (the boat that was burned up during the war), I won some money and a check for $4,000 on the Louisiana State Bank of New Orleans. The check was signed by one of the largest planters on the coast, and I knew it was good if presented before payment was stopped; so I took passage on the _Mary Kean_ (one of the fastest boats on the river), bound for New Orleans. We landed in the city about 4 o'clock Monday morning. I got a cab to take me down to the French market to get a cup of coffee before going to my room. As I was passing the St. Louis Hotel on my way from the market, I saw a man that I recognized as hailing from Cincinnati (I will not give his name). He appeared to be glad to see me; but I could see he was not at his ease, so after a little while I thought I would sound him, so I said, "What was that trouble you got into in Cincinnati?" He looked at me in surprise, and said: "How did you hear about it?" (there was no telegraph line from Cincinnati to New Orleans in those days). I told him it was all right, and he could trust me. I invited him to take breakfast with me; he accepted the invitation, and told me he would tell me about himself when we were in a more private place. After breakfast, we walked over to the bank, and I drew the $4,000 on the planter's check; then we went to my room, and he told me his story. He was a bookkeeper for a large pork house; became infatuated with a gay married woman, made false entries, and finally ran away with the enticing married woman. I advised him to put on a disguise, for I knew the police would soon be looking for him. He invited me to go with him and see his lady love, for said he, "She is one of the truest and best women in the world." I went with him, and met a very fine looking lady. I did not blame him very much for being infatuated; but I wondered how much money he did get away with, and how am I going to get my share; for I always felt that it was my duty (as an honest man) to win stolen money. I soon found out he had about $8,000 of other people's money, and I wanted it. I first taught him to play poker, so he could be in with me the first time we caught a sucker. I got Clark to play the part, and he beat us out of $6,000, most of which was "pork money." "The best and truest woman in the world" ran off with another fellow, which little thing nearly broke my young friend's heart; but in a short time he went to Galveston, Texas, got into a large cotton house, and the last time I saw him he said, "George, we live and learn. That little game made a man of me." THE COTTON MAN. My partner and I were waiting at the mouth of Red River for a boat to take us to New Orleans. There was a man who had twelve bales of cotton on the wharf, and he was also waiting for a boat. I told my partner to get acquainted with him, and to keep away from me. The result was that they were good friends when a boat arrived. We all took passage, the cotton was loaded, and we were on our way. I opened up the three-card racket; my partner won $100, and then the cotton man was crazy, for he did not have any money to bet. My partner told him he would loan him some on his cotton. They went to the clerk, who made out a bill of sale for the twelve bales. He got the money, and then he was happy, for he was sure of doubling it with me. He was happy but for a short time. I had all his money, and my partner had all of his cotton, so he (being a good friend) let him have some money to pay his expenses. He did not remain long, so the cost was not very heavy. The cotton was worth about 12½ cents per pound at that time, but during the war it was many times that price. I was never very much stuck on cotton, as it was too bulky to get away with in case you had to leave a boat in a hurry. TAUGHT A LESSON. I was playing poker with a man, who, after I had broke him, went to a gentleman friend of his and promised him twenty-five dollars for the loan of $500 until he got home. As he was worth a great deal of money, his friend loaned him the $500. After he got a new stake, he came to me and wanted to renew the play. I had played a square game, and, believing him to be a gentleman, I sat down to play the same way; but I soon saw he thought himself a better player than myself, so I lit into the new stake, and it was not long until I had him broke again. Then he went to the Captain and set up a great kick. The Captain said to him, "If you had won the money, would you have given it back?" He said, "Captain, I give you my word of honor that I would." "Then," says the Captain, "why did you pay twenty-five dollars for the loan of the money?" "Oh," says he, "I only wanted to teach him a lesson." "Well," says the Captain, "if you pay twenty-five dollars every time you want to teach such men as he is a lesson, you will soon get broke. I can't do anything for you, my fine fellow." The passengers laughed at him, and some called him "a good teacher" (and that broke him all up). He soon sneaked off to his room, and that was the last I saw of my teacher. SINKING OF THE BELLE ZANE. I was a passenger on the steamer _Belle Zane_ during the winter season, and navigation was expected to be closed soon, as the river was full of floating ice. We had a large number of passengers on board, and were getting along very well until we left the Ohio. We had left Cairo, and were steaming down the Mississippi, when the boat struck a snag, and in a very short time had sunk down to the cabin. It was about four o'clock in the morning, but I was up (as usual). We had the passengers out of their rooms in quick time, and got them up on the roof in their night clothes, as there was no time for them to dress. In a few moments the cabin separated from the deck, floated off, and then sank down until we were standing in the ice and water nearly knee deep. It was a terrible sight; such a one as I hope and pray I may never see again. Men, women, and children standing amid the floating ice nearly frozen to death, and expecting every moment to sink into a watery grave. Some were screaming for help, others were praying, while others stood as if they were lost. I caught up one poor woman, who was nearly frozen to death, and held her in my arms above the water. Others did the same, while the crew and some of the passengers tore the boards off the pilot-house, and tried to paddle the wreck to shore. We floated down until we struck a point. The men that were doing the paddling jumped off onto the shore, and then held on to the wreck until they swung it around into an eddy. We got all the passengers off, but it was about a mile to the nearest house. We were all nearly freezing, and there was not one of us that did not have our feet frozen. We had no fire, nor any way to make one. Some of us who were lucky enough to have coats took them off, and wrapped up the women and children. We then took them to a house that was about a mile distant, and the good people did all in their power to make us comfortable. The news reached Cairo, and they sent a boat, with blankets, provisions, and medical aid to our relief. Three or four men jumped overboard, and tried to swim ashore, but got chilled, and were drowned. Some of the women were frozen so badly that they did not survive. I feel the effect in my feet to this day, and the accident happened over thirty years ago. JEW VS. JEW. "When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war." When Jew meets Jew, they want each other's gore. We were going down the river from Baton Rouge at one time, and I had an old fellow with me they called "Jew Mose." There was a young Jew from Vidalia on board, and Mose got him into a game of euchre. We had not played long until the young Jew said, "I have got a good poker hand." Mose spoke up and said, "My hand is worth ten dollars." Then the young one put up his money, and as Mose had nothing, he backed out. I saw Vidalia had some nerve and money, so on my deal I ran up two hands, giving the young one four kings and the old one four aces. Mose said, "I have a poker hand." Vidalia said, "My hand is worth twenty-five dollars," and he put up. I tipped my hand to him, and raised it $100, at the same time giving Mose the office not to raise, as I thought it was all the fellow would stand. They both called; we showed down, and Mose had won the money. He made a reach for it, when Vidalia made a grab, but Mose was too quick for him. Then the young one jumped up and said to Mose, "You are a Jew and I'm a Jew, and you shan't have my money." Mose would not give up, so at it they went. They hit, bit, scratched, gouged, and pulled hair, until they were rolling around in each other's gore. Everybody came running to see what had broken loose, and it was ducks to see those two fellows fight. Neither would give up, and it is no telling how long the circus tumbling would have kept up, if the officers of the boat had not separated them. After the fight the cabin looked as if we had been fighting a half-dozen Newfoundland dogs from the amount of blood and black hair that was on the floor. The young one told Mose if he ever came to Vidalia he would lick him, so we supposed from that remark that he did not feel satisfied with the result. Poor old Mose did not live long enough to visit Vidalia so the young one could make his word good for he went up to Chicago, and soon after died. BEAT A GOOD HAND. I beat a man at poker out of $1,200 on the steamer _Wild Wagoner_. After he quit playing he asked me where I would get off. I told at the mouth of Red River. When I left the boat I saw my friend had concluded to stop at the same place. It was not long before an officer called on me to take a walk with him, and we said, "We will go up and see the Judge." When we arrived at his Honor's place of business, I found that my twelve-hundred-dollar friend was there before me. The Judge spoke to him before he did to me, and said, "How did this man swindle you out of your money?" "We were playing poker, your Honor." "Do you call playing poker swindling?" said the Judge. "Well, your Honor, he must have swindled me; for every time I had a good hand he would beat it," said he. "If that is all the evidence you have, the case is closed, the defendant is dismissed, and you will be held for the costs," said his Honor. I told the Judge I would pay the costs if he would let the fellow go. He accepted the proposition, and that night I had the honor of playing in the same game with the Judge, and I played a square game for once in my life, for fear I would have another friend who would want to see me at his Honor's office. THEY PAID THE COSTS. I had beat a man out of $600 on the railroad from New Orleans to Jackson. I saw that if I got off he would put me to some trouble, so I kept on until I got to Canton, twenty-five miles above. He followed me there, and had me arrested. The trial was to come off in an hour, as it was meal time with the Judge. We were all assembled in the court-room, and the Judge wanted him to tell how I got his money. He said, "I could show you, Judge, if I had some cards." I pulled out some of the same cards I beat him with, and gave them to the Judge, and he wanted to know how they could bet money on the three cards. I said, "Judge, I will show you so you can understand." I took the cards and mixed them over a few times, telling the Judge to watch the jack. He did watch it, and he could turn it over every time, as one of the corners of the jack was turned up, and he said it was as fair a game as he ever saw. I told him I had two chances to his one; so he dismissed the case. I came near giving it to the Judge for a few dollars, and then give them back; but I thought best not to do so. When the fellow went out of the court-room, the Canton boys laughed at him and called him a fool. After he left, the Judge and I went over to a saloon and had some cigars. He said he dearly loved to play poker; but I did not want any of his game, as I thought I might need him again some time; and it proved I was right, for it was not long after that I was coming down on the train from Vicksburg, and beat five or six of the passengers out of a few hundred dollars. When we got to Canton we were behind time and missed connection, and had to lay over until night. They had me arrested for the same trick, and taken before the same Judge; and you ought to have heard him after he found out how they had lost their money, for he just gave them a good old-fashioned turning over. He called them a lot of babies, and put the costs of the court on them. I got the Judge a box of fine cigars, and went down on the same train; but I was in the sleeper, and they did not see me until I got to New Orleans. I played poker in the sleeper all the way to the city, and did not lose very much as the game was small, and we played on the square. I met some of them at the opera the same night, and they had their opera glasses pointed at me for some time. I guess they wondered how I got there so soon. MY FIRST LOVE. "Love gives esteem, and then he gives desert; He either finds equality, or makes it. Like death, he knows no difference in degrees, But frames and levels all." There was a dance in the cabin of the steamer _Magnolia_ one night, which was a fine affair, as there were a great many wealthy people on board. I had not done any playing on the boat, so I put on my good harness, and went back into the ladies' cabin to join in the dance. I was introduced to a number of fine ladies, among whom was a beautiful young widow. She joined me in a waltz, another dance, and a promenade on the guards. I thought her the most agreeable and sweetest woman I had ever met in my life. I was in her society most of the time, until the dancing ceased, and then I bade her "good night, good night; parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow." I met the fascinating widow the next day, and before I bade her good-by I had received a pressing invitation to visit her at her plantation; and, "boys," you can bet your life it was not long before I availed myself of the opportunity. During my visit I received every attention. The negroes could not have done more for their master. There was a nice lake on the plantation. The servants would drive the lady and I over to it, and we would enjoy ourselves at fishing for a few hours. On our return she would play and sing for me, and as I sat and looked at her I thought, What would I give if I was a square man, and how happy I could be with such a woman as my wife. I did not tell her my business, for fear she would think less of me. I could not endure the deception, so after three days of happiness I tore myself away, feeling as if I was "unfixed for life." In a short time she visited relatives in New Orleans, and sent me an invitation to call; but as I was acquainted with her friends, the same old dread came upon me, so I declined, with the excuse that I was compelled to leave the city the same evening on the steamer _Judge McLean_. We met again on board a steamer. She had been told my business, but she treated me more kindly than ever before. She begged me to quit gambling, and settle down. I partly agreed to do as she wished. We spent a very pleasant time together (for I would not attend to business while she was on the same boat). Before she left the steamer she took off a large single-stone diamond ring, and said to me, "Wear this until we meet again." I tried to refuse it, but she insisted; so I at last accepted the token. I bade her good-by at the stage-plank, and went up on deck. She remained on the levee waving her handkerchief (and I returned the compliment) until we were out of sight. I talked to the clerk until I felt that I was myself again, and then I started out to find a sucker; for I had enjoyed the pleasure before business. It was about three months before I saw my lady love again. I was glad to see her, and she appeared to be pleased at meeting me. Before we parted I put the ring back on her finger, but she said she did not want it; and I believe she meant what she said. I received another invitation to visit her at her plantation, which I have neglected to this day, and that has been over thirty years ago. I have often thought what a different man I might have been if I had accepted that last invitation. There is one thing that I am sure of, and that is, if I had married my "first love," I would not now be writing "Forty Years a Gambler on the Mississippi." THE BOYS FROM TEXAS. I got on the steamer _B. L. Hodge_ at Baton Rouge, bound for New Orleans. It was on a New Year's eve; everybody was feeling jolly, and I felt somewhat that way myself. There were five tables of poker going at one time, so I opened up the good old game of monte for the benefit of a lot of Texas boys that didn't play poker. They all got around the table and watched me throw. In a short time my capper came up and wanted me to show him how to play the game. I showed him, and he wanted to bet a dollar. I told him if that was all the money he had, he had better keep it. He got as mad as a wet hen, and told me he had just as much money as I had. He pulled out a big roll and slashed down $1,000, saying, "I will bet you I can turn the winner." I said, "You can't bluff me," and I put up. He turned one of the cards and lost. While I was putting the money away, he picked up the cards and turned up a corner on the winner, letting the boys see what he had done; then he said to me, "Mix them up again," which I did, and he put down a roll, claiming it to be $500. He turned and won. Then the boys began to nudge each other and get nervous. The capper then said, "I will let it all lay, and bet you again." He turned and caught me for $1,000; and then you should have seen the boys from Texas. There never was such a cutting of cloths. One fellow pulled off his new coat and cut the lining nearly all to pieces; another took off his coat, vest, and shirt, for his money was sewed up in his undershirt; others had their money down their boot legs tied to a string, so that they could pull it up when they wanted it. They all wanted it just then, and they were in the biggest hurry of any suckers I ever saw. They all put up their pile, except two or three who had more than the rest. I told them to pick out one boy to turn the card, so they selected Jim, who was their leader. Jim made a grab for a sure thing; but when he turned it over, all the boys were _sure_ they had lost their money. They took it good-naturedly, and said it was fair. One said I was the greatest man in the world, and if he could do it as slick as I did he could get all the money out in their country. I promised that I would come out and see them, and that they would all be in with me. I did not say just when I would keep my promise; and as I do not like too many partners, I have put it off over thirty years, in hopes that some of the boys would give it up and move out of the country, so if a slick man did get all of their money he would not have to divide up so often. MARKED CARDS. While waiting for a boat at Donelsville to take me to New Orleans, I fell in with a fellow who proposed a game of cards to pass the time until the boat arrived. We went into a saloon and sat down to play a game of poker. He brought out an old deck of marked cards (which I recognized the minute I saw them). We began to play. I knew the fellow took me for a sucker, so I let him play me with "his cards" until I got a chance to down him, which I did for all he had, amounting to about $80. About this time some one announced that a boat was coming, so I proposed to quit, but Mr. "Gambler" did not want any quit in his, so long as he was loser and he had a sucker. I knew he had but little (if any) money left, so I quit and started for the landing. The boat had arrived, and was just about ready to leave, when an officer stepped up to me and said, "I have a warrant for your arrest." "The h--l you have! What have I done?" "You have swindled a gentleman out of his money, sir," says he. "All right, sir; I will go with you." He took me before a magistrate and there was the fellow who had played the marked cards on me. The Justice wanted to know how I had swindled him. He said: "He put up the cards on me in a game of poker, and he is a gambler." You ought to have heard that old fellow give it to me. He said: "How dare you, sir, come in this place and rob our respectable citizens out of their money? I will teach you a lesson that you will not soon forget." He was going on in this strain, when I stopped him by saying, "Hold on, your Honor; I would like to say a word." "Go on, sir." "Well," says I, "this man invited me to play a game of poker with him, and when we sat down to play he brought out this old deck of marked cards on me, and I happened to know them as well, if not better than he did. He took me for a sucker, and I beat him at his own game. He calls me a gambler, but he is much worse; for he attempted to rob me with those marked cards." "Show me the marks on those cards," said the Justice; so I walked up and began reading the cards by their backs to him. He watched me as I read the cards, until I called a ten spot and turned it over; then he grabbed it up and examined the back, and said: "Hold on; that will do; this is the same deck those d----d rascals have been playing on me; for the other night this ten of hearts fell in the spit, and here is the mark on it now. They have been swindling me for the last six months." Then turning to me, he said: "You are dismissed; but I will fine this rascal $50 and costs, and send him to jail if he does not pay it immediately." I thanked the Justice for his just decision, and took the next boat to New Orleans. MY CROOKED PARTNER. My partner, Hugh Foster, and I were on board the _Elonzo Childs_, bound for New Orleans. Foster had the reputation of being a wolf, and I did not have much use for him. He was acquainted with a man on board that claimed to have a man who had five thousand dollars, and he could make him lose against monte, but he wanted half or there would be no play. Foster told him to get his man into a state-room, and they would win the money, and not let Devol know anything about it. So Foster came to me and said, "George, we will not try to do anything until after we leave Cairo, will we?" "No," I said, "I want all the sleep I can get." Foster said he felt tired, and would go to bed. I knew that the sneak had some scheme on hand, so I went to my room, but I did not go to bed; I went out the back door and up on the roof, where I could see what was going on down in the cabin. I had not been on watch very long until I saw Foster come out of his room, and in a short time go into another with two gentlemen. I slipped down off the roof, went out on the guards, and called all the men into the barber shop. I told them I had a new game that I wanted to show them. It was a new game to them, and they were very much interested in it, as I let them win several small bets. After I got it well worked up, I said: "Now, gentlemen, I will not take any more small bets, but will bet $1,000 that no one can turn the jack the first time." Just then the barkeeper came in, and I said: "I will bet you $500 that you can't turn the jack." He counted out the money and put it up. I mixed them, and he turned up the winner. He then walked out, and I knew if there was any big money I would get it. I began to mix them again, when up stepped a big fellow and asked me what was the least I would bet. I sized him up, and then I said $1,000. He pulled out and put up. I counted out the same amount and put it up on my side of the table, so if there would be any snatching I could get there in time. I then saw he had some left, so I said I would back out and treat. This made him very anxious, and he said, "No, I will not let you back out." Then I said, "If you will not let me out, I will bet you $2,000, as I might as well be hung for an old sheep as a lamb." He put up the $2,000 and turned the card; but as I had two chances to his one, he made the same mistake that thousands had made before, and turned up the wrong one. He walked off without a word, and sat down on the guards. I kept an eye on him; but he was game, and took his medicine just as I had taken it many a time at the bank. I kept on playing until I had taken in all the pan-fish and a large white diamond stud that was worth about $1,000. Then I closed up shop and invited all to join me in a drink. They all accepted except my $2,000 friend. He was too busy thinking how it was that he had turned up the wrong card, when he could see so plainly that the right card had one corner bent. While we were drinking, in came Foster, and he looked as if he had just been pulled out of the river; for it was a very hot day, and the fellow had been in a close state-room for an hour, and had not won a cent. I said, "You look warm; come and join us in a drink." He took a drink, saying: "It was so hot I could not sleep." I took the diamond stud out of my pocket and showed it to the barkeeper. Foster saw it, and said: "George, I did not know that you had that stone." "What will you give for it?" said I. He looked at it, then offered me $500. I told him he could have it, so he paid me the money and put the stud in his shirt. In a few moments after he got the stone, a gentleman said to him: "That is a very fine stone; I am acquainted with the gentleman who lost it; he is a large jeweler in St. Louis." "You must be mistaken," said Foster. "Oh, no, I am not; for I saw him lose it in the barber shop about half an hour ago." Foster came to me and said: "George, you did not make a play, did you?" "Oh, yes; did you not make one yourself?" That made him look sick; but when a friend of mine came up and said, "Devol, you must have won $4,000 in that play," then he looked sicker. I said, "Yes, I guess I got about $4,000 out of it, and I will treat." While we were drinking, the barkeeper handed me the $500 he had won. I gave him $200 for his cap; and then Foster began to give me taffy. I told him I did not want anything more to do with him; that I had heard he was a sneak, etc. He got off at Cairo, and I was glad to get rid of him. I had a good wheel game down to Memphis, where I got off and lost $2,500 against faro. I took a boat for New Orleans, and made more than I lost in Memphis before I reached the city. JUDGE DEVOL. I was on board the _City of Louisiana_, bound for New Orleans. There was a large number of passengers, and a heavy load of freight. The roof was literally covered with coops full of chickens and turkeys. I had old monte running in full blast, but the chicken men could not bet, as they were going to market instead of coming away. They were so very much interested in the game that they forgot to watch their coops. After a while one of them went up, and found that some one had stolen some of the chickens. The pilot told him he saw the man taking them, so he went down and told the Captain, and he sent for the pilot to pick out the thief. They found him and brought him into the cabin, when some one proposed to try him by judge and jury; so they elected me judge, and I impaneled a jury. We heard the evidence, and the attorneys made their arguments. Then I charged the jury, and they retired to the bar-room (as we did not have any regular jury room). They were out about as long as it would take a first-class barkeeper to make up twelve drinks, and then they filed back into the court-room, each one putting his handkerchief away, as if they had all been crying over the awful verdict they were about to render. I asked the foreman if they had agreed upon a verdict, and he said, "We have, your Honor." Just at this time there was some commotion in the court-room (occasioned, no doubt, at the sight of the twelve handkerchiefs). I told the sheriff to rap for order, but it was some little time before it could be restored. I then told the jury to stand up and hear their verdict. The foreman read the verdict, which was: "We, the jury, find the defendant guilty." I then told the defendant to stand up and hear his sentence. "You are to return the chickens to their owner, pay a fine of six bottles of wine and the costs of this suit, and be imprisoned in the bar-room until the fine and costs are paid." As there were no other cases on the docket, I ordered the sheriff to adjourn court (to the bar). The sheriff went up with the man who had lost the chickens, and they picked out three dozen. When they came down and reported to me that they had returned three dozen chickens, the criminal yelled out that he had only taken one dozen. The poor fellow did not have the money to pay for the wine, so he had to give a bill of sale for his chickens. After all of my judicial duties were performed, and while the bar (of justice) was full of people, and the people were full (of what they got at the bar), I opened up the dear little three-card racket, and in a short time I owned every chicken and turkey on the roof of that boat. What to do with my live stock I did not know. I had a bill of sale from the chicken men, but what I wanted just then was a chicken buyer. I at last had an offer from the second clerk which was much less than the market value; but as I never had much use for anything I could not put in my pocket, I accepted his offer and sold out. The chicken men had no business in New Orleans, as they had sold in transit, and not one of them had any money; so I called them up to the office, and gave each one money enough to take him back to Cairo. MY PARTNER ALEXANDER. I went on board the steamer _Imperial_ at Memphis, bound for New Orleans. It was ten o'clock at night, and I did not think of doing any business until the next day. While standing talking to the barkeeper, a man walked in and proposed to shake him for the drinks. They shook, and the stranger lost. He then proposed to shake for five dollars, and asked me if I would come in and make it three- handed. I said I would for a time or two. We shook, and he was a little loser, when he wanted to make it ten dollars. I consented, but the barkeeper dropped out. We sat down, and soon were shaking for $100 a game. We were drinking during the time, and it was not very long until I had won $1,300. The fellow was pretty full, so I thought I would complete the "filling," and then he would go to bed. As I expected, it was not long before he turned in, and I was at liberty to look around. I went into the cabin, and found three games of poker in full blast. I was looking at one of the games, when I noticed a man looking at me. He gave me a sign, and I walked out to the guards. He followed me and said, "You do not remember me; my name is Alexander; I met you in St. Louis over a year ago. I heard that you and Clark had split up, and I am now on my way to New Orleans to meet you, for I want to go to work." I told him that I was alone, and that we would begin our work on the morrow. We were in the barber shop the next day, when a man came to me and told me that he was a brother of Mike Carroll, and he wanted to cap for me. As I knew Carroll well, I told him to go ahead. We were playing monte, and I had beat a man out of twenty- six twenty-dollar gold pieces. When we came to settle up there was one gold piece missing, so I said, "Boys, there is one gold piece short." Alexander proposed a search, and Carroll said, "I have not got a cent, and that is why I wanted to cap, in order to pay my passage." We commenced the search, and when we took off Carroll's hat the gold piece dropped out; so I paid his passage and let him go. At the expiration of four years, Alexander showed me receipts for money he had sent to his home in Dover, Ky., amounting to $44,000, and he was not a stingy man, either, for he was a good liver and dresser, and I have known him often to spend as much as $200 in a night for wine, etc. He has often talked to me about playing the bank, and wanted me to quit it; and I can now see if I had taken his advice I might have been worth forty times $44,000. THE QUADROON GIRL. I got on the _Belle Key_ one afternoon at Vicksburg; and as I claimed to be a planter from White River, I soon became acquainted with some planters that lived on the coast. There was a game of poker started, and I was invited to sit in. We played until supper was ready. I had played on the square, and had won a few hundred dollars. After supper they got up a dance, and that spoiled the game. I was sitting in the hall, when one of the planters came to me and said, "Don't you dance?" "No, I don't care to dance where I am not acquainted." "You are like me in that respect; I had rather play poker; but as those gentlemen who were playing in the game to-day have all got their families on board, they will not play, so what do you say to us having a game?" I said I did not care to play a while, but I would rather be a little more private, and that we might go up into the texas and play. We got the checks at the bar (and the barkeeper did not forget a deck of my cards). We went up and had just got seated, when up came my partner and said, "Gentlemen, are you going to sport a little?" "We are, will you join us?" said the planter. "What are you going to play?" "Poker, of course." He sat in, and then it was a very nice, gentlemanly game. We played on the square for a while (that is, if the cards had been square). Finally I could put it off no longer, so I ran up two hands, giving the planter three eights, and then downed him for over $400. We played a little while longer, and then I ran up two more hands, and guarded them so nothing could fall in that time. I gave my partner the best hand, and he took in about $600. The planter was then over $1,000 loser, so he excused himself for a few minutes, and I knew that he had gone after more money. He soon returned with $1,500, and that lasted him about one hour. He got up and said, "Boys, I must have some more money." My partner and I went down with him, as I did not think he could get any more. We were at the bar taking a drink, when he turned to me and said, "I would like to play some more, but I can't get any more money, unless you will loan me some on my negro, as I have one on board that I paid $1,500 for, and she is one of the most likely girls you ever saw." I winked at my partner to loan him some money on his wench. He went back and brought out one of the prettiest quadroon girls, about seventeen years old, that I ever saw. My partner loaned him $1,000, and got the clerk to draw up a bill of sale; then we resumed the game; but that did not last him but about half an hour, for I beat him out of nearly the whole amount on one hand, and that broke up the game. He had but seventy-five dollars left. We went down and took a drink, and then went to bed. The next day he got the money and redeemed his girl, then he said to me, "I have got about $700, so let us go up and play single- handed." We went up, and I soon got that money. He said, "In all my poker playing, I never played so unlucky in my life." He went to my partner and borrowed $1,000 more on the girl, and I took that in. He then went to Captain Keys, and tried to borrow the money to redeem his girl again, but the Captain would not loan it to him. He found a man that loaned him the money, and he redeemed her again. He was considerable loser, but he got some more wine in him, then he wanted more poker, but I told my partner not to have anything more to do with his negro, for it was making too much talk on the boat already. When he got to his landing, he and his negro left the boat, and I tell you she was a dandy. THE CAPTAIN SPOILED THE GAME. I was coming out of New Orleans one night on the _Ohio Belle_, a Cincinnati boat, and she was full of good looking suckers. I went out on the guards and called them all into the cabin, and opened up monte. They all gathered around the table, and among them was the Captain of the boat, who insisted on betting. I said to him, "You are the Captain of the boat, and I do not want to bet with you." He kept insisting that his money was just as good as anybody's, and he put up $300. I gave my capper the office to take him away, but he would not have it. I then told him I would not bet less than $500. He called to the clerk to bring him $200, and then he put up $500. I told him not to bet if the loss would distress him, when he told me it was his money. I told him to turn the card, for I saw it was the only way to get rid of him. He turned, and lost; then he got mad, and made me close up. I had no intention of keeping his money, so I walked out on the guards, and then up on the roof, where I found him. I said, "Here is your money; I did not want you to bet, and you have knocked me out of many a good dollar." He was surprised to get his money back, and he said he bet in good faith. I talked to him until he told me I could open up again, and then I told him to give me the $500, and so soon as I got opened up, for him to come up and make a play, and I would let him win it back. I went down and called all the boys into the cabin again, and had just begun to throw them, when up stepped the Captain and said, "I lost once, but I will try it again." So he put up and won the money. Then he walked away. Then a sucker pulled out his wallet, and offered to bet me $500. I saw he had plenty left, so I said, "I will not bet less than $1,500." While he was hesitating, my partner came forward and said he did not have that much money, but he would bet $1,000 that he could turn the winner. I took him up and he lost. Then the sucker was all excitement, for he saw that he didn't turn the card with the corner turned up, so he wanted to bet $1,000. I would not bet less than $1,500, so he at last put up. I gave them one more shuffle, and then he was so nervous that he turned the wrong card. It made him so sick that he went out on the guards and threw up his supper. The balance of the suckers did not want to get sick, so I closed up; but if it had not been for the Captain's first play, I would have done a much better business on that boat. Such is luck. TOO SICK TO FIGHT. I was playing poker on the steamer _Capitol_ with a negro trader, and had won some money from him, when he got up and went down on the boiler deck. In a little while he came back followed by an old black woman, and wanted me to loan him $1,500 on her. She was too old for me, so I told him I was not keeping a pawn-shop; but my partner told him he would loan him $1,000 on her, if he would make out a bill of sale. The bill was made out and he got the money. We began another game, and in about half and hour I had his $1,000; for we were playing with my cards, and they never went back on me or told me a lie. He went off, borrowed some more money and wanted to renew the game; but as he was getting very drunk, I declined to play with him any longer. Then he set up a kick, and said he had been cheated. I told him all suckers talked that way when they lost their money. That made him hotter than ever, and he wanted to fight. I told him I was sickly and could not fight; so he left me to find my partner, to buy his old woman back again. I never refused to sell a nigger I had won, if any one would give me anything near the value; and I never had any use for old nigger women. THE GAMBLER DISGUISED. I started out one night on the _Crystal Palace_. This boat left New Orleans about 6 o'clock in the evening. After supper I opened monte. There were some rough customers from Greenville, and I knew if they lost their money there would be the devil to pay; but I took the chances, and caught some of them for a few hundred dollars, and there were some two or three of the passengers who also lost. After the Greenville killers had lost their money they commenced to fill up, and I knew there would be war soon. I closed up, slipped around and got on another suit of clothes, put on my plug hat and gold glasses. Then I gave my valise to the porter and told him to have it ready to go off at Donaldsonville. I walked out in the cabin; they were all standing by the bar holding a consultation how they could get the money back. One said: "The first time the boat stops he will get off." "Well, if he does he is a good one, for I will fill his hide full of lead if he tries that," says another. The boat blew her whistle to land, and you ought to have seen them break for the lower deck, gun in hand. I walked out through the cabin with my plug hat, white necktie, and gold glasses. You would have bet $500 I was a preacher. You ought to have seen those fellows make room for me to pass by. My partner remained on board, as they were not on to him. I got a boat soon after and went to Baton Rouge, where my partner was waiting for me. He said they raised the d---l after I got off. MARRIED HIS MONEY. I was on board the steamer _H. R. W. Hill_ going up the river and had got my work in, and what money I had accumulated was at poker. We landed at Natchez, and most all that were playing in the game got off. After supper I was sitting on the guards smoking, when a man came up and commenced conversation about gambling. He said: "I love to gamble, but my wife is bitterly opposed to it. I did want to play in that game to-day, but I dare not, as I have my family on board; so if you play to-night, I want to sit in." "Well, I guess that we may make up a game after it gets later," I said. About two hours after supper he came out and proposed a game. I asked the barkeeper to pull out a table and put the checks and a deck of cards on it, which he did. I could see that this man was crazy for a game, so I told him to sit down at the table and to ask every man that came by the bar to play, and he did so. Presently my partner came up to the bar and he got the invitation, so he sat in. They counted the checks and got all ready, when I dropped in. Then we had a nice three-handed game, and as we were all first- class gentlemen there could not be anything wrong. I wanted to play along until the passengers got thinned out a little, as they were too thick about the table to suit me; and then my friend wanted his wife to get to bed before he started in. Everything was going on beautifully, and I had not given my man a hand to see if he had any blood in him; but presently he got a hand on the square, and I knew I could beat him before the draw, so I slashed it at him pretty lively, but no big bets, and he staid like a man. When it came to the draw, he filled his hand, and I did not. It was my partner's age and the man's first bet. He bet $100, and I told him to take the pot. I had got in before the draw about $150. Then I knew he was a darling sucker, and I nursed him like a baby. We played a hand or two, then I ran him up three aces and took four nines pat. I did not want my partner to raise it too much before the draw, for fear he would drop out. We had up about $150. It was my deal, and I asked him how many cards he wanted. He took two. I said, "I will only take one." My partner took three, as he had nothing, but had to stay in to cross lift. He tipped his hand to the man, and the gentleman bet $250. I just called the bet, so my partner bet $1,000 better; and the gentleman tore his pockets getting at his money, and he called the bet. So I said, "Boys, I expect you have got me beat, but I will have to raise you back $1,000." That made my partner throw down his hand. Then it was between him and myself. He said to me, "I know I ought to raise it, but will just call the bet." When I showed down four nines, it made him lie quiet. We were just getting ready to give the boy another hand, when his wife came out into the hall, and made him quit and go to bed. I was sorry to see such an angel leave the game; but such is luck. I found out that he was very rich, but had married the money. THE BEST LOOKING SUCKER. I was on board the steamer _Eclipse_ from Louisville to New Orleans, and she was crowded with passengers. I knew all the officers, and they were glad to see me, as they knew I would make it lively while I was with them. I opened a few bottles of wine, and finally I called them all in off the guards and opened up monte. I explained the game to them. My partner stepped up and looked at it for some time, and at last he bet me $1,000 and lost it. He then took up one of my cards and bent up the corner, then showed it to the best looking sucker that was standing by. Then he turned to me as he threw it down, and said: "Please mix them up once more." So I threw them over again, and then I was ready for a bet. He pulled out his money and put it up in the gentleman's hand that he had picked out for the solid one. I said, "How much have you got there?" He said $1,000. I put up the money, and at the same time I said: "I will make it $5,000 if you wish." "I have not got the money, or I would." He turned the card over and won. Then he wanted to bet $2,000; but I told him, "Whenever I get beat I never want to bet with the same man again." Then the gentleman spoke up and said, "I will try you once for $1,000." I said I would not bet less than $2,000, so by a little persuasion he laid it up and lost. He walked off, and I never saw him again about the table. I played a short time longer and took in a few hundred dollars, and then closed up for the evening. MY CARDS. The first trip the steamer _Eclipse_ made I was on board. There were five games of poker running at one time in the cabin. I was invited into one, and I represented myself as a horseman. I played on the square, as I wanted to gain their confidence; so when the game closed for the night, they all thought me a square man. After all my new friends had retired to their little beds, I got out six decks of my marked cards and went to the bar. I told the barkeeper what I wanted, but he objected, as he did not own the bar, and was afraid it would be found out, and then he would be discharged. I told him that no one but old gamblers could detect the marks, and not one in fifty of them, as it was my own private mark. I had been a good customer at the new bar, so the new barkeeper finally consented to take my cards and send them to the table where I would be playing. The next morning after breakfast the games were started, and my new friends wanted me to sit in. I accepted the invitation, and when the barkeeper put the checks and cards on the table, I saw my old friends (I mean the cards). The game was five-handed, and it was pretty hard to keep the run of all the hands; but I quit the game a few hundred dollars winner. After the game one of the gentlemen came to me and said: "I don't like a five-handed game; suppose we split up and make two games." That was just what I wanted, provided I could get in the game that had the most suckers, so I said to him: "I do not care to play, if you gentlemen can make up your game without me; but as we are all going through to New Orleans, I will play a little to pass the time. You can arrange the games to suit yourselves, and can count me in if you are short a man." The gentlemen arranged two nice games, with me in one of them. I had no partner, so I had to depend entirely on myself and my old friends, the marks on the back. We played until the engines were stopped at the landing in New Orleans, and I was $4,300 ahead. I might have won a great deal more with the assistance of a good partner, but then, you know, I would have had to divide with him; so I was very well pleased with my last day on the new steamer. I did not forget the new barkeeper, but gave him $50 for using my cards at one of the tables in place of his own. FIGHT WITH A LONG-SHOREMAN. A big fellow tackled me by the name of Barlow. He was a long- shoreman, and a tough one, but I did him up in seventeen minutes. He came into a saloon where I was in company with Bill Leonard and Bob Johnson. Leonard is well known, having kept stables in New Orleans and Cincinnati for many years. I had given races that day, and it appears that this man Barlow had lost some money. Five or six toughs entered the saloon with Barlow. He approached Johnson and said to him, "You throwed that race, you s-- of a b----, and I am going to lick you for it." He cut loose and hit Johnson, and he must have hit him pretty hard, for he knocked him clear into the street. As Johnson was getting up, an officer ran up to him, when Johnson cut loose and knocked him down, thinking it was Barlow. They arrested Johnson and took him off. Then Barlow turned to me and said, "You keep the race track, and you are as big a thief as that other fellow. You whipped a good man when you whipped Fitzgerald, but you can't whip Barlow." I looked around to see how many friends he had with him, and I saw there were six or seven, and only Leonard on my side, who turned the key in the door, jumped on the counter, pulled his pistol, and said: "Gentlemen, if these men fight, they shall have it on the square, and the first one that interferes I will fill him full of lead." So at it we went. He was a good, scienced man, and had his hands up very quick. He made a feint to strike me with his left, and let go with his right. I gave him my head for a mark, which he hit clearly, and his fist looked like a boxing glove two minutes afterward. I ran under his guard, caught him under the arms, and downed him. In the squabble I got one solid crack at him between the eyes with my head, which ended the fight. He just was able to cry "Enough." I did not see him for several weeks after that. The next time I saw him was on St. Charles Street. He was drunk, and looking for me with a big knife up in his sleeve. I saw him coming, then I grabbed my gun and stood pat. I said, "Don't come one step more towards me, or I will cook your goose." He came to the conclusion that I meant business, and walked off. About that time there was a man done for every day in the Crescent City, but now New Orleans is a moral place, and some of the best people in the world live there. DON'T DYE YOUR WHISKERS. We were on board the steamer _York Town_ one day, when I thought there were no suckers aboard. I had looked around, and had about come to the conclusion that we would not make our expenses, when I saw a large, well-dressed fellow who had his whiskers dyed black as ink. I got into conversation with him, and we walked around over the boat, and finally up on the roof. Bob Whitney was at the wheel, and his partner, Bill Horricks, was with him in the pilot- house. I knew the boys were all right, so I invited my new acquaintance to go up, as we could see better than on the roof. He accepted the invitation, and we were soon enjoying the scenery. I threw some of my cards on the floor, under the seat. The gentleman noticed them in a little while, picked them up, and turning to me he said, "If we had a full deck we could have a game." I told him I hardly ever played, but I saw a fellow playing a game with three cards that beat anything I ever saw, but it took a smart one to play it. I began throwing them, when Bob Whitney got so interested that he came near letting the boat run away with him. He wanted to bet me fifty dollars, and he told Bill Horricks to hold the boat until he could make a bet. I told him I did not understand the game well enough to bet on it. About this time the capper put in an appearance, and he wanted to know all about the game. I explained it, and he made the usual bets. The pilot wanted to bet very bad, but I kept refusing. Finally my friend with the black whiskers got worked up to $1,000, and lost it. Then my partner put a mark on the winner, and beat me out of $1,000. The sucker saw the mark on the card, and wanted to bet $100. He was sure of winning, but he did not want to win but $100. So I took his bet, and just as he was about to turn the card I said, "I will make it $1,000;" but he only wanted the hundred dollars, and he got it. After winning the $100, and seeing the mark still on the card, he thought it was all his way, so he put up $1,000. I saw it was about all he had, so I put up, and he turned the marked card; but it was not the winner for $1,000 so much as it had been for $100. He walked out of the pilot-house and went down on deck. My partner followed him. After they were gone, Bob Whitney said he would have turned the same card. Then Bill Horricks laughed, and told him he could hold a steamboat, but he could not beat Devol at his own game. I went down to the bar, and there was my black-whiskered friend talking to my partner. I invited them to join me, which they did, and then the gentleman said he would like to speak to me a moment. We walked out on the guards, when he said to me, "I know I am a fool, but I want to ask you one question, and I want you to be candid with me. Why did you pick me out from among all the passengers for a sucker?" "Well," I said, "I will be honest with you; don't you dye your whiskers?" "Yes," said he. "Well, that is the reason I picked you out." He said, "I thank you, sir," and walked off. I went into the cabin and opened up again. I caught a few suckers, and then closed up monte. I then got out my wheel, and took in all the pan-fish. After closing up for the evening, I walked into the bar, and there I met a fine looking smooth-faced gentleman, who asked me to take a drink, at the same time saying: "Do you think shaving off my whiskers has improved my looks?" I told him there was not as much deception in him as there had been in the card with the pencil mark on it. We took another drink and separated, I with about $2,000 of his money, and he with the experience. CALLED A GAMBLER. I was coming from New Orleans on the _Duke of Orleans_ at one time, and had won a few hundred dollars from some of the passengers, but had quit playing, and was standing in the hall talking to some gentlemen that had played in the game, when a big fellow stepped up and said he believed we were a set of gamblers, and had divided the money he lost in the game. I gave him the laugh, and that made him hot. He then pulled off his coat and said he could whip any man in the crowd, and he kept his eye on me all the time. I told him I could lick him for fifty or one hundred dollars in a fair rough-and-tumble fight down on deck. He said if any one would see he had a fair show he would fight me. The mate asked me if I was going to fight him. I said, "Yes." So he told the big fellow he was an officer on the boat, and that no one would interfere if he wanted to fight. So he put up his fifty dollars in the mate's hand, and I covered it; for those days I would rather fight than eat, and I could fight for a man's life. We went on deck, and they cleared a place for us. While this was going on I offered to bet him fifty or a hundred dollars more that I would make him squeal. He said he had no more money to put up. We stripped off and got in the place prepared for us. He struck at me with one of those old-fashioned Dutch winders. I ducked my head, and he hit that. I knew it hurt him, for he did not use that duke any more. I got in under him, let fly with my head, and caught him square in the face. It made him grunt, but the next time I got one in on him I made him look silly, for the blood came out of his ears and nose. He said, 'That will do." The mate took him up stairs, and had the barber wash and patch him up. I changed my clothes, as they were covered with the fellow's blood. I asked all hands to take a drink, and my man came up and joined us. I then paid the bar bill, and gave him back the balance of the fifty dollars I won from him on the fight. He claimed that it was his first whipping, but he could not stand the old head; it was too hard for him. I have had a great many fights in my day. There was a fellow tackled me on the levee in New Orleans at one time when I was all alone, and he had a lot of his friends with him. I got him down, and was getting the best of him, when some of his friends began kicking me pretty lively. I guess I would have been licked that time, if it had not been for some men on a ship, who saw too many on one; so they came to my assistance, and then I made the fellow squeal in a short time. They had it in for me for a long time, but finally gave it up as a bad job; and I was glad of it, as I never wanted to kill a man, which I expect I would have done if they had not let me alone. THE ALLIGATORS. I went up on the _Princess_. My old friend Truman Holmes was the Captain of her. I was standing on the hurricane deck when we landed at the mouth of the Red River to take in some passengers. I saw the negroes carrying some long boxes built like chicken-coops. I asked Captain Holmes what was in the boxes. He said, "Alligators;" so I went down stairs and found the man that owned them. I took him up to the bar and had a drink; then I asked him what he was going to do with the alligators. He said he had a side-show, and he was going to play the fairs all over the entire Northern country, and he wanted them to draw custom. I told him I thought it an excellent idea, and said, "I have a ten-legged wolf in a cage that I will get on board at Vicksburg, and I will sell him cheap." This pleased him, and we took another drink. I insisted on paying for the drinks, but he would not consent, so we got to be good friends. After supper we got to playing whisky poker, as I told him I never gambled much, only once in a while, as planters would play a quarter antee. He insisted on changing it into a little draw; and as I had some very good cards in the bar, I was not hard to coax. We commenced at a quarter antee, and after we had been playing about an hour he insisted on raising it to $1. He flattered me more than I ever was flattered before, in telling me I was the luckiest man to draw he ever saw. The result was, before we reached Natchez, I had won all his money and his alligators. But he took it so much to heart about losing his pets, that I sold them back to him and took his note. It is now older than the daguerrotype man's; and when I hand in my checks, I will leave the notes with my dear old mother-in-law for collection. CONTROL OVER SUCKERS. I was playing euchre one night on the old _Vicksburg_, and had a good sucker down in the game, and the clerk was watching us very close; so after I gave the sucker a good hand, and he wanted to bet on poker, I whispered and said, "If we make a bet we must put the money in a hat, and we must not speak about betting louder than in a whisper." We had up $900, when I saw the clerk coming; I grabbed the hat and threw down my hand. When the clerk got there the bird had flown. He told the Captain it was all foolishness in trying to keep those gamblers from winning a sucker's money, for they could make a sucker whisper or do anything they wanted him to do; so that made two good men out of the Captain and the clerk, for they never interfered with our innocent games after that, and we made many a dollar on that boat. She was a nice steamboat to travel on in those days; but they got to building them so much finer that a sucker was afraid to go on board one of them, thinking that they would charge him more money. NIPPED IN THE BUD. I went on board the _General Quitman_ late one night, and as I had been up all the night before, I got a room and went to bed. I saw some gamblers playing in the cabin as I went through, but I was too tired to notice them much. I had not been in my bed long until I heard a racket out in the cabin. I peeped out and soon understood what was up. Some one had lost his money, and was doing the grand kicking act. I got up and was into my clothes in double quick time, and out among them, with old "Betsy Jane" in my pocket. I soon learned that a contractor on the levee, who had a lot of men down on deck, had lost his money playing poker with one of the gamblers, and he was going to have it back or he would bring up his men and take it by force. I told the gambler to stand his ground and not give up a red. The barkeeper told me the kicker had sent down for some of his men to come up; so I started for the stairs and met the contractor in the hall, waiting for them. I asked him what was the difficulty; he said "that was his business." Then I said to him, "You are one of those d----d scoundrels who try to beat others out of their money, and kick like h--l when they get the worst of anything." He did not want to say anything until his gang was at his back, and they were then coming up. I ran out to the head of the stairs with old "Betsy Jane" in my hand, and ordered them to stop. They did stop, for I had her pulled down on them, and the other gamblers were standing by me. I said, "The first man that takes another step to come up these stairs will get hurt." They didn't come. Then I turned to the kicker and told him if he made a move I would cook his goose. He saw we meant business, and weakened. The gang went back to their bunks, the kicking contractor went to his room, and we held the fort. I was told that the same man had lost his money about a year previous while playing poker with John Deming, and he brought his men up, threw Deming down, and did not only take the money he lost, but a large amount besides. I had the same thing tried on me once; so when I saw a fellow-gambler imposed upon, I went to the front. Besides, if we let such a thing go too far it would ruin our business, so I thought it was best to nip it in the bud. THE BIG SUCKER. We were out from New Orleans with Captain Bill Harrison one day on board the steamer _Doubleloon_, and was having a good game of roulette, when we noticed that most of the fish were suckers, and did not bite so well at roulette; so we changed our tackle, and used monte for bait. We were fishing along, and had caught some pretty good fish, but none of the large ones we saw about the hooks. Every time we would get one of them to come up and begin nibbling around, something would scare him away. We put on fresh bait, spit on it, and threw it out with all the care that we were capable of; but somehow or another they would not suck in the hook. I knew the bait was good, for I had caught thousands of suckers with it, and I could see that there was plenty of that kind of fish around us. I began looking, and soon discovered the trouble. It was a great big old sucker who wanted to be a kind of teacher over the school; for every time one of the young suckers would get up too close, he would pull his tail, and that would scare the young one so he would not take hold in earnest. I watched the big sucker for some time, and I saw it was no use trying to catch anything until I caught the old school teacher. So I put up my tackle, and began looking for a bait that would land the old one. I was walking on the guards, when I saw the man that had back-capped and spoiled my game. I went up to him and entered into conversation. I did not let him know I was mad; but I was, all the same, and would have given $100 to give him one between the eyes; but I soon thought of a plan to make him contribute a part of what he had kept me from winning, so I said to him, "I was surprised to see you back- capping my game, for I could see you were a sporting man. I tried to give you the wink, and have you come up and win out something, so the suckers would take hold, but I could not get your eye." He said, "I did not understand it, or I would have been glad to help you." I told him that after dinner I would open up again, and for him to walk up and make a good big bet, and I would let him win; then for him to walk away, and I would catch all the suckers on the boat. After all had been arranged, I went to my room and got old "Betsy Jane;" for my new capper had one on him so long that it stuck down below his coat-tail. I told my partner to look out for the big gun and our new capper. I called the passengers around a table, and began to throw the hooks. Up came the big fish, and wanted to know what was the least bet I would take. I told him $200. He planked her up, when I saw about $50 left, so I told him I would make it $250. He put up the extra $50, for of course the more he put up the more he would win, as he was to suck in the hook with the extra kink in it. I gave them a little mixing and said "Ready!" He darted in, and nabbed the bait more like a goggle-eye than a sucker, but he was caught all the same. He did not swim away (as he had been told to do), for he was held by a line that cost him $250, and he could not break it without a great struggle. I thought I had let him play about long enough, so I said: "Gentlemen, there are no more suckers to be caught on this boat," and thus landed the biggest sucker I ever caught in all my life. I put up my fishing tackle and invited all hands to the bar, for I was feeling like all fishermen (a little dry). My big sucker joined us, as he had been out of water just long enough to want to get back. After we had quenched our thirst he said he would like to see me a minute. I told him he could see me for an hour, as I had no other business to look after. We walked out on the guards, and my partner was not far away. The big fellow said to me, "Why didn't you let me win the money?" I looked up at him, but kept my hand on old Betsy Jane, and said, "My business is to catch suckers, and you are the biggest one I ever caught in my life if you think I will give you back your money." He went back for his gun, but I had old Betsy out and up to his head before he could say Jack Robinson. I told him to put up his hands, and be d----d quick about it, too. He put them up, and said he did not want any gun to whip such a fellow as I was. I told him that he might be a good man down in Texas, where he came from, but he was a sucker up in this country, and I could eat him up. I said: "We will put our guns in the bar, and have it out just as you like it." We went in the bar, and he handed over his young cannon, and then I put up Betsy Jane. I told my partner to get the Captain and tell him to land the boat, and he would see some fun, for I knew he would rather see a fight than eat when he was hungry. So just as we got our guns behind the bar the Captain walked in, and some one said "Here comes the Captain." The Texas fellow said, "To h--l with him; I don't care a d--n for any captain." That made old Bill hot, and he wanted to know what was all this racket about. I told him the big fellow wanted to lick me. He said, "I'll soon settle this; you will go ashore." The big fellow said there was not men enough on the boat to put him ashore. The Captain then sent word to the pilot to land, and also sent for the mate and some of the deck- hands. The pilot ran the boat up on a point, and she got aground. I jumped off as soon as she struck; and the mate, assisted by two big deck-hands, soon had Mr. Texas off. The passengers were all out on the guards, for they had heard the racket, and wanted to see the fun. I pulled off my coat, and told Texas to clean himself and come a-fighting. He was just as sure of licking me as I was of catching him for a sucker, but he had forgotten "Nothing is sure that grows on earthly ground." He was onto me in an instant, and if he had hit me just where he aimed, he would have hurt me, for he was a hard hitter; but I gave him my dear old head, and he hurt himself very bad; but I did not care if he did. I then ran in under him, and had him down on his back before he recovered from the blow he struck against a rock (as he afterward called my head). After I got him down I gave him one just between the eyes, and he saw stars (although there were none in the sky just then). I gave him one more punch, and he said, "That will do." I let him up, and he was so dazed that he staggered and fell into the river. They pulled him out, and I heard some one remark, "That's the biggest sucker ever caught in this river." While the fight was going on, they were trying to get the boat off the point; but I guess they did not try very hard, for as soon as they fished out the sucker, the Captain called for me to come aboard. I said, "Captain, it is only three miles to Donaldsonville, and as I want a little exercise, I will walk; but take good care of my 'big sucker.'" THE CRAZY MAN. I was going up the Illinois River once with Dad Ryan. We did not try to do anything the first night out from St. Louis. The next day I picked up a man who had been to St. Louis with wild game and butter, and had a great deal of money for a man of his calibre. I told him I lived in Galena, Ill., and had some of the finest lead mines in that part of the country. We got pretty well acquainted with each other, and had some drinks together. He got to feeling lively, for whenever he took a drink he would take a tumbler half full of whisky. After getting him warmed up pretty well, I walked him in the barber shop to see a white squirrel. During the while the barber was after it, Dad opened out the three cards, and my friend and I had become very interested in the game. I looked on a while, then I said to Ryan: "I think I can turn the winning card for $100." He accepted the proposition, and I laid up the money and turned the wrong one. I then picked up the jack, as that was the winner, and bent the corner, showed it to my friend, "whispered" and told him not to say a word, as he would not detect its being bent. He said, "All right." I told the dealer to throw them over again, which he did. I then said, "I know you have two chances to our one, but I will try you for $200." We put up our money into the butter man's hands, and I turned the card. The dealer told the butter man that he lost fair, and to give the money to me. Then I wanted to try it for the $400, but he would not bet with me, saying: "When a man beats me once, I will not bet with him again." So I handed the money to my friend, and told him to bet it for me. "That will do," said Ryan. He mixed them up again, and my friend turned the card and won for me. Ryan took it very pleasantly, laughing all the time, so my friend thought he would try it with his own money, but Ryan said: "You beat me once, and you know what I said." "Well," said my friend, "I did not bet for myself." I coaxed Ryan to let him bet, as he was entitled to one bet at least. He consented, and my friend got out $100; but Ryan said, "No; I will not bet less than $500." I said to my friend, "If you have not got the money, I will loan it to you; and if you only win one small bet, he will not bet with you again." He pulled out a big roll with a string around it, and counted out $400 more and laid it on the table. I told him I would hold the stakes, so he handed me the money. Ryan saw that big roll, and hated to have him get away, as he might quit after losing. When he saw that I was holding stakes, he said: "I guess I will back out." I spoke up and told him he could not, and my friend said that it was not fair to back out. Then said Ryan, "I will raise you $2,000," and he laid it up in my hand. Then my friend wanted to back out and take his money down, but Ryan would not stand that. I insisted on putting up the rest, but Ryan would not allow it, as he said, "I will bet but one at a time." I told him to lay up the money. He put it up at last, trembling like a man with the palsy; but finally he grabbed the card and lost. Just about that time there was a little boat landed alongside of us, as we were lying at a landing putting off freight. I gave Ryan the office to get on her. He slipped over on the boat, and the sucker just then came to his senses. When he saw that Ryan had gone out, he said to me, "Where did he go?" I told him he had gone back in the cabin; so he started back to look for him, and while he was gone the little boat backed out. I walked out in the hall to see what had become of my friend, and found him searching all the rooms in the ladies' cabin. He then rushed into a gentleman's room where his wife was, and then there was h--l to pay. The man came near shooting him, but I ran back and told the gentleman that the fellow was crazy and did not know what he was doing. He ran all around the boat, frothing at the mouth, and never said a word to any one. Finally some of the officers grabbed him, got a rope and tied him, for they all thought he was crazy; and I commenced to think so myself, as all he would say was, "Where is he? Where did he go?" No one had seen the game but the barber, and I slipped him a twenty-dollar bill and told him to keep mum. They kept the man tied for about one hour, until he promised he would behave if they let him loose, which they did. He sat perfectly still and did not have a word to say. I knew he was not broke, for I saw he had about $200 left; and that amount, together with his late experience, was capital enough for any man. DIDN'T WIN THE KEY. We were playing monte on board the steamer _Magnolia_, out of New Orleans, one night, and had a very lively game. We had won a few hundred dollars. There was a Jew on board who had no money, but he had a fine watch. During the play he was very anxious to bet it, but I told him I did not want to play for his watch, as I knew I could win it whenever I saw fit. So, just as the game was about to close, I said to him, "What is your watch worth?" "Three hundred dollars, and I can get that for it." I told him I would put up $300 against it, and bet him he could not turn the picture card. He pulled out, put her up, and then turned over the wrong card. The passengers all laughed. He never said a word, but appeared to take it all right. After a while he came to me and said: "I have the key, and would like you to keep the watch wound up, as I think a great deal of it; and as soon as we get to Natchez I can borrow the money on the wharf-boat, from Charley Frazier, to redeem it." When he spoke in that way I handed him his ticker, and he ran away with it. I laughed, and began thinking how to get it back again. So I took my partner, Alexander, to one side and told him to get in with the Jew, then tell him he heard me say I was going to give the watch back. "Tell him you have been watching me play, and that you believed you could play it as well as the man he played against." He got in with him, and finally got some cards to show the Jew how I played. The Jew got very much taken with the game again, so he said to my partner, "I know that I could beat you, if you will play for something." So he won the drinks and cigars from my partner, and at last he wanted to put up his watch against $500 that he could turn the card. My partner put up the money, and the Jew the watch; but he missed it that time; and you never did hear such laughter as there was on that boat, for the passengers all turned loose and plagued the poor Jew all the way up to Natchez, asking him what time it was. He did not redeem it at Natchez, so I had to buy a "key," and that nearly broke my heart. WAS IN WITH THE JUDGE. I was on the train from Jackson to New Orleans. I opened in the smoking car, and won a good deal of money. We were just coming to a station called Amite, about sixty miles above New Orleans. I waited until the car got in motion, after learning the station, as I did not want to go into New Orleans; for they were kicking like the d---l, and I knew there would be a big crowd at the depot. I slipped off, and told my partner to bring my valise, and come up the next day. They went into the city kicking like steers, and they had the officers looking for me, but they did not find me. Two of them took the train and came back to Amite that night, and in the morning when I came to breakfast there they were. I could not help laughing at them. After breakfast they went to the magistrate, and swore out a warrant for my arrest, and the constable came over to the hotel looking for me, but I had skipped out. I walked down the railroad and kept hid until they were satisfied I had gone. They left orders if I showed up to have me arrested, and telegraph them. I took the first train and went to the city. They came in on the evening train. The next day they found out I was in the city, and then I was arrested and brought before the recorder's Court, when the Judge asked me if I had an attorney. I told him I could plead my own case. I soon convinced him that the gambling was done in another parish, and I was discharged. They then took a train and went back, got the warrant they had out for me, and brought an officer with them. The officer stepped up to me and said: "I have a warrant for you." "All right; but we can't leave here until night. Let us pass away the time until the train leaves." There was a big crowd followed us to get a look at the notorious Devol, and the officer kept pulling out the warrant and showing it to the throng. He was getting pretty full of whisky, when I saw a thief in the crowd. I gave him the wink, and in less than five minutes he had the warrant. I got one of my friends to ask the officer to show him the warrant. He dove down in his pocket, but could not find it; so I told him he must have the paper, or I would not go with him. It sobered him up, and the last time I saw him he was with the two fellows going to the train to get fresh papers. I went up myself to see what they could do with me. I took a train and passed them coming down. They went into the city, and found that I had left for Amite that morning, and that they had missed me. When I got there I took the Judge and Prosecutor out, and we had several drinks; then we went to a shoe shop, and ordered two pairs of boots for them, and took the size of their heads, and sent to New Orleans for hats. When they came back, and the case was called, the Judge heard their story, and then mine, and decided it was nothing but a case of gambling, and that he would have to fine us each five dollars and costs. We paid our fines, and they all took the train that day but myself. I stayed a day or two, and had a fishing game, as it was a great place to catch the little flappers. They said, when they came back to the city, that no law down here would do anything with that fellow, and his name ought to be "Devil" instead of Devol. They thought I must be some relation to Claude Duval, the highwayman. They were Vermonters. They said if they had me down East they would fix me for the balance of my life; but I was not down East, and I had often been, before I met those suckers, "Fixed for Life." THE BRILLIANT STONE. We were on board the steamer _Southern Belle_, bound for New Orleans. There were several planters aboard that I was acquainted with, and we were drinking wine, telling stories, and enjoying ourselves, when a large, fine-looking gentleman stepped up to the bar and took a drink. He had a diamond stud in his shirt that was so large and brilliant that it attracted the attention of us all; so after he went out we began commenting on it. I finally said to one of the planters, "What would you give for that stone?" He said, "I would give $1,000 for it, but I bet it could not be bought for the money." "What will you give me for it?" I asked them. They all laughed, for they understood by my question that I thought the man was a sucker, and I could win it from him. One of them said: "Devol, you are a good one, but that fellow is too smart to be caught by any of your tricks." I said, "Gentlemen, I will bet two bottles of wine that I will have that stone inside of an hour. Who will take me?" They all wanted to take the bet, and raise it to a basket; but I told them the odds were too much in their favor, and I would bet but two bottles; so it was settled that I was to win the stone, or pay for the wine. Then we all went out in the cabin, and I called everybody to join me in some wine. My partner went up to the man with the brilliant stone, and asked him if he knew the man that was treating. He said he did not. Then my partner told him that I was a planter; that I owned six plantations, and so many niggers that I did not know the number myself. The gentleman was introduced to me and the other planters, when he said: "I am very glad to form the acquaintance of you Southerners; I'm a New Yorker." The compliment cost me the wine for the entire party. While the barkeeper was serving the wine, I told him to bring me some of those tickets that they played the whisky game with. He brought the tickets, and I began to mix them. One of the planters bet me the wine that he could turn the ticket with the baby. I took him up, and he stuck me. Then another bet me the cigars, and I stuck him. While we were lighting our cigars, my partner put a pencil mark on the baby ticket, and told the New Yorker that he wanted to have some fun with me; that I was so good-natured, I would take it as a joke when I found it out. I commenced mixing them again, and wanted to know who would be the next man to try his luck. My partner came to the front, and wanted to know if I would bet money on the game. I told him so long as I had two chances to his one, I would bet a plantation, and a hundred niggers besides. He put up $1,000, and said: "I will try you once for $1,000." I pulled out a roll so large that it made everybody look wild, saying, "That just suits me." I mixed, and my partner turned the ticket with the pencil mark on it, and caught me for $1,000. I laughed and said, "You're a lucky fellow; I don't want to bet with you any more." He then slipped away, as though he was afraid I would detect the mark and raise a fuss. He gave the $2,000 to one of the planters, and told him to go and play it. The planter came up and said: "I'll try you for $2,000." I said, "All right, plank her up." He turned a card, but not knowing anything about the mark, he lost. I laughed and said, "Try it again; you're not as lucky as the other fellow." "No," said he; "I've got enough." Then my partner came up again and wanted to bet; but I told him he was the lucky fellow, and I was afraid of him. The New Yorker could see the mark on the card, and he could not stand it any longer; so he pushed up to the table and laid down a roll, and said: "I will bet you $400." I told him I would only make one more bet and then quit, and I would bet $2,000 or nothing. He picked up the money and turned away. My partner said, so I could hear him, "Bet him." The man said, "I have not got the money." Then my partner offered to loan it to him, when I told them I would not bet if the lucky fellow was in with it; but if the gentleman had anything worth the money, he could put it up. The lucky fellow told him to put up his diamond stud, saying in a whisper: "It is only for a minute; don't you see the mark on the card?" The gentleman put up the stone and the $400. I told him I would only take the stone for $1,000. Then my partner told him to put up his watch. He did so, and I put up $2,000 in money. I mixed, and he turned the marked card. He was very much excited; and when the card turned over, it had the mark on its back, but the baby had crawled off the other side. He drew a long breath and walked back to his state-room, and that was the last we saw of him. As he was walking away, some one called to him to join us in some wine; but he could not hear so well as when the capper told him in a whisper to put up, as it was only for a minute. We looked at our watches (I had two), and it wanted just five minutes of the hour. The planter that made the bet of two bottles spent over $200 for the wine that night, and before he left the boat he gave me $1,000 for the "brilliant stone." LUCKY AT POKER. One night I went out on the steamer _Belle Lee_. She was running from Memphis to New Orleans. Captain Hicks was the commander, and a jolly fellow was he. He said to me: "Devol, I never saw a gambler in the world that I was afraid to play with. I am just as smart as any of them." I said, "Captain, you will get no game out of me, as I do not want any of your money." After supper I noticed the Captain had a man, and they went to his room in the texas. I opened up and had a fine play at roulette, but it fell off at 12 o'clock, and I closed up. I was sitting in the hall when the Captain and his man came down. The man said: "Captain, I am winner; let's have a bottle of wine." They invited me to join them. The Captain said: "George, I will turn this gentleman over to you, as I can't beat him." "Well," I said, "Cap, if you can't beat him, I can't; for you are a better poker player than I am." Then I winked at the barkeeper, who had a few decks of my cards that I had put in when I came on board. He knew what I wanted. I said to the man, "I'll tell you what I will do: I will play one game of seven-up for a bottle of wine;" as I thought that was the best way to get him started. He agreed. I said, "Barkeeper, give us a deck of cards, and we will see who is the lucky man." We began, cut for deal, and I beat him. I dealt, and I knew every card in his hand. He had no trumps, and I had the jack alone. He begged; I gave him one and made four. He dealt, and I made three on his deal, which put me out. He was as hot as a pepper pod, but he called for the wine. After we drank it, he said: "I wonder if you are that lucky at poker; if so, I will try you a little while." I said, "All right; I think, myself, I am in luck to-night." We went at it, but he said the limit must be $50. We played until daylight began to peep through the skylight of the cabin, and I had to loan him money to defray his expenses. He told the Captain it was the hardest game he ever struck. He sent me the money I loaned him by express, and wrote that if he ever met me on the river again he wanted to be in with my play. It was not long after that when I met him on the steamer _Natchez_, and we made some big money together, as he got up some fine games with the planters. He was known all along the river, and Captain Leathers thought it strange to see him playing with me; but the gentleman understood it, for I was always "lucky at poker." THE HIDDEN HAND. While in St. Louis just before the war, I got acquainted with a man from Detroit by the name of James Scott. He was dealing faro bank, and was such a square fellow that all the boys would play against him. He had a big game one evening, and had downed quite a number of the boys, but he did it on the square. He quit dealing to go and get his supper, and while he was out the boys tried to think of some scheme to stick him for enough money to get a square meal for themselves. Finally one of them thought of the same racket that I played on my Jew partner, and they manufactured a sucker. When Jim came back, they were playing a single-handed game of poker. Jim loved poker, and as he had not finished picking his teeth, he stopped at the table to look on. That was just what the boys expected and wanted, so the two hands were run up. Jim was behind the fellow that had the three kings and a pair of sevens; but just after he saw them, some one spoke to him on the other side, so he went around the table. The man with the kings made a big raise, and the other fellow said it was more money than he had. Jim saw his three aces and a pair, so he said: "I am with you, old boy, for $1,000." The money was put up, and then the sucker said he had made a mistake in his hand, and wanted to take down his money; but everybody said he could not take down. Then the fellow threw down two cards and called for two more. The old boy (Jim's partner) gave them to him, and the sucker made another raise just large enough to use up the balance of Jim's thousand. The old boy called the bet just in time to save Jim from putting up another thousand, for they did not want to strike him too heavy the first time. They showed down, and the sucker had caught another king in the draw, and he won the pot. Jim did not say a word, but began to deal the bank. The next night some of the boys that had eaten a good supper at Jim's expense invited him to the theatre. Jim wanted to know the play; they told him "The Hidden Hand." Jim said, "No, boys; I saw that play last night, and I would not see it again for $1,000." Jim is now living in Detroit, and is one of the wealthiest men in the city. His father left him a fortune, and he has not laid down a dollar on a gambling table since; yet he likes the boys, and can tell some of the best stories of any man in this country. He is very fond of the theatres, but he says he never goes when they play "The Hidden Hand." CAUGHT AGAIN. While sitting in the hall of the steamer _Petonia_, I noticed a fellow who kept looking at me so closely that I at last said to him, "Do you live on the river, sir?" He replied, "Are you speaking to me?" "Well, yes; I asked you if you lived on the river." He answered me very gruffly, "No sir." I let him alone, for I thought I had seen him before, and it might be I had beat him out of some money; so I got up and walked down the cabin. After I left, he asked the barkeeper who I was, and he told him I was a planter, and the son of one of the wealthiest planters on the coast. The fellow said: "Darn me if he don't look just like a fellow that beat me out of $5,000 some years ago." "I guess you are mistaken; although all planters gamble more or less," said the barkeeper. "Well, let's take a drink; but I was sure he was the same man." Just as they finished their drink, I walked up and called for some wine. The fellow spoke up and said, "Have a drink with me." I said, "No, you join me, as I see you have finished yours." He accepted, and I ordered a bottle of wine. We sat down to drink the wine, when he said, "You must excuse me for the manner in which I spoke to you a while ago, as I took you for a man that beat me out of $5,000 on one of these boats, some years ago, at a game they called monte." "Well, now," I said; "it must have been the same fellow that beat me, for that's what they called it, monte; but I did not care very much, as I was spending the old gent's money at that time." He replied: "But I did mind it, for I had just sold my place, and was going to put the money into business; but on account of that d----d rascal, I have had to work hard ever since; and I have sworn to kill him the first time I met him." "I do not blame you for feeling as you do, for you could not afford to lose the money; but I did not care, as the old gent had plenty more that I could get whenever I asked for it; and as he sometimes lost pretty heavy himself, he would say to me, 'Son, if you bet you will win or lose; but if you lose, take it cool; for if you could not afford to lose, you had no business to bet.'" "You're right! I did not have any business to bet; but I thought I had a sure thing of winning. I would have killed that fellow the next morning; but when I began looking for him, I found he had got off the boat, and I have never seen him since." I laughed and said, "If you had won the money, you would not have felt like shooting the fellow, would you?" "Oh, no." I found out the fellow had about $60; but he was just as much a sucker as he was when he lost the $5,000, and I made up my mind to win his money, and then tell him that I was the same man that beat him before. I excused myself, and told my partner all about the fellow, and that I wanted to win his money. After supper I opened up monte, and caught a good many suckers. My old producer was watching the game and me too. We had about finished up, when my partner said to my old friend, "I would like to make a bet, but I am unlucky; will you bet this $50 for me?" He took the $50, put it up, and won. Then he put up $50 for himself, and lost. My partner wanted to know how he had made such a mistake, when he swelled up like a porpoise, and said: "I believe that is the same fellow that beat me out of my money before." He walked away, and my partner followed him. They were standing at the bar when I came up, and I invited all hands to join me in a drink. Everybody accepted the invitation, except my Arkansas killer. I made up my mind that we would have a fight, so I thought I would not put it off any longer. I turned to him and said, "Come and take a cigar with me, for I see you are not drinking." He replied, "I pick my company." Then I said, "You are in better company just now than you ever were in your life, except the time, some years ago, when you were in my company and lost $5,000." He said, "You are a d----d rascal." I then called him a liar and a coward. He attempted to draw, when my partner caught his arm and gave him one in the face, which was not a very heavy one, for he did not appear to mind it. I had old "Betsy Jane" out and had him covered; then I said, "Lay away your old pop, and we will go down on deck and have it out. You are a much larger man than I am, but I will take a licking from you, if you are man enough to give it to me." We gave our guns to the barkeeper and started down. I heard some bets $50 to $25 on the big Arkansas man, so I gave a friend of mine a roll and told him to take all the odds. When we got down on deck, the mate made a ring with some barrels, and said: "No man but the fighters shall get inside the ring." The big fellow stripped down to his undershirt, and looked like a young Samson; then the bets ran up $100 to $25. I pulled off my coat and vest, and stepped inside the ring. We shook hands, and time was called, the mate acting as referee. He made a lunge; I dropped my head, and he hit it a terrible blow. Then he got one in below the belt, and I thought for an instant I would lose my supper and the fight; but I rallied, and got a good one in on the side of his neck, which doubled him up like a jackknife; then I ran in, caught him, and let drive with my head. I struck him between the eyes, and he fell over as if he had been shot. I took a seat on one of the barrels, folded my arms, and waited for time to be called. The mate said: "That will do; this man can't fight any more." They took him up stairs, and had the barber fix him up. I was not much the worse for having been in a fight. My friend handed me all my money, and over $400 besides, that he had taken in on the result. I treated all hands, and sent some wine, also the $50 I had won, back to my Arkansas friend. He told the mate and some of the passengers that he had been in a great many fights, but that was the first time he was ever whipped. He said he "whipped himself when he hit my head; but when I gave him that butt, he thought he had been struck with a bar of iron." He told them they did not fight that way out where he lived, and he did not think it was fair. The mate told him everything was fair in a rough-and- tumble fight. I felt sorry for the big fellow when I saw his face, for his nose was broken all up. He forgot all about that he was going to shoot the man that beat him out of his $5,000, for you see I returned the money that I won from him when I had him caught again. MY LITTLE PARTNER. A man by the name of Dock Chambers was working with me at one time, and he was like my partner Foster--he would stoop to little things. I was playing poker one night with a man, and broke him. He got up from the table and went back into the ladies' cabin, and in a short time returned with some diamonds and a lady's watch and chain. He wanted to put them up, but I told him I never played for women's finery. A man offered him about one-half what the stuff was worth, and he was so crazy to play that he was about to let them go, when I advanced him much more on them than the stranger had offered; for I knew he would lose them. We began our play, and in about an hour I had won all the money that I had advanced him on the jewelry. I asked him if he was broke, and he told me that their passage was paid and his wife had some money. I bid him good night and went to bed. The next morning I put the jewelry in a cigar box, gave it to my partner, and told him to find the lady and return it to her. He found her and returned the box. She opened, and found everything her husband had lost; then she gave him $300, and told him to thank me for her. He came back and gave me the thanks, but did not say one word about the $300. I was well paid with the thanks, until I found out that she had sent $300 with them, and that my partner had hogged onto it. I did not say a word at the time, but waited until I could get a big even. We were coming out of New Orleans a short time after the Chambers trick, and had a good monte business, which we closed up as soon as we had caught all the suckers. I went to a friend of mine who kept a drug store in Vicksburg, and told him I wanted to get even with my partner. I gave him some money, and told him I would open my red and black, and that the jack paid eight for one. I said to him, "You come up and bet $10 on the jack three times, and on the fourth time you put a one-hundred-dollar bill inside of the ten and put it on the same card, and I will make it win." He did just as I told him, and the jack lost the first three times, but the fourth time it won. I paid the $80, and started to make another turn, when the drug man said: "You will have to come again." I said, "There is your $80 and your $10, sir." "Please look at the $10," he replied. I did look at it, and there was a great, big, live $100 inside of it. It was over the limit; but I had turned, and there was no getting out of it. To tell the truth, I did not want to get out, for I was just getting in on my partner. I paid the $800 over to the pill-mixer and shut up shop, as I did not want to lose any more of my "little partner's" money. LACKED THE NERVE. I made a mistake one time that came near getting me licked, and it was only the want of nerve that saved me. I feel the effect of the shock to this day, and I believe it will follow me to my grave. I will tell how it happened. I was playing the little game of monte, and had caught some pretty good fish, when I noticed a Jew, that I had seen in Natchez, standing near the table and watching me and my cards very closely. I took him for one of the finny tribe, and expected to see him swim up and take hold of the hook; but he walked over to the bar and commenced talking to the barkeeper. I found out afterward that he asked the barkeeper who I was, and told him he could beat me at that game I was playing; for says he, "Do you know, there is a little spot on one of the cards, and I don't believe he can see it." The barkeeper was a friend of mine, and he told the Jew that I couldn't see very well, as I was up so much at night. I was fishing along, when back came the sucker. Then I began to think a little better of myself; for I had spotted the fellow, and when I saw him walk off, I began to think that for once I had made a mistake in my man, and was losing some of my conceit. He got up very close, and then he asked me how much I would bet him that he could not turn the card with the old woman on it. I looked at him for a moment, as I had lost a little of my confidence when I saw him go away; but soon I remembered that the best fish will sometimes play around the bait and then swim off, only to come back, dart in and swallow it, hook and all; so I said to him, "I will bet you $500 you can't pick up the old woman the first pick." I had $500 worth of confidence, thirty years ago, that no man could pick up the old woman; but I am married now, and have quit gambling, but I will bet $5,000 that no man can pick up my old mother-in-law the first pick. Well, the Jew put up $500 and picked up one of the cards, and as his eyesight was so much better than mine, he got the one with the little spot on it; and while he was looking for the old woman on the other side of the card, I put the $500 in my pocket and rang down the curtain. The Jew stood and held on to the card, until I told him if he was done with it I would like to have it. He handed it to me, and then walked over to the barkeeper and said to him, "That man Devol can see better than we thought he could." I was standing out on the guards smoking, when up came my food for the brain. He said to me: "Mr. Devol, I am a poor man, with a wife and four little children. That money I lost was all I had in the world, and it was given to me by my friends to start me in a little business. If I don't get that money, I am a ruined man, and my poor wife and little children will starve to death, for I will never see them again. Oh, Mr. Devol, take pity on my poor wife and four little children, and give me back the money. You are a rich man, and can make money so fast; and my poor wife and four little children will pray for you as long as we live; and I will tell my children's children what a good man Mr. D----" "Hold on," I said, as I saw the big tears running down the heart-broken man's face. "Here's your money; take it and give it to your family." I handed him a five hundred-dollar bill and turned away, took out my handkerchief, and was just wiping something off my cheek, when I thought I heard something like a laugh. I turned around, and there, a little way off, stood my poor Jew with seven five hundred- dollar bills in his hand, shaking them at me; and he said, "I haven't go no wife nor no four little children, Mr. D----." He did not finish, for I started for him, and he lit out as if the devil, instead of Devol, was after him. When we got to the city, I went into the first harness store I came to and bought a whip, but I never had the nerve to use it. THE THREE FIVES. At one time I was going down the river below Baton Rouge, and there were a lot of raftsmen on board. They all loved to gamble, so one of them opened a chuckaluck game. They were putting down their money with both hands, and the game was over $400 winner. I thought I would give him a little play, so I went to my room and got a set of dice the same size as he was using, and then changed in a five without winning a bet. Then I asked him if I could shake them once for luck. "Oh, yes," he said, for he was playing on the square. I came the change on him, then I put $100 inside of a dollar bill, and put it on the five. He shook them up, when, lo and behold, up came three fives. He picked up my money, and when he saw the $100 he looked worse than a sick monkey; but he paid up like a man. I then came the change back, and quit. A man should learn all the tricks in his trade before he takes down the shutters. SNAKED THE WHEEL. We were going up with Captain Bill Harrison on board the _Doubleloon_, and just after leaving the wharf I took a look around to find some good-looking suckers. I had not found anything that I thought suited me, and was standing at the bar talking to Captain Bill, when he asked me if the fellows in the barber shop were with me. I said, "What fellows?" For I could see my partners, Brown and Chappell, sitting out on the guards. He said, "Go back and take a peep at them." I did go back, and I saw some fellows with two tables covered all over with jewelry and silverware. They had a wheel with numbers on it, and the corresponding numbers were on the table under the jewelry, etc. They were just getting started, and had some customers who were paying their dollar, and trying their luck turning the wheel. I looked on until I thought I understood the game, and then I went to the pantry and came back. I saw a nice looking watch on one of the numbers, but the space on the wheel that had the same number on it was so very narrow that the wheel would not stop on it one time in a thousand. I asked the boss if the watch was good; and he told me that any one who won it could have $100 in gold if he did not want the watch. I fooled around a little while, then I put down my dollar, and gave the wheel a pretty heavy whirl. She went around about twice, and stopped on the number that called for the watch. The fellow was all broke up, but he gave me $100 in gold, and I put up another dollar. I started the wheel again, and I hope I may never see the back of my neck if she did not stop on the watch again. The boss was dumbfounded. He looked at the wheel, paid me another $100 in gold, and as he paid over the money he looked at me as if he did not like me; and as I make it a rule not to stay where I am not wanted, I went out to see the boys. I told them how it was done, and they went in and got $100 in gold. As they were coming out they heard the fellow say, "Who in the h--l put this molasses on the wheel?" We opened monte, and caught the wheel man for his entire stock, and we had more Christmas presents than anybody in the State. Molasses will catch more suckers than soft soap. THE KILLER. At one time I was dealing red and black on the wharf-boat at the mouth of Red River, and as there were a number of Texas boys on the boat I was doing a good business. While I was very busy watching the game, a big fellow who was employed by the proprietor of the boat came up and asked me to loan him $100 for a few minutes, as he had made a bet with a man that he could show up that much money. I saw he had been drinking, but I was too busy just then to argue the case, for I knew if I refused him he would want a fuss, as he had the reputation of being a great fighter, and I had been told that he had killed three men; so I handed him a hundred-dollar bill, and went on with my game. After getting about all the money that the Texas boys would give up, I closed my game and went out to find my $100. I inquired after the fellow, and was told that he was up on the levee, so I waited for him. It was not long until he showed up, and he was pretty drunk. I asked him to give me back the bill, and he told me he had spent it. I was mad, but I did not want to have a fuss just then, as the Texas boys were standing around, and I did not want them to join in; so I said, "If you have spent it, all right; you can hand it to me to-morrow." I was just giving him taffy, for I knew he intended to rob me out of the money, thinking I would not dare to tackle him, but he did not know me. The Texas boys had gone to bed, and there were but few persons in the room. The big killer was standing near the bar, when I saw a chance and let fly; I caught him under the chin and knocked him as stiff as a poker; then I took his big gun out of his pocket and threw it out into the river. I told a black boy to go through his pockets and see if he had my hundred-dollar bill. He did so, and finally found it in his fob pocket. After I got my money back I let him up, and told him to get off the boat; and I said, "If you come back while I am here, I will beat your head off." He lit out. I gave a black man a gun, and told him not to let the fellow on the boat. The next day I was told he was saying he was going to kill me; so I got a double barrel shot-gun, and sent him word to come down and see me. He did not come, but went down to Hog's Point, took a boat, and left that part of the country, as it had got too hot for him around there. I saw him some years later at Laramie City, Dakota, and put the police onto him. They gave him one hour to get out, and that is the last I have ever heard of him. CAUGHT A WHALE. An old friend of mine by the name of William Hines (who was one of the best steamboat mates that ever ran on the river) and I were laying off at one time in New Orleans, and we took a notion we would get a yacht and have a big sail. We laid in a supply of provisions, and did not forget a five-gallon jug of whisky. We went out to the lake, hired a yacht, and started. Bill was pretty full, so I told him to go below and lay down for a while, and I would look after the boat. The wind was shifting about, and I was afraid the boom would knock him overboard. I was sailing along at a fine rate, tacking about with the wind, and did not notice that Bill had come up on deck until I heard him yell out to me. I looked around and saw the big fat fellow floundering in the water about 100 feet away. I gave her all the rudder, downed sail, and then threw out a line. Bill swam up and caught hold of the line, and then I began pulling him in. I had landed many big suckers, but Bill was no sucker; he was a whale. I got him up alongside, but I was not man enough to pull him up, as the boat stood about four feet out of the water. He was so full of whisky (and water) that he could not help himself. He was about played out, when he said to me, "George I'm a goner." I told him to hold on just a minute. I got a small line, took two half-hitches around his arm, and then made fast to the boat. I knew he could not go down unless his arm pulled out, and there was no danger of that. I took a rest, and then let on as if I was going to raise sail, when Bill said, "George, what are you going to do?" I looked back at him and said, "I have caught a whale, and am not able to pull him in, so I'm going to tow him ashore." Bill looked at me just long enough to satisfy himself that I was in earnest, and said, "For God's sake, George, give me one more pull, for I don't want you to sail in with me in tow." So I went to him, as I had got rested, and he had got sober; we pulled together, and I soon had the big fellow on board. We sailed around for some time; but when we had to make a tack, you can bet your life that Bill was on the lookout for the boom. Every time we would consult the jug, Bill would say, "George, don't tell the boys about how much fun we have had on this trip, will you?" THE DECK-HAND. The deck-hands of the steamer _Niagara_ had been drinking, and some of them were a little drunk. They came up to get more of the fighting stuff, and got into some difficulty with the barkeeper. I was sitting near the bar at the time; and as I was always ready to do my friends a favor, I went out on the guards and tried to stop the fuss, and get the men to go down on deck. One big fellow, who was the fighting man of the crew and a favorite with the mate, thought it was none of my business, and the first thing I knew he cut loose at me. I saw it in time to get up my guard. I did not want to have any difficulty on a boat with any of the officers or crew, so I tried to quiet the fellow down; but he would not have it, but came at me again. I could not avoid it, as he was too drunk to have any sense; so I let fly, caught him under the chin, and brought him down. He was a game one, for he was up and at me once more. I then let into him and gave him a pretty good licking. They took him down on deck, and it was not long until Tom Hawthorn, the mate, came up and asked who it was that had whipped one of his men. The barkeeper told him about all the fuss; but he was mad, and would not excuse any man for defending himself against one of his men. I was in the barber shop at the time, but the barkeeper sent me word to look out for Tom. I went and got my old friend (Betsy Jane), and waited for the fray. I was in the hall when Tom came up looking for me. He walked up and said, "Can't you find any one else to whip, without jumping on one of my men?" I knew he had been told the circumstance, and if he had any sense he would not blame me; but he was mad; and then he intended to teach me a lesson. I knew he would not listen to reason, so I said, "I gave that fellow just what he deserved." He began to pull of his coat, and at the same time said, "Any man that licks one of my men has got to lick me." I saw I had to fight, so I off with my coat and waited for him. He struck out, but I caught it on my arm. I did not want to use my head unless it was necessary; but as he was a tall man with a long reach, he had the advantage. So I watched my chance, then ran in, caught him around the waist, and downed him. It was hard work to keep the old head from taking a hand, but I gave him several good ones on his face and neck. He tried to rise up, when I got in an upper cut which settled him. I let him up, and he went down on deck. He had it in for me, until one night in a saloon, when he hit a man; the fellow got the drop, and would have shot him if I had not taken a hand. After that we were good friends, and he would say to me, "George, you are the only man that can whip my deck-hands." THE BLACK (LEG) CAVALRY. "For those that fly may fight again, Which he can never do that's slain; Hence, timely running's no mean part Of conduct in the martial art; By which some glorious feats achieve, As citizens by breaking thrive." When the war broke out, some of the gamblers in New Orleans got up a cavalry company, and named it the Wilson Rangers. I was a member of the company. We armed and equipped ourselves, and the ladies said we were the finest looking set of men in the army. If fine uniforms and good horses had anything to do with it, we were a fine body. When we were ordered out to drill (which was every day), we would mount our fine horses, gallop out back of the city, and the first orders we would receive from our commanding officer would be: "Dismount! Hitch horses! March! Hunt shade! Begin playing!" There was not a company of cavalry in the Southern army that obeyed orders more promptly than we did; for in less than ten minutes from the time the order was given, there would not be a man in the sun. They were all in the shade, seated on the ground in little groups of four, five, and six; and in each group could be seen a little book of tactics (or at least it looked something like a book at a distance). We would remain in the shade until the cool of the evening, when the orders would be given: "Cease playing! Put up books! Prepare to mount! Mount! March!" When we would get back to the city, the people would come out, cheer, wave handkerchiefs, and present us with bouquets; for we had been out drilling in the hot sun, preparing ourselves to protect their homes from the Northern invaders. After we had become proficient in drill, we were ordered to do patrol duty in the city. The citizens called us their defenders; and we did defend them, so long as there was no hostile foe within five hundred miles of them. We were as brave a body of men as there was in the South, until the news reached us that Commodore Farragut was bombarding Forts Jackson and St. Philip; then we began to realize that the war was getting pretty close to home, and we were a little fearful that our knowledge of the tactics would be but little protection to us if the forts should capitulate. We threw aside the old books we had been studying for so long a time, and took up a new edition that our commander told us was much better in times of immediate danger. So for about six days we devoted ourselves to studying how to get out of the "jack-pot" we had got into, without losing our stake. We were not kept very long in suspense, for early one beautiful April morning we learned the terrible news that Farragut's fleet had passed the forts, and General Butler with a large land force was marching on the city. We heard the old familiar orders: "Prepare to mount! Mount! March!" But we did not swing into our saddles feeling as gay as when we were on our way to the drill- grounds. We were ordered to the front, and as we rode through the streets the ladies presented us with bouquets, and cheered after us; but then there was but little cheer in that fine body of gamblers. We had many times before attacked the enemy (Tiger) without fear or trembling; but now we were marching to meet a foe with which we were but slightly acquainted. As we passed the old drill-grounds on our way to the front, there was a sigh passed the lips of every man, and our horses turned in, for they (poor dumb brutes) did not know that things had changed. We were about six miles below the city when the Yankees saw us; but we did not see them, as they were about four miles distant. They were up in the rigging with their glasses, looking for just such suckers as we were; and they turned loose a salute of canister, which came buzzing about our ears, and the next instant we heard an order that we had never heard before: "Retreat!" but we understood it, and lost no time in obeying the command; for I believe we would have executed the movement without orders, if they had not been given just after the first salute. We had a great deal just then to make us feel nervous, but we were thankful for one thing, and that was, we had good fast horses. I had taken mine off the race track, and I was glad of it, for in that race I came out several lengths ahead. When we got back to the city we dismounted without orders, and even forgot to tell the darkies to give our horses a good rubbing-down. We cut the buttons off our coats, buried our sabres, and tried to make ourselves look as much like peaceful citizens as possible; for we had enough of military glory, and were tired of war. After destroying immense quantities of cotton, sugar, steamboats, ships, and other property, to prevent its falling into the hands of the Unionists, General Lovell with his Confederate troops retreated into the interior of the State, and left the city without any other defense except our company of cavalry; but as we had buried our arms and cut the brass buttons off our beautiful brown corduroy suits, the citizens hadn't as much confidence in our ability to defend as they had when the enemy was five hundred miles away. The merchants expected that the Yankees would sack the city, so they threw open their stores and told everybody to take all they wanted. Bush was boarding with me at the time, and as he was one of the biggest eaters in the world, I wanted more than I could carry; so I hired a dray (for which I had to pay $10), and loaded it down to the guards. We put on a hogshead of sugar, twenty-five hams, a sack of coffee, box of tea, firkin of butter, barrel of potatoes, some hominy, beans, canned fruits, etc. I would have put on more, but the dray wouldn't hold it; and as the load started up Canal Street, I thought, when Bush gets away with all that stuff, I'll make him change his boarding-house. After laying in my stock, I went down to the river to see the fleet come in, and there were all of our company, but they did not make the slightest resistance. The Captain said, "It's no use trying to bluff them fellows, for they have got a full hand." BUTLER IN NEW ORLEANS. General Butler took possession of the city the 1st day of May, 1862. His troops gutted the banks, but did not molest the merchants; so those fellows that had given their stuff away were kicking themselves for doing so. He closed up all the gambling-houses, and then issued licenses for public gambling to any one who would pay the fee and take his brother in as a partner. His profits must have been enough to make him independently rich without the spoons. He kept the city very clean, but old yellow-jack got in, and then Ben got a furlough and went up to Washington, and he took the spoons with him. He took the marble statue of Henry Clay out of the state- house at Baton Rouge and shipped it to his home in Massachusetts. He could not hide that as easily as he could the spoons, as after the war the United States Government made him return it, and that nearly killed him. I had the race-track, and was running games out at the lake. I was making a great deal of money, and would work the boats when I had time. Some one told Butler that I called him names, so he sent for me, and threatened to send me to Tortugas, but I talked him out of that. Some of his officers lost their money against my games and then kicked. The result was, old Ben sent for me again. This time I did not get off so easily. He took me before the Provost Judge, who fined me $1,000 and sent me to jail for one year, and no amount of money could get me out. There were some of the best men in the South in with me, and our friends on the outside did not forget us. We had good beds, and everything to eat that the market afforded. We played poker, and I was making money all the time. I would fee the jailer, and at night he would take me out in the city, so that my prison life was not so very bad. Butler made us a visit one day just at dinner time, and when he saw the birds and wine, you should have heard him roar. "Why," said he, "those d----d rascals are living better than I ever did." The jailer told him that our friends sent in the luxuries. He looked at our big beds, shower bath, and other surroundings and said, "I have a d----d notion to send them to the penitentiary;" but the jailer told him it was pulled down, so he had to give up his d----d notion, and we were glad of it. I had been in jail for six months, when one day Governor Shipley visited us. He asked the jailer, "Which is Devol?" I was introduced to him, and he asked me where I was raised. I told him in Ohio. He said the crime I was in for was not so very serious, and he told the jailer to turn me out, and I should come to his office. I was let out, and I reported to the Governor. He told me not to beat the officers; I promised I would not, so I was once more a free man. When Butler heard that I was let out on the Governor's orders, he was mad as the d---l; so, to get even, he confiscated all my horses, which had cost me over $50,000. I had promised the Governor that I would not beat the officers; but I took my promise back when Ben took my horses, and it was not long after that I caught a sucker paymaster for $19,000, and they did not find out who it was that won the greenbacks. I made a pile of money, bought substitutes for some of my horses, and opened up the race-course again. Ben Butler and I got to be friendly, and he gave me two silver spoons to remember him by, and I have them yet. THE PAYMASTER'S $3,500. I remember a game of poker I had once coming down from Cairo to New Orleans, during the war. There was a paymaster in the game who lost about $3,500, and when we got to Memphis I found out before we landed that he was going to squeal; so I went to the mate and asked him to put me where they could not find me, as I knew when the soldiers came down to the boat I would have to divulge. He put me down in a little locker that was forward of the main hatch, and rolled barrels on it to hide the trap-door. Well, they came down, took lights, and searched the boat and hold, the ladies' and gentlemen's cabin, and at last gave up. After I had staid down there for eight hours, the boat left for New Orleans. I came up into the cabin, and you ought to have seen the passengers look at me. They did not know what to make of my appearance before them; but I told them I was up town and did not know anything of what was going on; and I took in many a dollar after that. GENERAL BANKS' DETECTIVE. I had a big game of roulette one night during the war, when the Northern officers were traveling up and down the river. The boat was full of officers, and General Banks was on board. Up stepped a big fellow from Texas, who was a detective for General Banks. He pulled out a $100 Confederate bill, and laid it on the red. I picked it up and said I had no Confederate money to pay him in, in case he won. He got very saucy, and went over to the bar, where I could hear every word he said, and told the barkeeper that as soon as I closed that game he would whip me. So I closed up and sent my wheel down stairs in the locker, and walked up to the bar and asked him to take a drink, so that he would make some remark. He said, "I pick my company." I let drive and knocked the ginger out of him, and kept him spinning around until he yelled out. Then came the rush. General Banks and staff, followed by all the boat's officers. The fellow was bleeding like a stuck pig. The clerk told the General how he talked, and he said he got just what he deserved. I then sent down and got my wheel, opened, and all the officers played except General Banks. I was sorry he did not appreciate the game, and change in a few greenbacks. THE U. S. DETECTIVE'S BLUFF. I was coming up once on the steamer _Fairchild_, of Louisville, and had won considerable money. There was on board a United States detective. He was asleep at the time the games were going on, and when he came to his breakfast the next morning, there was a great deal of kicking going on about the money and diamonds that the gamblers had won the night before. Some of the passengers at the table knew the detective, and when they got through breakfast they all got with him, and they told him finally they would give him half they had lost if he would get it back. So he saw a big opening, and concluded to make a big bluff to get the money. He came to me as I was standing by the office, and said, "Are you the man who won all the money and diamonds last night?" I told him I was the man. He said, "You must give it back--every cent." That made me laugh, and I think it made him mad, for he pulled back his coat and showed me his badge. Well, I thought he was as good a sucker as any of the rest, or he would not make such a break as that; and when he spoke of my swindling them, I said to him, "Now, sir, I will show you just how I beat those fellows;" and I pulled out three cards, and said, "If you will walk over to the table, I will show you; then if you think there is any swindle about it, I will refund every dollar." He said, "All right." I commenced to play them over, and had him guessing lively, when up stepped the capper and took a look at the cards, and said, "I will bet you $500 I can turn the king." He put up the $500, and did not turn the card; so he and the detective began to whisper to each other, the capper telling him about a spot that was on the right card. Then he made a proposition to go me $500 more. I put up the money to cover his, and he turned the right card, took his money and walked away from the game. Then the detective said, "I will bet you $50 myself." I put up. He laid up $50 and turned the right card. One of the bystanders spoke up and said, "He is only baiting you along till he gets a big bet." I replied, "You are about right." He said, "I will bet you $50 once more." So I put up the amount, and he turned the winning card again. So up stepped the capper and said, "I will bet you $1,000 that I can turn it." "That is just the kind of a bet I like to get." I put up $1,000, and he put up his. Just as he was going to turn, he got the detective by the collar and got his advice. So the detective told him which one it was. "Are you sure?" said the capper. "No, not sure when he gets a big bet like that; but I think so." You see, he had been told I was only baiting for a big bet. Well, the result was, the capper won the bet, and that made the detective swell up like a toad. He would not listen to any of the outsiders' talk any more, but offered to bet $200. I said, "If that is all the money you have, you had better keep it." That made him mad, and he pulled out his long pocket-book and said, "I have got as much money as you." "Perhaps," said I, "you might cripple yourself if you lost much money." "No," said he; "I am no child. When I bet on a fair game like this, I expect to either win or lose." He counted out the money, and I saw he had the $100 he won from me and a little more left. I told him I would bet him $1,100 that he could not turn the king; so he put up. Just as he was about to turn the card, I looked at him and said, "I will let you back out, and give you $100 to take down your money and not turn." "No, no," said he; "not I." "Well," I said, "let her go;" and over she went, but he lost this time. He drew a long breath and sat down in a chair, and he looked like a sick kitten. Then he got up and went to his room, and finally came out. I thought there would be the d---l to pay. He called me to one side, and said, "Did you think I was betting in earnest?" "Oh, no," said I, "you were only betting in fun; but I was just keeping in earnest." "Well," said he, "you are not going to keep my money?" "Oh, yes." "I don't care what you do with those other fellows' money, but I want mine," said he, "and I must have it." "Well, you can not have a cent of it." I backed against the bar, and told him he must be crazy if he thought I would give him a cent back, as I never gave a sucker back his money. He then made a motion to his hip; but I had old Betsy Jane in my coat pocket with my hand on it, and my partner was there to assist in holding the fort. He saw his bluff was no good, and he began to give me taffy; saying he had just got that money as a reward for catching a man, and that he had worked six months to get it, and that he had a large family. I told him to go out among the passengers and tell them that he had lost his money at a fair game, and then come to my room and "knock at the back door, and they will not see you come in." Well, he got among them all over the boat, and told them it was a fair game, and he had not a word to say. He came to my room and told me what he had done. I counted out $500 and gave it to him, and told him that if he had not worked so hard for it he never would have got a cent back. So he went off contented, and there was no more squealing on the boat. THE YOUNG MAN FROM NEW YORK. During the war I took my gambling tools and started for Brownsville, Texas, and Metamoras. I took passage on board a screw steamer, which had sails also. There were about forty-five passengers, all told. The first two days out of New Orleans were pleasant; but there came on a squall, which tore the sails into threads and came near swamping the vessel. It stopped blowing in about half an hour, and all was calm. There was a young man on board whose father was a very rich man in New York, and had sent his son over to attend to some business. While in New Orleans he became acquainted with a rich firm, and through his letters from his father they intrusted him with $12,000 to be delivered in Brownsville. It happened that the young man was on deck during the storm, and had to lie flat down and hold on to a coil of chain. After the storm he came into the cabin and said, "I have had bad luck." Of course we were all anxious to know what had happened to him. He said he had had twelve one-thousand-dollar notes in the side pocket of his coat, and the wind had blown his coat over his head, and the bundle went into the Gulf. He said it was money that had been put into his care to be delivered at Brownsville, and that his father would have to stand the loss. We all felt sorry for the fellow, but it soon died out, and there was no more said about it till we got to Brownsville. When we got to Bagdad and took the stage, he sat close to me and commenced talking about losing the money. He said he felt ashamed to show up at the firm's office. That made me think he was crooked, and I concluded to keep an eye on him. We had not finished our dinners at the hotel in Brownsville, when in marched a squad of soldiers, and the Captain asked which man was Devol. I raised up and said, "That is my name." He said the General in command wanted me. "All right," I said. I went down to headquarters, and when I got there the General said, "Where is the money you won from that young man, coming over on the ship?" I told him I played no cards with any young man on the vessel. "Have you got proof of that?" said the business man to whom the money belonged. "Yes," said I, and I sent to the hotel and got the Captain and the purser, who testified that the young man did not play a card coming over. So I was acquitted, and that was the last of it, as they were all satisfied that the boy did nothing wrong, and really had lost the money. But I had him spotted; for it takes a rascal to catch a rascal. The Captain and the purser were the only two who did gamble going over, and they were very fond of poker. So my partner and self sat in, and we played four-handed all the way over. We realized about $1,300, which paid our expenses and a few hundred dollars besides. About six of us agreed to go over to Metamoras that night and spend the evening. The young man said to me that he would like to go along. I said "All right," so we all started, and we had a fine time drinking wine and pony brandy. We went into a gambling-house, and the roulette wheel was going, and a lively game at that. There was one man who was playing very high, and I asked his name. They said it was the Mexican General Cortenas, who was in command of Metamoras. Well, I took out a twenty-dollar bill and laid it on the red, and it came red; I let it lay, and it came red again. I took the $80 and put it over on the black and it won again; so I picked up the money and walked out into the bar-room, and called up every one in the house. At that time a Spaniard would run a knife through you for a dollar, if he caught you in the dark; and a man was not safe to step outside, if they knew he had money on his person. He wanted his pistol in his hand. Well, the young man was delighted with my playing, and said: "I wish you would play again. I want to put in with you and take half your game." "All right," said I; "after a while." I wanted to get a few more ponies into him, for I was sure he had the money. So I changed the drinks to wine, and I could see his eyes snap at every glass. At last I said, "I guess I will make another play." He stepped back into another room, and came to me, and handed me a brand-new one-thousand-dollar bill that had never been crumpled. I handed it back to him, and told him I would put up $500 of my own, and for him to put his money back; that if I lost, he could get it changed and give me $250. "All right," said he; and I bet $100 on the black, and won it. I bet the same on the red, and it came black again. Then I bet $200 on the red, and it came red. The result was, I played along see-sawing until I was $400 winner, and I quit. I handed my friend $200, and told him I was too tight to play with good judgment. We had our fun out, and got over to Brownsville about daylight in the morning. We all slept that day, and went over that night again. We did not gamble any that night, but drank wine and smoked our Havanas, and had a good time in general. That night my friend said to me: "I wish I was as smart as you at cards. I could make plenty of money." I said to him, "I can teach you." "Well," said he, "if you get into any game, I want to be an equal partner." He did not know anything about my partner who came over with me, as I had posted him to keep away from me. My partner was a very quiet fellow, who lived in New Orleans. His name was William McGawley. Well, I told him perhaps I might get up a game with some one. As I was saving him for myself and partner, I did not want the money split up into too many parts. I had too much sense to play in Brownsville, so I fixed up a plan for him and me to take the stage and go to Bagdad, to see if I could not find some one there to play poker. I told McGawley to pay the bill at the hotel, and come to Bagdad the next day with the baggage, which he did. The next evening my young New York friend and I were sitting on the porch at the hotel, when my young friend espied him, and said to me, "You recollect the man who played in the game coming over in the vessel?" "Yes," said I; "there were three besides myself; which one do you mean?" "I don't mean the Captain or the purser, but the other gentleman." "Yes," said I, "I recollect him." "Well," said he, "I just saw him down stairs. I am positive that it is he." I said, "Let us go down and see him." So we both went down and shook hands with him. My New York friend was very much pleased to see him, thinking I might get a game of poker out of him. So I said, "It is very dull here; what will we do to pass away the time?" I said, "Perhaps we might get up a little game of poker to help us out." McGawley consented to play a little while, so we went and got a room in the hotel and some checks. McGawley asked, "What limit will we play?" I said, "There will be no limit in the game." "All right," said he. I did not want to dwell too long on that $12,000. McGawley went out on purpose to let the gentleman get out his money. The New Yorker asked me how much I would require. I said, "It is going to be an unlimited game, and you had better give me what money you can spare, for if I beat one good hand for him I will break him." He handed me six one thousand-dollar notes. Well, we went to work; and you bet it was lively. I started in $2,000 winner, and you ought to have seen my partner's eyes snap. I don't mean McGawley, of course, for he was a quiet as a lamb. Finally my luck changed, and he beat one hand for $4,000. Then I did commence to kick at my bad luck, and we soon made up another purse. After playing some two hours more, McGawley had all our money; so I said to him, "As you have broke us both, will you lend me $1,000 for a few days, until I get some from New Orleans?" He said, "Certainly," pulled out the money and handed it to me, and I gave my New York partner half, saying, "Perhaps we will have better luck next time, as I will have all the money I want, soon, from New Orleans; then I will tackle him again, and of course you are in with everything that I do." I had some $600 in silver that I did not know how to get on board the ship, that laid outside of Bagdad, without paying duty on it. So I went to a man from New Orleans, whom I knew well, by the name of Eugene Dupratt. I told him I had this silver, and asked him if he could get it on board the vessel, as he had lighters running all the time. It was about equal to running the blockade, or smuggling. "Well," said he, "I will take yourself, partner, trunks, and silver, and land you safe on board the ship, for $200." "I will give you the money." That night we slipped the things out of the hotel and got them safely on board the lighter, and were soon on board the vessel, and in two hours were under sail for New Orleans. We got home all right, and in ten days after we landed we were both broke, and ready for another trip. BROKE A SNAP GAME. We left New Orleans on a Red River packet, and had been out about an hour, when a man came up to me and said, "Captain, have you any objection to a man opening faro on your boat?" I said, "No, you can open any time you please." He took me to be Captain Heath, and I knew he did not care. He said, "I will open after supper." It was near that time then, and I thought I must go to work if I wanted to beat this man. I found out what room he occupied, and then told my partner to stay and entertain him till I returned. I went to his room, and found an old-fashioned valise that held his tools. I tried the keys I had, and found one to fit. I opened the valise, took out the cards and punched every one of them; then I put them back and carefully locked the valise, went back and invited them to take a drink. Then we went to supper, and after it was over the old fellow brought out his kit and opened a game. He shuffled and put the cards in the box. I asked him what limit he was going to deal. He said, "If any of you put too much on a card, I'll tell you." A good many of the passengers changed in, and he had a lively game. I stood alongside of him, so I could look down into the deck; and when I saw white show, I would copper in the big square, and my partner would play the other end and middle open--for when the white showed, it would be an ace or deuce. In this way we got the old fellow rattled. He changed decks every deal, but had the same bad luck. We finally broke him, and then won his tools. We returned the latter, paid his passage to Shreveport, and gave him $50. After breaking up the faro man, I said, "Gentlemen, I have a game here in which I only need three cards." I opened out, had a fine play, and took in all the money, watches, and pistols that they had. We were then ready to light out, as we had won $2,000 from the old faro dealer, and about $1,200, besides the watches and pistols, at monte. We bid the boys good-bye, and got off at Baton Rouge. STOLEN MONEY. I landed at Natchez one evening just after dark, on the steamer _General Quitman_. Some one told me that a lady had been robbed of $3,500 that day by some smart thieves. They had watched her go into the bank and draw the money, and then walk over to her carriage, a short distance from the bank. One of the crooks took off his hat, put a pen behind his ear, ran over to the carriage, and said: "Madam, you must excuse me, for I have made a mistake in the money I gave you. You need not get out, but sit still; I will go back and rectify it." She handed him the money, never to see it or him again. After we backed out from Natchez, I opened out my wheel in the barber shop. The passengers came in and played until 1 A. M., when I closed up. While I was packing up my wheel, a fellow came to me and said, "I've got a man with me who has got about $1,700, and I want him to lose it. He loves to play poker; do you think you can beat him?" "Oh, yes," I replied, "I can come pretty near doing it." He said, "I want half, as he is a thief, and no good. I had to divide $3,500 with him that I got in Natchez to-day." "Well, bring him to me, and I will try it;" and he did so. I was not long in doing him up for his part of the stealings. I divided with the other thief, and then opened out my rouge et noir game. The other fellow dropped in, and I won his part of the money, so I had it all. I bid him good night and went to bed; but I could not sleep, because I knew the one I beat last would rob me if he got a chance. I laid in my bed a long time. Presently I heard some one feel the knob of the outside door. I was in the upper berth, and had my pistol under my pillow. My partner was in the lower berth, for he had not been well that night, and went to bed early. Pretty soon, bang went the lock, and a piece of it fell on the floor. Then everything was still for some time, and at last in he came. Just as he commenced to look about him to see how the land lay, I pulled down on him with my gun, as I could see him plainly by the light through the transom. He saw the gun, and did not stop on the order of his going, but he went at once. I got up, dressed myself, and went out to the bar. There was Mr. Thief. I accused him of being in my room, but he denied it. I knew he was lying, but I thought best not to do anything with him, for fear I might have to give up the "stolen money," and I had not lost any myself. SIGNAL SERVICE. Before the war they had an old steamer fitted up as a wharf-boat and lodging-house at Baton Rouge, to accommodate people that landed late at night, or would be waiting for a boat. This old boat was headquarters for the gamblers that ran the river. Many a night we have played cards in the old cabin until morning, or until our boat would arrive. When thoroughbred gamblers meet around the table at a game of cards, then comes the tug of war. We would have some very hard games at times, and we found it pretty hard to hold our own. My partner proposed that we fix up some plan to down the gamblers that played with us on the old boat, so we finally hit upon a scheme. We bored a hole under one of the tables, and another under one of the beds in a state-room opposite. Then we fixed a nail into a spring, and fastened the spring on the under side of the floor, so that the nail would come up through the floor under the table. Next we attached a fine wire to the spring, and ran it up into the state-room. Then we bored a hole in the bulkhead of the state-room, just over the top berth, so that a person could lie in the berth and look out into the cabin. Now we were ready for the thoroughbreds. When we would get one of our smart friends, we would seat him at our table in his chair, which was always on the side of our state-room. We called it ours, for we had fitted it up just to suit us; and for fear some one would use it when we were out traveling for our health, we paid for it all the time. We had a good boy that liked to lie down and make money, so we would put him in the upper berth while the game was in progress. He would look through the peep-hole, and if our friend had one pair he would pull the wire once; if two pair, twice; if threes, three times; if fours, four times, etc. We would kick off one boot and put our foot over the nail, and then we would be able to tell what hand our friend held. One day I was playing a friend at our table, and he was seated in his chair. I got the signals all right for some time, and then the under-current seemed to be broken. I waited for the signals until I could not wait any longer, for I was a little behind (time), so I picked up a spittoon and let fly at our room. That restored communications, and I received the signals all right. My friend wanted to know what I threw the spittoon for. I told him the cards were running so bad that I got mad; and that an old nigger had told me once it was a good sign to kick over a spittoon when playing cards; so I thought I would not only kick it over, but would break the d----d thing all to pieces. He replied, "I noticed that your luck changed just after you threw her, and I will try it the next time I play in bad luck." GOT UP TOO SOON. We were passengers with Captain J. M. White on board the steamer _Katie_, bound for New Orleans, one night, and I had taken a look over the boat, but there was nothing in sight. I was sitting in the hall near the bar, drinking wine and enjoying myself, when a fine looking gentleman came out of his room near by and asked me if supper was over. I told him it was, and asked him to join me in some wine, as he looked like he wanted something. He accepted the invitation, and told me he was hungry. I called the porter and told him to go to the pantry and get the gentleman a lunch, which he did. He thanked me for my kindness, for he thought I acted from pure motives (which I did), and then invited me to join him in some wine. I accepted, for I thought his intentions were honorable. While we were talking and drinking, I asked the barkeeper if he had any of the tickets that the gentleman played the new game with before supper. He said he had, and gave me some of them. I began throwing. We bet the drinks, cigars, and drinks again. I lost most of the time. My capper lost a bet of $500, when the gentleman said: "Good gracious, man! where are your eyes? Can't you see that the baby card has a spot on it?" My partner told him he had not noticed the spot, so the man pointed it out to him. Then he made me another bet, and won. The gentleman then began to think he was smarter than the man who had lost $500 and could not win it back until he told him about the little spot. I saw he was worked up, so I asked him if he wanted to win something before I quit, as I had no idea of betting money on the game when I sat down; but I would bet him $100 he could not turn the card with the baby on. He flashed his leather, when I saw several large bills; but I pretended not to notice them, and said, "Perhaps you had better not bet, for if you lose it might distress you; but if I lose I will not mind it much, as my father has five plantations." He did not like for me to think that the loss of a paltry $100 would distress him, so he said, "I can afford to bet you $2,000, win or lose." That made me mad, so I said, "I will make it $5,000, if you like." He knew he would win; but he was no hog, and did not want me to ask my old dad for money so soon. My partner wanted him to make it $5,000, and offered to take half, but I said, "No; one at a time, gentlemen." Then the fellow put up, saying to my partner, "I thank you, but I am able to take it myself." He turned the spotted fawn, and found that, if he was not a hog, he was a sucker. I then told him I thought he was too much excited, and invited him to join me in a drink; for I was always very liberal about treating a man that had but little if any money. He accepted the invitation, for now he knew I was a gentleman, and that my motives were honorable. After taking our drinks, he bid me good-night and walked away, and I thought I heard him say, "I would have been better off if I had remained in bed until morning." I thought myself that he "got up too soon." THE YELLOW JEANS. At one time on the Upper Mississippi, while playing monte, I caught a Jew from Quincy, Ill., who had been down to St. Louis buying a stock of jewelry. I won all his money and the most of his best jewelry. I would not gamble for anything but good stuff in the jewelry line. After I beat the Jew he set up a big kick, and got some of the other losers to join him. They finally agreed that they would make me give up; so they all got after me, and I knew there would be some fun. I got my gun, backed up against the side of the cabin, and said: "Now, gentlemen, I am ready to pay out; the bank is open. The first one that comes shall be the first served, so don't be backward." But, somehow or another, no one wanted to be first, and I stood pat until the boat landed at a town called Warsaw; then I backed out of the cabin, down stairs, and off the boat. When they saw me on the shore, they set up a yell of "Police! Police! Arrest the fellow with the yellow jeans suit." The marshal came running down, and I told him I was the man they wanted arrested; so he waltzed me up to town, and nearly all the passengers followed us--some to get their money back, and others to see the fun. The Captain said he would hold the boat if they would decide the case at once, so the Mayor convened his court and we went into the trial. I had sent for the best lawyer in the town, and he said he would clear me for $50. The Jew was put on the stand, and he swore I snatched his jewelry from him, and a great deal more of the same sort. Some of the passengers that had seen the game swore they did not see any body do any snatching except the Jew. My lawyer handled the case so nicely that I was acquitted. Then you should have heard the passengers laugh at the Jew for all his trouble. They would ask him if he did not want to trade some jewelry for a yellow jeans suit; but he did not have any good jewelry left, and he knew I was not sucker enough to trade for any other kind. There was another boat at the landing, and many of the passengers went up to hear the trial. I went on board the other boat, and in a short time was on my way back to St. Louis. During the trip I ran up a poker hand in a game of euchre, and lifted a man out of $300, which more than paid the expenses of the trial. HE KNEW MY HAND. We were on board a Red River packet called the _J. K. Bell_, and we had not made any preparations to gamble. After a while a gentleman came up and asked me if I ever played poker. My partners, Tom Brown and Holly Chappell, and some of the officers of the boat, were sitting there and heard the conversation. They had to put their handkerchiefs in their mouths to keep from laughing, when they heard my answer, "No, I did not." "Well," said he, "I will teach you if you will sit down." He got a deck of cards at the bar, and commenced to show me which were the best hands. I at last agreed to play ten-cent ante. We played along, and I was amused to see him stocking the cards (or at least trying to do so). He gave me three queens, and I lost $10 on them, for he beat them with three aces. Presently he beat a full hand and won $25. That made him think his man was a good sucker. I always laughed at my losing, and kept telling him that after a while I would commence to bet higher. I pulled out a big roll of bills and laid it on the table. Finally I held out four fives, and then I went a big blind on his deal, so that if he did not come in I would throw down my hand, and perhaps there would be no pair in it. About this time he commenced to work with the cards, but I paid very little attention to his work. After playing a while I got three jacks, and then we commenced to bet high. He raised me, and I raised him back, and at last he thought we had enough up. Then I got away with the hand he gave me, and pulled up the four fives. Then the betting became lively. I made him call me; and when he saw my hand, and I had got the money, he grabbed at me and said, "That is not the hand you had." "How the d---l do you know what I had?" "Well," says he, "where are the other five cards?" "I don't know what you are talking about." He counted the cards carefully and found the jacks, for I had palmed them on top of the deck. Then he pulled out his knife and said, "You are a gambler, and I want my money back." "Oh, is that all? I did not understand. I will give it back, as I don't want to keep your money if you think I did not win it fairly." I let on as though I was taking out the money, when I pulled out old Betsy Jane. He saw her looking him in the face, and he wilted like a calf. I made him apologize, and you never saw a man get such a turning over as they all gave him. They told him he not pick out such apt scholars, for they learn too quickly. What hurt my feelings more than anything else was, that he would not speak to me all the way up to where I got off. As I was leaving the boat I said to him, "Good-bye, sir. We are never too old to learn." HER EYES WERE OPENED. High Miller and I were playing monte one night on the first _J. M. White_, and had a good game, and made some money. We were about to close up, when a lady and gentleman passed by and saw High throwing the little tempters. They stopped and watched him. I saw they were interested, so I stepped up and lost $100. Then they came back and asked High what kind of a game he was playing. He told them it was the pawn-shop game. The lady wanted to know why he called it pawn-shop? "Because I have two chances to your one," said High. They laughed, and were starting away, when they noticed me turn up a corner on one of the cards. The lady nudged her husband. I made a bet of $500, and won it. The gentleman dropped the lady's arm, got out his money, and put up $100. High told him that he would not bet less than $500; but the gentleman did not want but $100 worth. Then his help-mate tempted him, saying, "It is good." So the man hearkened unto the voice of his wife, put up the $500, turned a card and lost. While High was putting away the money, I grabbed up the right card and turned up the corner again. Then I offered to bet him $1,000 that I could turn the winner. While this was going on the lady was giving her better half a piece of her mind. She was telling him that he was a fool; that he could not see anything, and that she could turn the right card every time. She got out her purse, took out $80 in gold, and asked him how much money he had left. He told her $70. She said, "Give it to me, and I will show you that a woman can beat a man every time." I was counting out my money to put up, when the lady asked me if I would not let her bet first. I said, "Certainly;" for I knew a man never lost anything by being polite to the ladies, and in this particular case I could see we were going to gain $150. High told her he never bet with ladies, but if she would hand the money to her husband he would bet with him. "Him!" says she, "He can't see as well now as when he picked me out for a wife. No, no; he shan't bet any of my money." "All right," says High. So she put up the money. High put up the same amount, and she watched him as though she was afraid he was not going to put up the full $150. After mixing them up a little, High said, "Ready!" The woman took up the card, turned it over, saw it, and then threw it down, instead of giving it to her husband that he also could see. She then took her husband's arm and said, "Come away; _my eyes are open_; if we stay here that man will win you next, and I don't want to lose you if you are a fool, and can't see as well now as when we were married." We had a good laugh, took something, and then High said, "George, that woman's a game one; what do you say to giving her back the gold?" "All right," says I. So he offered me the $80, and wanted me to return it. I told him I was not afraid of any man, but, said I, "That woman has got her eyes open, and she may think I am your partner." "No, George," says he, "You closed her eyes when you were putting up that $1,000, and gave way to accommodate a lady; she knows you are a gentleman, and would not have anything to do with gamblers, except to do them the favor of returning money they had won from suckers." His fine words lured me into the trap, so I took the gold and found the lady. I told her that the gambler was sorry he had allowed her to bet, and had requested me to return the money. She looked at me a moment, with her eyes wide open, and said, "I will greatly multiply thy sorrow by refusing to accept the money, and may it be a sorrow to you gamblers all the days of your lives." THE JACK-FISH. My old partner Bush and I would play the trains on the Jackson Road out about forty miles above New Orleans, and then get off and wait for a down train. Some times we would be compelled to get off before we had gone that far; but, as a general thing, it would be about that distance before we would get our work in on the suckers. We would go up in the morning to a place called Manshak, and fish until the train would come down in the evening. One day we were fishing and had got some distance apart, when I saw a school of large jack-fish coming down like lightning. I jumped up and grabbed a pike pole that was lying near, slipped the noose over my hand and let fly at them. I struck a big fellow, but he did not stop; he kept right on and pulled me in after him. I yelled to Bush, and he came running to assist me; he reached me a long pole, and then pulled me out. The rope was still on my hand, and the fish was on the pike pole, so we pulled him out, and he weighed about sixty pounds. We took him down on the evening train, and had a part of him broiled for our supper. Bush said it was the largest fish he ever caught. I told him I caught it, when he said: "Why, George, I caught you both." RED AND BLACK. I have been in some big games in my day, and have always been ready to win a dollar or so whenever I saw a chance. Often in the flush times after the war I have stood up in the bar-room and tossed up a silver dollar or a twenty-dollar gold piece, "heads or tails," for from a hundred to five hundred dollars a throw, and have even indulged in the innocent amusement of spitting at a mark--the money, of course, going to the one that came nearest the spot. But of all the games that I ever ran, I think the biggest was during the war, just after Captain Leathers had purchased the elegant steamer _Magenta_. The soldiers of the Union Army had burned his fine boat, the _Natchez_. The story illustrates the old saying, that one good turn deserves another. When we left New Orleans the boat was full of passengers, and the trip was worth $3,000 to the boat. Reaching Memphis, the Captain soon saw that his chances for a big trip were the best that he had ever had. The boat was loaded to the guards with cotton, and the passenger list was 2350, most of them being cotton brokers, who, of course, carried a great deal of ready money with them. After supper the boat laid up, and commenced blowing off steam. I stepped up to the Captain's office and said to Bob Owens, the clerk: "Bob, what's up--what's the boat laying here for?" "We are in a fix, haven't got enough money in the office to pay the charges on the cotton. It's too late to get anything from the banks, and we shall have to borrow." I took in the situation in a twinkling, and said: "You needn't look any further; perhaps I can let you have all you want." Bob's face brightened up as he said: "I can get along with $1,000." In ten minutes the money was in his hands and the boat under way. The supper was over and tables cleared, when I opened out my game of _rouge et noir_, and it started in big at once. There were twenty-five players, and the smallest money on the table was fifty dollars. At the end of every deal I opened four bottles of wine, which cost me twenty dollars, as the sparkling vintage was then worth five dollars a bottle. There was one man at the table who got pretty full, and finally commenced to put down a thousand dollars at a bet. I was somewhat surprised to see him roll out three thousand-dollar snapping new bills, and put them down. At first I supposed he was a paymaster in the army, but soon learned that he was a cotton buyer, operating for a rich New York firm. Everything was moving on swimmingly, when up came a contractor from Memphis, whose name was Harper. He was a knowing sort of chap; perhaps best described as a "smart aleck." He began to "nip out." I stood it for some time, but finally let go all holds, and started after him, and soon had him broke, though in doing so I lost $12,000 that I had won from the New York party. Then he began to kick, and said the game was not fair; that he was going to have his money back, and threatened to bring up the crew of seventy-five men that he had on board, who had been working on the levee. I sent a message to the mate telling him what to watch out for, so he armed all of the boat's crew, roustabouts and all, with clubs and stone coal, and stationed them at the foot of the stairs; that brought matters to a stand-still. The contractor's men weakened, and the players who were the heaviest losers wanted the throw the contractor overboard, as they said the game was on the square and perfectly fair. There was so much noise made, however, that the passengers began to come out of their state-rooms. The Captain hurried down from the hurricane roof, and ominously shook his head; so I cleared the game, and all was quiet once more. I settled my bar bill, which was $375; and, counting over my money, found I was exactly $19,000 winner, and had I not been disturbed or molested might have won $150,000, as there was more money on board then I ever saw in my life before, and all the men were "high rollers." That night the contractor and his men got off; the players sobered up, and we resumed operations; but the playing was not so large, nor the players so venturesome. Still I kept the game open till we reached our destination, and came out a few thousands more ahead. HE NEVER KNEW. There are always men who have some scheme on hand--some trick or device that is a sure winner. It may be a system, a combination, marked cards, or something of the sort. Such a man was John Brogan, of Alexandria. His stronghold was marked cards. He had played with them for years, and had been remarkably successful, having accumulated considerable property. I was once coming down the Red River, when I made the acquaintance of a shrewd fellow named Neice. He used a small concave reflector about the size of a gold dollar, which he placed in the pile of chips before him, and which in dealing the cards enabled him to see every card, and where it went. He generally played with gamblers, and so adroit was he in his manipulations that they were unable to catch him. I made up my mind that we could both make some money, so I told him that I had a man for him who was well heeled. He was willing to help me, and we started for Alexandria. I got the Captain to land about three miles above the city, and put off my partner, whom I had thoroughly posted. When I reached Alexandria I went at once to the Ice House, for that was the odd name given to the hotel, where I soon found Brogan; and having had a good shake of the hand and a few drinks, we sat down for a social chat about old times, beguiling away the time with choice Havanas. We had been chatting away for about an hour and a half, when a rough-looking fellow walked into the bar-room and asked if he could get a dram. "I've come a good distance," he said, "and am very tired. The fact is, I have been out in the back country looking up a mill site, and tramped 'round a good deal more than I calculated." "Take something with me, my friend," spoke up Brogan. "I don't mind," and we all three took a drink together. The stranger called shortly for another round, and as he settled, pulled out a roll of bills as big as a pillow, that at once caught Brogan's eyes. He gave me a significant hunch. After supper the miller walked into the bar-room, purchased a cigar, and walked out. Then Brogan said to me, "How is the best way to get some of that money?" I told him, "I'll play monte for you; perhaps he'll bite at that." John hunted around, and soon brought the miller into the bar-room again. I was up to snuff, and made my talk and showed my cards, and John won $100 from me. Then the miller said, "I'll take a hand." He lost $200. I kept on playing the cards, but the miller would bet no more, remarking to me, "I think you are a sharper." John then asked the miller if he ever played poker. "Oh, sometimes; I used to play for a quarter ante." "Let's have a little game, then, to pass away time." The game began, and Brogan trotted out his marked cards. I insisted on playing, but the miller said, "No, that I was too smart." So, somewhat crestfallen, I walked out and took a stroll, and was gone perhaps a couple of hours. When I returned they were playing for ten dollars ante, and Brogan was losing very fast. I remained around the card table only for a short time and then went away. When I came back the miller had won every dollar Brogan had as well as his diamonds, amounting to something like $4,500. Brogan came to me and wanted to borrow $500. I said, "Certainly, you can have it; but, John, you are drinking too much; take my advice and wait till morning." "All right; then my luck will change." "Of course, and that miller will be on hand." Late that night a boat came along, and the miller skipped out. Morning came and I bade John Brogan good-bye. Poor fellow; he never knew why his marked cards didn't work, and I never told him. Both John Brogan and Neice have been dead many years, and, I trust, are happy in the spirit land--perhaps playing chuck-a-luck, marked cards, and concave reflectors with St. Peter and the Apostles. THE BLACK MAN. We were playing monte in the barber shop on board a steamer on one occasion, when a big black fellow, who had been watching the game through the window, asked me if I would bet with a black man. I had never gambled with the niggers, for in those days they were nearly all slaves, and had but little money, and I was looking for suckers who could afford to lose. So I inquired of this big fellow how much he wanted to bet. He said, "I'll bet five or ten dollars." I replied, "If that is all you have, you had better keep it; for I don't want to win a black man's money anyway." That got his African blood up, and he pulled out a pretty big roll, saying, "I got money, massa, if I is a black man." I saw he was well fixed, and so I asked him how he made his money. He replied, "I's a planter, sir, and I just done and sold my cotton." I took out ten twenty-dollar gold pieces, and said, "I will bet you all this against what you have in your hand." "Oh, no, honey," says he, "I got more'n dat." "Then I'll bet you this," I said, pulling out a thousand-dollar note. He put his money down and turned the card, and it was fun to see him open that big mouth, roll the whites of his eyes up, and then throw up both hands, ejaculating: "Laws golly! if dis old nigger hasn't done gone and lost his eyesight, sho 'nuf." THE PERSUADER. Bluff is a good game, and sometimes it will turn a trick when everything else fails. I boarded Morgan's Railroad, as it was called, upon one occasion at Algiers. Trains on that road were generally full of suckers, as the road connected with the Galveston steamers at Burwick's Bay. Tom Brown and Holly Chappell, my partners, were both along; and as game was plenty along the road, we carried our shotguns along, and in the event of no bigger game were accustomed to get off and shoot snipe, catching the return train to the city in the evening. Sure enough, there was a party of traders aboard, and Brown lost no time in making their acquaintance and opening out. One of them commenced to cut his clothes the minute he got a glimpse of the corner after Chappell made one cap. To make matters more binding, I came up and lost $1,200. Then the ball opened, and it was not more than half and hour before we had downed the party. Then the devil was to pay. One of the party said: "Look here; I must have my money back, or h--l will flop around here mighty quick." Then they all joined in and made a big kick; and as I saw fun brewing, I slipped into the baggage-car, changed hats and coats with the baggage-master, got his badge and my double-barrelled shotgun. Then I rushed into the car and drew the bead on the party who had collected around the boys, giving a war-whoop and demanding in stentorian tones, "Who has been playing cards in this car?" "I have," said Brown. "Get off this train mighty quick;" and I pulled the rope. My partners lost no time in getting off. Pulling the rope again, the train started; and when the conductor came back, I explained that somebody would have been hurt, had I not acted as I did. This was satisfactory, and going back he told the party that gambling on the road was against the rules, and that he could have them all arrested when the bay was reached, if he wished. This had the effect of quieting them down, especially as they knew that the man who had won their money was off the train. I was not long in reaching the baggage-car and returning the borrowed articles, and quietly slipping off at the first station, not forgetting my shotgun. Hunting was good that day, and I bagged ten snipe and thirteen robbins, which the boys helped me eat at our old friend Cassidy's restaurant, on Gravier Street, opposite the St. Charles Hotel. The boys all agreed that my conduct was all that saved the boodle, which consisted of $3,300 and two gold watches. Thus it is that a little management, backed by a double-barrelled shotgun and an official badge, is often times a powerful persuader. I HAD FRIENDS. I was coming down from Baton Rouge one night in a stern-wheel boat. The night before I had gone up and had been pretty lucky, so I resolved to try and reach New Orleans in time for the next evening's packet. McGawley, my partner at the time, was along; and as we took a survey of the passengers, we noticed that most of them were raftsmen who had just been paid off. They were a pretty tough lot, but appeared to be well heeled, so I was not long in making up my mind to see the color of their money. I managed to scrape an acquaintance with a couple of them, and invited them to drink; then I proposed a game of euchre, to which both agreed. We made it four- handed, and played for the drinks, then the cigars, until finally I resolved to feel one of them; so I ran him up a hand. He sat on my left, and ordered me up. I gave him the laugh and said, "I'll euchre you." "I'll just bet you $20 you don't," he quickly replied. "Here's $100 I do." Borrowing $30 of his partner, he said, "I'll take that bet." Of course I euchred him, as I said I would; but the game broke up, and as I was winner I paid the bar bill. It was not long before I noticed some of them talking suspiciously together among themselves, and I deemed it the part of prudence to slip into my state-room and get my gun, for then I was not particularly disturbed as to what they proposed to do. They began to patronize the bar pretty extensively, and asked the barkeeper who I was. He replied that he did not know. They said that one of the negroes had said that I was a gambler, and they were going to lick me before I got off the boat. The barkeeper soon found an opportunity to tell me what was up; and as I did not have much confidence in my partner as a fighter, I concluded I was in for it. I knew, however, that he was no coward, and if he was attacked would fight. The barkeeper handed me a "billy," and I strolled back to the barber shop, where several of them were gathered together. Returning through the cabin to the bar, I was accosted by one of them, but paid no attention. Two of them at last approached me as I stood with my back to the bar, when one of them remarked, "I don't think you won that money fair." "I don't care a d--n whether I did or not," I quickly retorted. So he cut loose at me, and I caught his blow on my arm, let go my left duke and downed him at once. That was the signal for the circus to open. They all rushed in, and I began to lay them out as fast as I could with the billy. Every whack brought blood and a heavy fall. McGawley and the barkeeper took a hand, the former hurling a spittoon that cracked a fellow's head open and sent the blood spurting, while the latter brought a bottle on a raftsman's skull that raised a welt as big as a cocoanut. Then the Captain rushed in, and the mate followed with a gang of roustabouts, who soon had quiet restored. I was hit pretty hard with a chair, otherwise my injuries were not serious. I did not use my revolver, as none were drawn, for I never wanted to kill any man. THE LAP-ROBE. My dear old mother--she lived to be ninety-three years old--God bless her. I can see her now, with her silvered hair and tottering step. She used to pray for her wild son George, and on one occasion (I guess it was the result of her prayers) I did a good act that I have always been proud of, and I received the prayers of all the ladies of the church for it. I was in the South at the time, and on board a packet that was laid up at Natchez for a few hours. Some of the ladies of a prominent church there sent down a magnificently embroidered lap-rope, wishing to raise $100 on it. I took ten chances at $5 a chance, and then circulated among the passengers and easily raised a good sum. We shook the box, and one of my throws won. Of course I had to set up the wine; but I put up the robe again, and got one of the blackest men on the boat to throw for me, and a second time I won. A third time the robe went up, and this time for good; but not until $400 was realized, which was sent to the delighted ladies. I think that money spent did me more good than any that I ever squandered, for I was the recipient of the thanks as well as the prayers of the ladies. THE PREACHER AWAY FROM HOME. Ever since the days when Joseph's brothers gambled for his coat of many colors when they put him in the pit, the desire to venture in games of chance has been rampant in the human breast, and even "men of the cloth" have proved no exception to the rule. I recall an instance when I was going down the river on the _Natchez_. As I got aboard the boat I said to myself, "Everything looks blue; I've got no partner, and I don't think there is a dollar in sight." I scanned over the faces of the passengers, and soon found one of the old boys who formerly used to play a little, but who had now foresworn cards and become a prominent railroad magnate in New Orleans. Bob and myself were soon talking over old times and sipping juleps, until at last we got a stack of chips and a deck of cards, and began to play for a small limit. Presently a tall, portly, fine looking gentleman came up to the table, and appeared to be so interested that I invited him to take a hand, as we were playing for a small limit just to pass away time. He readily consented, and the game went on smoothly enough, when I ran him out three queens and helped myself to three kings, and gave Bob the office to remain in, as I wanted him to cross- lift, which he did. The game was a two-dollar limit, and at last we got him in for about fifty dollars before the draw. After the draw things livened up; he bet two dollars, Bob went two better, and I chipped in two better than both of them. We got him in for about $100, when he borrowed $20, and we still kept on raising him until we were confident he could raise no more money. Hands were shown, and the portly man wilted like a leaf before a November blast, but never even murmured a kick, and I soon knew the reason why, for Captain Leathers came up to me and whispered: "Why, George, do you know who that was you were playing with?" "I do not." "He's a preacher; I have heard him in the pulpit many a time, and I know that he stands very high all along the coast. I don't know what to make of his gambling here to-night." I never mentioned his name, and I knew the Captain would not; and as for Bob, he'd never say a word, for he was afraid I'd give the snap away; and as for me, I had my reasons for keeping quiet, since Bob was always generous with his passes, and John Kilkenny would have the laugh on him; for all are now strict church goers. A SHREWD TRICK. Some men are born rascals, some men have rascality thrust upon them, others achieve it. This is a story of a chap that I think must have had a birthmark of knavery somewhere concealed about his body. It was during the war, and I was going up on the steamer _Fashion_, Captain Pratt. I was dealing red and black, and had a big game, as there were a number of cotton buyers on board. One of them was a fine appearing gentleman from New York, who was soon $3,800 loser; then he began to play reckless, and was still followed by his bad luck. I noticed his nervousness, and came to the conclusion that he was not playing with his own money. Finally looking up, he said, "How much will you turn for?" Noticing his excited condition, I said, "Put down as much as you think proper, and if you go too high I'll tell you." With that he pulled out a long pocket-book, and drawing forth a roll of hundred- dollar bills threw them on the red. I picked up the money and counted it, and found there were thirty-three one-hundred-dollar bills. "That's beyond my limit," I said; "but as I know you are a great deal heavier loser than that, I'll give you a chance to get even, so crack her down." I made a turn, he lost. With a trembling hand and wild eye he counted out the balance of his money and laid it before me, saying: "This is my last bet; if I lose, there is $4,000, and there is $200 more. Will you turn for it?" "Lay her up," was all I said. Down it went, just as any high-roller would do if he had some one else's money; he lost, and fell back in his chair in a dead faint; ice water was brought and he was revived. After the game he came to me and said, "Not a dollar of that money was my own; it belonged to a wealthy New York firm, one of the members of which I was to meet in New Orleans, and render an account." I told him that he would have to say that the money was invested in cotton that would be shipped in a few days. "That will give you time to skip," I said, "for the affair is bound to come out, and then you will be in trouble." "No," he said, "I won't run away. I have thought of a plan that will let me out of the scrape. There is another man on the boat who is buying for the same firm. I will go to him and get a bundle of money which I will hand to you privately, and then you come before the passengers and hand it to me. You can say, 'I don't want your money, so here it is, take it.' I will thank you kindly, and there will be plenty of witnesses to say that I did not lose the money gambling." I did exactly as the fellow wanted, much to the astonishment of the passengers, who said that I must either be the biggest-hearted man in the country, or the biggest fool that ever ran unhung, to give a man back that much money after fairly winning it. When New Orleans was reached I was arrested, but easily proved that I had returned the money, or rather refused to take it, and was discharged; but the good old greenbacks were safe in my inside pocket, all the same. MULES FOR LUCK. In the flush days of gambling on the Mississippi I used to take everything. If a man did not have the money, I would not refuse diamonds or a stock of goods. On one occasion, when I was going from Memphis to Cairo on the _Belle of Memphis_, a little game was started, and I won ten first-class mules. A bill of sale was drawn up, but when I went to land the mules at Cairo, the former owner began to kick, so I had them transferred to another boat that was lying alongside of us, and bound for St. Louis. The man hated to part with his mules, and went down pawing and clamoring among them until one of them gave him a severe kick which nearly proved fatal. At last they doctored him up so he could talk. We were then _en route_ for St. Louis, but I was too smart to take them there, so I disembarked at Cape Girardeau, and sold the mules at a reduced price, for what did a gambler want with a pack of hungry mules trailing around after him anyhow? THE CATTLE BUYER. We had been playing monte one night on the steamer _Southern Belle_, out from New Orleans, and had closed up. My partner was sitting out on the guards, and I was in the hall near the bar, when I saw a gentleman coming down the cabin toward me. I stepped up and ordered a drink, and as the man came up I invited him to join me. He accepted, and we entered into conversation. I proposed a game of euchre to pass the time; he assented, and we sat down. He proposed to play for ten dollars a game, as it would be more interesting. I said, "All right." I found him one of the best players I had ever met. He beat me two straight games, and I saw I could not beat him on the square, so I began to complain of my bad luck, and said the deck was unlucky to me. He proposed that we get another, so I told the barkeeper to bring us a new deck of cards, which he did, and when he put them on the table I saw they were my old friends. At this time my partner came up to the table and remarked: "You gentlemen seem to be enjoying yourselves." I replied, "We have played four games, and it's a stand-off." He then said, "If you were playing poker, I would like to take a hand." The gentleman said, "That will suit me, if you are satisfied." I said, "All right," and I invited my partner to sit in, which he did. We bought fifty checks each at a dollar apiece, and commenced playing. There were a great many of the passengers around the table, so we played on the square until everybody went to bed and left us alone; then I ran him up three large jacks, and gave my partner three queens, and guarded both hands so that nothing could drop in. Our friend was on my left, and had up a big blind; my partner just saw his blind. I exposed my hand and said, "That is too good a pot to lose, so I will raise you gentlemen $150." Our friend put up, and my partner said, "I believe you are both bluffing; I see that and raise you $100." I did not want to drive our friend out, so I raised $100. He put up, and we came to a draw. They both took two cards, and I stood pat with a nine-spot high. It was my partner's first bet; he hesitated, and finally bet but fifty dollars. I gave them one of those old "go-your-money" laughs, and said, "Boys, I have you both," and I put up $500. Our friend saw it and raised back $500. My partner looked at his hand, and after a while said, "I will call." I then bet $1,000 cold. They both called, and we showed down. The three queens just beat the three jacks, and I said, "I was trying to win that pot on a bluff." Our friend remarked it was not safe to bluff when such hands were out against you. I said, "That is so, but I thought you were both bluffing." We had something to drink, and started in again. I ran up two hands, giving our friend three aces, and taking four tens myself. I did not give my partner anything, as I wanted him to do the tipping. The betting began, and it was pretty lively. When we came to the draw, our friend took two cards and I took one, remarking at the same time, "If I can fill this flush, good evening to you fellows." The betting was lively, and finally came to a call. We showed down, and I took in $4,700. Our friend was no kicker, but was as game a man as I ever met. He got up, laughed, and said, "Gentlemen, let's take a drink, and I will go to bed." He bade us good-night and went to his room. I learned during our play that he was a large cattle buyer from Texas. We got a nice slice of his cattle money; but I must say that he could hold his own with anyone in a square game of poker; but with two old sharks, and a deck of marked cards, there is no man that can win much money, as his bluffs don't go. EVEN THE JUDGES DO IT. The love of gambling is confined to no class of people. Preachers and lawyers, doctors and men of business, are as susceptible to the smiles of the fickle goddess of fortune as well as the roughest men. George Hardy and myself were once going from Jackson, Mississippi, to Vicksburg, and, for want of something better to do, fell to talking over old times and tricks with cards. Near by sat a gentleman who appeared interested in our conversation, and I asked George who it was, as I had often seen him at Vicksburg. "Why, that's Judge so-and-so," and he introduced me. Pretty soon George remarked, "Devol, you ought to show the Judge the baby ticket," and as I had just played the trick for a joke, I said, "Yes, Judge, I have one of the best games for the drinks in the world; they play it out West altogether now instead of dice." Of course, he was anxious to see how it was done. Taking out some cards, the Judge was greatly amused, and at last George offered to bet me $50 that he could turn the card. I took him up, and he lost. Then the Judge, not at all discouraged by George's ill luck, said he could turn it up for $50; but I told him I did not want to bet with him, since he had never seen the game before. At last I consented to go him once. He turned the card and lost, and then I thought that George would die with laughter. This only riled the Judge, who was now bent on getting even; so he put up his gold watch and chain, and lost them. He was satisfied then, and the next day sent around a friend and redeemed them. George remarked, "The Judge stands very high in this vicinity, so never say anything about this transaction;" and as I never did, I do not suppose George did. George had no idea that the Judge would bet. Both the parties are still living, and will, when they see this in cold type, heartily enjoy the story. NO PLAY ON THIS BOAT. Captain Dan Musselman, who was running the _Belle of Memphis_ from Memphis to Cairo, said to me one day as I got aboard his craft at Memphis, "George, I don't want you to play that monte on this boat." "All right," I replied, as smiling as a maid of sixteen. As we were near Hickman, Ky., I downed a fellow in the barber shop for the trifling sum of $900. Up stairs the fellow rushed in hot haste to the Captain to try and get his money back. I remained talking with Captain Bill Thorwegon, of St. Louis. In came the Captain and said, "George, did you win this man's money?" "Yes, sir, I did;" as frankly as a school boy saying his catechism. "Did I not tell you not to play that game on this boat?" "Yes, sir; but, Captain, the man dared me to bet, and I wouldn't take a dare from any man." "Well, you'll have to go ashore at Hickman." The boat was then about three miles below, and I had a faint recollection that there was a man living at Hickman that I had beat only a short time before, so I said to the Captain, "You can't land her too quick to suit me. Put her into the bank as soon as you can." Captain Thorwegon tried to dissuade me, but I was obstinate, and insisted on being landed at once. Dunlap, my partner, was ripping mad at my obstinacy, as it was dark, raining, and in the woods. Out went the gang plank, however, and we on it, armed with some matches, cigars, and a bottle of whisky. A big tree was soon found, a fire started, and after patronizing the whisky bottle, and sampling the cigars, we turned in for the night. Towards morning I was awakened by a noise, and found that Dunlap, my partner, was on fire. I woke him up and rushed him down into the river, only a distance of about fifty feet, and he came out looking like the worst tramp that ever was on the road. His coat was burned off, and also one leg of his pantaloons, so he walked to Hickman and purchased new clothes, and, boarding the first boat down, induced the Captain to stop for me; and we returned to Memphis $900 ahead, but sadder and wiser men. THE GREEN COW-BOY. I always had a great love for horse-flesh, and it is many a dollar I have won and lost on the turf. In flush times, just after the war, I was taking a lot of race-horses over to Mobile, and had got them all nicely quartered on the boat and was taking a smoke on the boiler-deck, when a stranger approached me. "Are you the gentleman who brought those horses over from New Orleans?" "Yes, sir." "There is one that I would like to buy." "And that one?" "The pacing horse." "Can't sell him; need him in the races that I'm giving every week." At supper we sat together, and after supper we chatted for a long time. My partner sat near by, and knew what I was nursing him for. He let me know that he was from Texas, and towards 10 o'clock I asked him if he played euchre. He loved the game very much, and played a great deal. "Suppose we amuse ourselves, if we can find a deck of cards," I suggested; and we sat down, playing single- handed until most of the passengers had retired. When I took out my watch at 1 o'clock, a rough looking fellow, unshaven and long- haired, with a huge Buffalo Bill hat on his head, came up to the table and said he was from Texas, and had never been in this part of the country before. "What part of Texas are you from?" asked my friend, who appeared to be taken with the green country manners of the Texan. "Wall, I live on a ranch twenty-five odd miles from El Paso." "What brought you so far away from home?" "Me and my pap came over with cattle, sir, and they's all over in pens in New Orleans. I reckoned as how we'd lose 'em all coming across the sea, and pap was skeered, so he never went to bed till we got them steers in the pens. I didn't want to go with pap when he started with them thar steers; but pap is the oldest, and I had to mind him." "But what did you come to Mobile for?:" "Well, I'll tell you. I got talking to a fellar, and he told me that if I would go over with him on the ship that he would buy all my critters; so I asked pap if I might go, and he said yes; but I'm kinder sorry I went now, for I got lost from that fellar and never laid eyes on him after we got over thar. He told me to pay his fare, and when he got over thar he would give me back the money; but I reckon he went after the money and got lost. But I haint going to say a word to pap, for I got to pranking with a fellow on the ship, and I'll be gol'darned if I didn't lose $1,000; but pap won't find it out, for I had $10,000 what I been saving to buy me a ranch, and I shan't tell pap anything about it." "How did you come to lose your money, stranger?" I asked. "Wall, look here; I never seen such a thing. He had some tickets, and he would mix 'em up--sorter jumble 'em together--and then he would bet you that you couldn't lift the one that had the little baby on it. So I just watched it, and I just cut my coat to get the money, for mam she sewed it up before I started. Well, I just laid down my greenbacks, and I didn't lift the boy, and he kept my greenbacks; then he went off and left his tickets lying on the bench, so I'm going to take them home with me, but I won't tell I lost anything." "Let me see them," I said. "Will you give 'em back?" "Oh, certainly." So he pulled them out, and my friend and myself had never seen anything like them before; so I said, "Show us how he did the trick." He showed us the best he could; then I caught up the one with the boy on it, and turned the corner and showed it to my friend, and gave him a quiet hunch under the table as I laid it down, and asked if he would bet on it. He said, "When I get back home I'm going to larn it, so I can win all the money I want." "Will you bet a drink that I can't guess it the first time?" I said. He mixed them up and observed, "I'll go you a dram." I bet, and my friend was pleased to see what a fool I was; and I told my friend to bet him another dram that he could pick it up. But I said, "Don't touch the one that has the corner turned up;" and he did as I said. That made the cow-boy laugh, who broke out in his peculiar vernacular: "Oh, you old fools with store clothes on can't tell it no how." Then I observed to my friend, "I am going to have some of that money; for that fool will never get back, for some one will win it sure." I began jesting and playing the fellow, till at last I dared him to bet me $100 on it, and he said, "I won't take a dare," and pulled out about $4,000 in greenbacks, all in hundred-dollar bills. I laid my $100 on the table, all in small bills; so when he commenced to put up his, I counted him out of $100, and that made it two to one; but I turned the card, and he told my friend to just hand me the money. "What is the least you will bet?" said my friend to the cow-boy. "Wall, boys, you have got me at it, and I had just as leave bet it all; but I know you fellars with the store clothes on haint got that much; and I knows you darnt bet a dollar--if you did, the old woman would broomstick yer." My friend could not stand this sort of racket any longer, for I kept telling him to just lay up his money, and take it and put it in his pocket. At this stage of the game a tall, fine looking fellow with long black whiskers came up and said, "I'll bet $1,000 that I can turn the card." The cow-boy observed, "If I can win that bet, I'll be even on what I lost going over," so he put the money up and said, "Come on, I'll go yer;" and the black-whiskered man put up his money and turned the wrong card. The cow-boy was delighted. My friend trembled, for he saw that the new comer did not take the one with the corner turned up. Of course he began to get his money out; and he had lots of the long green stuff, for he was a large cotton buyer from Galveston. He offered to bet $1,000, but the cow-boy said, "I won't bet less than $5,000." I offered to take half, but the cow- boy would only bet with one person at a time; so I told him to lay it up. He did so and turned the card, but missed the winner. I grabbed up the boy ticket and turned the corner so quickly that he supposed he had made a mistake. The black-whiskered man at once pulled out his money and bet him $1,000 again, and this time he won. My friend wanted to try it again, for I made him believe that he made the mistake himself. He said, "Shuffle them up, and I will make you one more bet." He counted out another $5,000; and says I, "That will only make you even if you win." So he took out $3,300 more, which was all he had, except perhaps $100 in small bills. The cards were shuffled. The cow-boy counted out his money. The black-whiskered man wanted to chip in enough to make it even $10,000, but the cow-boy wouldn't have it. My friend made a snatch at what he supposed was the boy card, and--lost. I felt very sorry for him. The fellow with the black whiskers was Holly Chappell, the cow-boy was Tom Brown. Both were my partners. The cow-boy invited us all to the bar. My friend and I retired to our state-rooms for the night. NO MONEY IN LAW. A man by the name of Levy (of course he was a Jew) and myself were once traveling on the Jackson Railroad, amusing ourselves playing in the smoking car, when along came a horseman from New Orleans, and dropped in, thinking he could pick up the right card. I was doing the playing, and I asked the horseman if he thought he could pick out the card with the baby on. He said that was just what he could do for $300. "Put her up," I said, and in a twinkling I covered his $300. He turned the card, and lost. Then he studied for a moment and remarked: "I am going to try that once more." So he planked down his watch, which was a fine Howard movement, worth about $200. He lost, got mad, and kicked by telegraphing ahead to arrest a couple of gamblers on the train who had been robbing a man. We were then a few miles below the Sixty-two Mile Siding, and I knew there were no officers there; so we got off at the Siding, and on the down train we spied an officer who was coming from Winona after us. Then we took to the hills, and kept a sharp lookout, where we could see and not be seen. The officer asked where we had gone, and the railroad people told them down the road. They returned to Winona, and he offered a reward of fifty dollars for the watch, and $100 for the return of the watch and money. Bad news travels fast, and I soon heard of this, and I decided not to go so high up on the road. At last, however, I went to the town, though before I reached the depot I handed my money to a gentleman who resided there, who was a good friend of mine; and sure enough, as I expected, the constable served his warrant on me immediately. My friend at once stepped up and said that we would not go to jail, and forthwith furnished bail. We gave the officer the laugh, who only got mad and telegraphed to New Orleans that he had the party who had won the watch and money belonging to the horseman. On the first train, up he came. When the case was called for trial, I asked the Judge for a continuance on account of the absence of a material witness. He granted me one of three days. The horseman then offered to compromise if we would return the watch and money. Failing in this he fell to abusing the Judge for granting us a continuance. This reached the ears of the Judge, who was anything but pleased, and when I had an opportunity I told the Judge that if he wanted I would stand trial for gambling, and be fined; although I was aware that he had no jurisdiction in gambling cases, but I presumed that he and the constable wanted to make a piece for themselves. The trial came off, and the Judge fined us thirty dollars apiece for gambling. My friend paid the fines, and then I turned to the Judge and demanded a warrant for the horseman, for gambling in the State. He too was fined thirty dollars; and when he returned to New Orleans, and told his story, the boys all gave him the laugh, and told him he had better have staid at home, for we all told you that you could never get a cent back from Devol. When I reached New Orleans I hunted the horseman up, and he redeemed his watch, giving me $200. This transaction made a man of him, for afterwards I met him and he wanted to help me skin suckers, and did make money. Many business men whom I have at first won money from came to me afterwards and stood in with the game, so that I was given an opportunity to get into games that I never could have done without their influence. THE POLICE SIGNAL. They have a signal service on board the vessels running from New Orleans to other points on the gulf, by which they can notify those on shore what is wanted some time before the vessel reaches the landing. If they run up the police flag, there will be twenty or more police at the wharf when the vessel arrives. We would play one vessel out to some point of landing, and then wait for another to bring us back. We had played a boat over to Mobile at one time, and was on our way back, when we got a fellow down in a game of euchre. Several times during the progress of the game, remarks had been made about good poker hands, so I ran the gentleman up the old hand of four queens and an ace. He picked it up and said, "I have a poker hand." I turned my head to spit, and in doing so I purposely exposed (or tipped) my hand so he caught a glimpse of it. I then said "How much will you bet?" He replied, "Fifty dollars." I then raised him $100. My partner said, "Gentlemen, as this is a game of bluff, I will raise you $1,000." I threw down my hand, remarking, "I started in to bluff you out; but you fellows are too much for me." The gentleman then said, "You can't bluff me; I will call the bet." They showed down, but the fellow's four queens and an ace were not enough, for my partner had four large live kings, and he took down the money. The fellow got up and raised a h--l of a kick, and finally, when he saw he could get nothing back, he went to the Captain and told him we had stolen his money. The Captain was a stranger to me, so I could do nothing with him. He ordered the police flag to be run up, and then we knew we would be arrested when we reached New Orleans. I did not fear the result if we could get rid of our money, but I did not want the fellow to get a chance at that. I commenced looking around, and soon found a friend I could trust, so I gave him all the money my partner and I had, and then I did not care how quick they nabbed me. When we started off the boat, we were met by about twenty police. The kicker was there, and when he saw us he pointed me out and said, "There is one of them." The officers laughed when they saw us, for they knew me. We got into a cab and went up to the court, which was then in session. They searched us, but only found a few dollars. I employed a lawyer, and in about ten minutes we were free; but if we had not got away with the stuff we would have had more trouble, as he was ready to replevy. After being released we started out to find our friend, and when we got our money we had more wine than was good for our heads. I have often seen the police flag run up, but always managed someway to keep from giving up the boodle. If I could find no friend to trust it with before we landed, I would find one in the officers or the cab boys, and not one of then ever went back on me. A PAYMASTER'S BLUFF. The yellow fever was raging in the South in 1867, and nearly every one was trying to reach the seaboard, as it is considered that the disease is not so violent there. On the steamer to Mobile one night a big game was in progress. Ten dollars was the ante; no limit. I was $1,300 loser, and soon resolved that I must stir myself and do something. There was no time to lose, so hurrying to the bar, upon some excuse, I got a deck such as they were using, and ran up four hands, being careful that I got the best of it. Returning, I played fully half an hour before I came out with my deck. At last it came my deal, and I gave them threes and let them fill. It would have brought a smile to a dead man to have seen them bet, for they put up all the money they had, and one of them went to the office, and bringing out a valise, said, as he laid it on the table, "There is $18,000 in that valise, and I raise all of you that much." What to do I did not know. I was in a quandary, when, quick as thought, a plan flashed upon me. I jumped up, and rushing to the office, got all the small bills they had--mostly ones and twos--and securing a piece of brown paper, wrapped these bills around it, which made an enormous roll. There was a five hundred-dollar bill on the outside, and, putting a strip of paper around it, I marked it $20,000. Then rushing up, I said, "Boys, I have at last raised the money;" and as I was about to put it on the table to call the bet, the owner of the valise snatched it off, saying, "That was only for a bluff." So I deemed it best to show down for what money we had up, as I knew all the rest were up all they had, and I have always made it a rule never to bet a man more than he had, to run him out, but always to give every man a chance for his money. Turning to the fellow with the valise, I said, "I will bet you $1,000 on a side bet that my hand beats yours." He counted out the money and put it up, and there was nothing to do but show hands; but in the draw I took in another nine, which made four, and a five spot. That broke up the game, as that was all the money, except what the man with the valise and I had, and he got cold, for the money he was playing with belonged to the Government. He was a paymaster, and had I won his money I should undoubtedly have got into trouble again. Paymasters in the army were among the best suckers we ever had, and I fear we never shall have such fat plucking again. "PRANKIN'" WITH A NEW GAME. I had a partner at one time by the name of Tripp, and he was one of the smartest gamblers I ever worked with. He would play any and all games of chance, and would play them as high as any man in the country, and come as near winning all the time at most of them. He was a good, clever fellow. He and I were on the Michigan Southern Railroad at one time. Tripp was to do the playing with the three cards, and I was to be on the look-out. I began my part of the business; and in looking around, I saw an old gentleman that I thought might be well fixed in money matters; and if he was, I judged he would be a good subject; so I sat down and opened up conversation. I told him I was a miner from Colorado; that I had some of the richest mines in the country, and that I was on my way to Washington to take out a patent on a crushing machine that I had invented. He became very much interested, and I learned that he was from the State of Michigan, and was very well fixed in this world's goods. I gave him some big talk about the mining business, telling him I often took out $1,000 a day--and much more of the same sort. He did not let me do all the blowing, but gave me to understand that, while he was not taking out of mother earth $1,000 per day, he was--and had been for many years-- getting out of the ground quite a number of thousands. While we were telling each other how much money we had accumulated for a rainy day, a cow-boy came up and took the seat just in front of us, and in a few moments he turned around and said, "Be you gentlemen going to New York?" The old gentleman said, "I am, but this gentleman is going to Washington City." "I be going to New York with my steers, for them fellars in Chicago won't pay my price, and some of them beat me out of $2,000 in less than no time," said the cow-boy. I then told him to turn his seat over and tell us how they got his money. He got up, turned his seat, and said, "They had some kind of a game that they bet on; I got to pranking with it, and I just lost $2,000 afore you could say Jack Robinson." "It must have been seven-up, or some game of cards," said I. "It wasn't no seven-up, for I reckon as how I can play seven-up with any of the boys." "Well, tell us about the game," said the old gentleman. The cow-boy then took out an old dirty rag, which I suppose he called a handkerchief, unfolded it, and produced three cards, saying, "Them thar fellows gave me these ar cards, and I'm going to larn that ar game, so as when I get back to Texas I can beat all the boys." I told him to show us how they could bet on three cards. Then he bent them up and began throwing them on the seat beside him, saying at the same time, "I'm not as good at it as those Chicago chaps, but I'm going to practice, and when I get down in Texas I'll get even on our boys." I asked him if they got all his money. "Oh, no, I just got loads of money; and then when I sell them thar steers in New York, I reckon I will have some more. Now you see this card has got an old man on it, and you have to guess this 'er' one or you lose." We guessed a few times, and then I bent up the corner of the old man card, saying to the Michigan gentleman, "Now we will have some fun." Then I said to the cow-boy, "Will you bet money on the game yourself?" "I can't play it good enough yet to bet; but as I have two cards to your one, I would just as soon bet on it as on a pony race, and I often put up big money on a pony." I told the Michigander not to turn up the card with the corner turned up so long as we were guessing for fun, so he turned up one of the other cards, and the cow-boy said, "You see you are just as big fools as I was in Chicago." I then said, "I will bet you $1,000 that I can turn up the old man the first time." I told the old gentleman that we might as well get some of his money, as he would lose it anyway before he got back to Texas. Finally the cow-boy took out another dirty rag, unrolled it, and displayed a roll of money the size of one's leg. He counted out $1,000, saying, "I'll go you once, for I don't 'low any man to back me out." He mixed the cards up, and I turned up the one with the bent corner and won the money. The cow-boy laughed and said, "Well, I'll be gol darned if you didn't get me. You must have right smart eyes, for I swan I didn't know which one it was myself." The old gentleman asked if he would bet with him. "Oh, yes; you are old, and can't see like this feller," said he. "Don't be so sure about me not being able to see well," replied the old man. "You couldn't keep the run of them like this fellow; and then I guess as how you haven't got much money," said the cow-boy. The old gent then got out his leather, and it was chuck full of big bills. He took out $500 and put it up in my hands. The cow-boy told him he would not bet less than $2,000; and said he, "The Indians bet more'n that on a foot-race down where I live." I told the old gent it would serve the fellow just right if he would win all his money; so he put up the $2,000, turned a card and lost. I snatched up the old man card and turned up the corner again, then said, "How in the name of common sense did you come to make that mistake?" "Why, I turned the one with the corner up," says he. "No, you did not, for here it is," I said, picking up the winner. The old fellow thought he had made a mistake, and the cow-boy told him he couldn't see well, for he was too old. I then told him to mix them up, and I would bet him $1,000. He did so, and I won. Then the man from Michigan got out what he had left, amounting to $1,200, and said, "This is all I have with me, but I will bet it." He turned a card, but again he lost. He then settled back in his seat as though he was going to stay right there, and I don't believe he would have got out if the car had run off the track. The cow-boy put his cards back into the dirty rag, and remarked, "I be gol darned if I haint larning to play this 'er' game nigh like them Chicago chaps; and if I hadn't been pranking with you feller with the smart eyes, I reckon I would have been about even." He got up, bid us good-day, and started out. We sat there talking about the cow-boy's tricks for a short time, when in came my partner, Tripp, all dressed up so that no one would suspicion that he was ever a cow-boy. I introduced him to the old gentleman from Michigan, but he was not near so talkative as he was when we first got acquainted. I did not want to hurt his feelings, so I did not say anything about the game before my partner; and I believe the old fellow was glad of it, for he looked just as if he would rather no one but that d----d cow-boy and myself should know what a sucker he had been. When we changed cars we bid him good-day, and I said, "If you see that fool with the steers in New York, tell him not to go pranking any more new games, or he will lose all his money." He looked at me in such a way that I believe he did not want to see him, although he did not say so. CAUGHT A DEFAULTER. It is a singular fact that most of the men who turn out embezzlers, defaulters, and dishonest clerks, sooner or later lose their money gambling. Oftentimes it is their love of cards that induces them to commit the crimes they do. I very well recollect a number of instances of this kind, and one in particular. I was going up the river on board the _J. M. White_, when I received a card requesting me to call at room No. 14. The name was written in a business hand, so I knew the card was from a gentleman. When I knocked a voice said, "Come in!" Upon entering, I saw a young man that I knew very well, who was a bookkeeper in one of the largest cotton houses in New Orleans. I at once inquired what he was keeping himself locked up in his room for, and he replied, "I am afraid to show up in the cabin, but I will tell you all about it before you get off;" as he knew that I rarely went above Baton Rouge. Late at night he came out of his state-room so completely disguised that I did not know him. We took several drinks together, until he began to feel jolly; then I asked him what he was up to. "Well," he replied, "I have been playing the bank and poker for some time, and have been several thousand dollars loser, and I knew sooner or later the books would be overhauled, so I collected some money and skipped. Here I am, and what to do I don't know, nor where I shall wind up." "Oh, there are plenty of people in the same box that you are," I said. "Don't flatter yourself that you are the only one who has taken money; but perhaps they will now go through the books, and, discovering the deficit, arrest you." "Yes, but I don't intend to be caught. I think I will go to Canada. I am now traveling under an assumed name." "Are you sure none of the discharging clerks saw you when you came aboard?" "I was in this disguise, and came over two boats until I reached this one, and having a friend with me, he secured a room for two." "How much did you get away with?" "Seventy-two hundred dollars." Which he had collected the day before he left. He proposed going out and shaking the dice for the drinks. I stuck him again and again, and at last he proposed to shake for five dollars. That suited me; and when he proposed to shake for ten dollars, I was ready. Then I began to work on him, for I thought I might as well have that money as anybody, as I knew he would gamble, and never reach Canada with it. I suggested that we go to my state-room, as the bar-room was too public a place, and he acceded. In half and hour we were throwing for a hundred dollars a throw, and when I quit I was $4,100 ahead, as I knew that it would not do to win it all from him, so I told him that I was sleepy and tired. We took a drink at the bar, and he drank so heavily that I was obliged to tell the porter to see him to his room. I knew that he must have money to go out of the country, and it would not do to break him, as I would then have to loan him money. We were then twenty-five miles from Baton Rouge, and I slept on a couple of chairs in the cabin, and was awakened by my partner, who wanted to know if I wanted to sleep forever--as I had retired with him, but, unable to sleep, had risen. When I told my partner of the roll I had made, he said that I was the luckiest man he ever saw; but I told him it was no luck to hold out the dice most of the time. When we reached New Orleans the detectives were hunting him high and low, but they thought he had gone out on one of the trains, and I never made them any the wiser. When I inquired if I had seen him, I replied: "Oh, such fellows wouldn't get on a boat where I was." From that day to this I have never seen him; but I think he went West, as when he was under the influence of liquor he talked a great deal of that part of the country. HE'S ONE OF US. Tripp and I at one time played an early train from Chicago down to Michigan City, and there we got off to wait for another train to take us to Detroit. We were in a saloon, and wishing for something to turn up that we might pass the time until the next train arrived. There was an old fellow in the saloon who was very talkative, and we learned from his talk that he was well posted about that part of the country. I did not think he had any money, so I had no idea of playing him, but thought I would talk about the country, crops, and such like. We had not talked long until I found he was waiting for the same train that we were expecting to take. I asked him if he would play euchre to pass the time, and he said he would. We then sat down and began a game for the drinks. Once in a while the old fellow would say something about poker hands, so I finally ran him up the old chestnut of four queens and an ace, giving Tripp four kings, and taking nothing myself. I came the old spit racket, and exposed my hand. The old fellow says: "I've a good poker hand." "How much will you bet on your hand?" I inquired. He said, "I will bet five dollars." "Put her up," says I. He pulled out his money and put up. Tripp then said, "I believe my hand is worth a call." I gave them the old "Bush" laugh, and said, "Boys, I believe you are both bluffing, so I will raise you both $25." Then the old one got out his money again and called. Tripp said, "You fellows haven't got anything, and I will make you lay down; I will raise it $100." He was right, so far as I was concerned, for he did make me lay down. The old fellow said, "I'm still on hand, boys." So out came the money again, but this time it took all there was in the roll. He put up, and called the bet. Tripp had hardly time to show his hand when the old fellow, feeling so confident, began to pull her down. Tripp showed down the old four kings, saying, "Hold on! old fellow; not quite so fast." He put up his last hundred dollars to see that hand, and he saw it. About this time our train was coming, so we grabbed our grips and lit out. I saw the old gent talking to the conductor on the platform, and then go into the smoker. We went into the ladies' car, but in a short time I went over to take a smoke. I saw the old fellow just across from where I was sitting. The conductor came in and passed him without getting any ticket or fare, so when he came back he sat down with a gentleman just in front of me, who was the superintendent of the road. He asked the conductor why he passed the old fellow. "Oh," says he, "He is one of us." "One of us? That old seedy cuss?" said the superintendent. "Yes, he has been out West running a freight on a salary," replied the conductor. POSING AS NIC. LONGWORTH'S SON. On one occasion while traveling from New Orleans to Baton Rouge, I espied a gentleman who was a Judge at the latter place. He was a man of aristocratic bearing, and somewhat haughty in his manners. I started up my wheel after supper, and soon had a fine game. It was not long before I noticed a slick young man that I knew was from Cincinnati, walking arm and arm with the Judge, and apparently on terms of utmost intimacy with him. This slick young Cincinnatian had introduced himself as a son of the late Nicholas Longworth, who was well known up and down the river. He claimed that he was traveling for his health. I had made up my mind that he was playing a dead card, as I did not think the Judge was of much force, though he always appeared to have plenty of money. They soon were playing euchre, and began talking about poker, and presently the Judge came to me and said, "Devol, will you loan me $500? I will pay you when Baton Rouge is reached. I am a sure winner," he continued, and looking at his hand, I saw the old familiar four queens and an ace, with which I had downed so many suckers. I must say I wanted to see him get it in the neck, and I was not disappointed. I took chances, and loaned him $500, and when I saw Longworth's would-be son putting it in his pocket that was the last time I ever beheld that money. The Judge never recognized me again. This is what an honest man gets when in bad company. THE GOOD DEACON. I was playing on the North Missouri Railroad, just out of Kansas City, having a man named Jeffers as a partner. One evening a fine looking, solid appearing gentleman came along, and appeared to take a great interest in the game, which was just for fun. Jeffers came up and insisted on betting, but I quickly replied that I did not care to bet, as I was only showing my friend the game so as to guard him against ever betting on it in case he ever saw it being played. Jeffers was so persistent that I finally yielded, at the same time telling him that the odds were so much in my favor that I would not mind venturing. "Why, I can pick up the right card every time," he said. At last, turning to my friend, I observed, "I have a great mind to let the fool lose his money." Accordingly I remarked, "I'll go you $100 that you can't," and at once pulled out a big roll, which made the solid man look bad. The play was made, and I won, which greatly amused my friend, who was anxious for my success, as the fellow had given me the dare in a blustering sort of way. Jeffers made no kick, but, picking up the cards, put a spot on one of them, which he showed my friend, threw the cards on the table, and said, "Throw again." My friend gave me a hunch, as he did not wish to see me worsted. I paid no attention to him, however, when Jeffers pulled out $200, played it, and won. Then, turning to my friend, he said, "Take $200, play it for me, and I'll pay you for your trouble." He did so, and won. I laughed, and let the old fellow know that I didn't think he had pluck enough to bet at any game. "Oh, I would bet if the money I have was my own." Then Jeffers began to work him, telling him that I was rich, and that they might as well have some of my money as not. "Just try it once," said the insinuating Jeffers. "Put the money in my hand, and when you win I will hand it back to you." Jeffers next offered to bet again, but I said I wouldn't bet with him, "but I will with my friend here, as his eyes are not so keen as yours." At last the old man pulled out $100, and I tried to make him put up more, but he stuck to the $100, when I said, "I will have to raise you $900"--as I had noticed that he had $1,000 in the roll. He wanted to take down his money, but I couldn't see it, so Jeffers told him if he didn't put up the $900 that he would lose what he had put up, so at last he laid it up, turned the card, and lost. Then I looked for fun. At this moment the porter of the sleeper came in and told me that my wife wanted to see me for a moment. Excusing myself, I started back, with my friend at my heels, but the porter refused him admission to the sleeper. I was ready to get off at the first station, but waited until the train was under way, when I dropped off, only to find that some one else had done the same thing, and was rolling over in the sand. I went to see who it was, and there was my friend, considerably bruised and banged up. "Do you live here?" I asked. "Oh, no," he replied, "but I want my money back." "Well, if that is what you got off for, you are a bigger fool than I took you to be, for not one cent will you ever get of that money." He hung to me nearly all night, until I was compelled to tell my story to a man at the station, and get him to hitch up a horse for me and leave it standing behind a small hill, and have another horse ready in his barn so that he could follow me and show me the road. A bran new twenty-dollar bill consummated this arrangement. I fooled around with the sucker for some time; then running, I mounted the horse and galloped off. The game worked to perfection. The old fellow bawled out that I had stolen a horse, and the owner mounted the other horse and pushed hard after me. When I had gone about four miles I slackened up and let him overtake me, and we reached another train going to Kansas City fifteen minutes before starting time. The owner of the horses returned to town and told the story that he had fired at me, and that I was wounded and bleeding, and, he feared, would die. Jeffers came up to Kansas City the next day, and was astonished to see me alive. Several days after I came face to face on the street with my old friend, who at once had me arrested for stealing $1,000 from him. I went to the chief's office, and explained that I had neither stolen a horse nor robbed any body; that I had won the money at cards. The old fellow wanted the money back, and declared that he was a deacon in a church. Jeffers, the capper, came in when he heard that I was arrested, and told the chief that he had given the deacon ten dollars to win the bet for him, so the chief, in face of this evidence, had nothing to do but release me. The next day a prominent member of the church was scouring Kansas City for the good deacon, thinking he had absconded with the church funds. I never gave up a cent, though when they have passed around the hat I have always chipped in, and, during the last forty years, have probably contributed to churches ten times as much as the deacon lost, and never regretted it either. NARROW ESCAPES. There are a great many men who, whenever they lose any money, begin to kick, and oftentimes they will resort to very desperate means to recover back the money which they have honestly lost. Coming out of Canton, Miss., one night on the Jackson Railroad, I won some money in the smoking-car, and then retired to the sleeper and was reading a paper, when the conductor coming along said, "Are you the gentleman who won some money a short time ago in the smoker?" "I am, sir." "Well, you want to be on the lookout, as the parties are threatening to have it back or there will be blood." Just then the three entered the car, and as I raised up my eyes the foremost one, a Pittsburger, said, "We are looking for you." "Well, you have found me at home; what is your business?" "We want our money back; and if we don't get it, you will never get off this train alive." That was enough for me, and in a second I had my big gun leveled at the one nearest me, and I said, "If you move an inch I'll cook your goose for you sure." He fell back in good order, and in the next second the name behind him made a break at me, when I caught him with my big three-pound pistol, splitting his head open; and next I made a lunge for the third man, cutting him over the forehead so that he fell through a rack of glass, and when he raised up I struck him with my head. The conductor and brakeman interfered and took the ruffians out. There was a quart of blood on the floor; and at the first station they sent out and procured sticking-plaster. I paid the porter $12 to sponge up the blood and get the glass reset. A man once pulled out his gun on me at Milan, whom I had beaten out of $100. I let on as though I would return it, until he turned his head away, when I hit him a stinging blow on the ear that doubled him up like a jack-knife. I took his pistol, and was arrested for winning his money and assaulting him; but when the Judge heard the testimony, he fined us both $5 and costs, amounting to $6.50. He gave the fellow a lecture for drawing a pistol, and I paid my fine and was off. Another time in New Orleans, I was crossing the levee late one night with a valise full of money, when two men came from behind a cotton bale and started toward me. I pulled out my big pistol and told them an inch further and I would shoot. They weakened, and after they started I turned her loose, to enjoy the sport of seeing them run. A CRAZY MAN. One afternoon I started from Kansas City on the Missouri Pacific Railroad, and while seated waiting for the train to start I fell asleep. We had not gone more than ten miles when a crazy man, armed with a Colt's navy, entered the car. The passengers all fled, leaving me alone. Up rushed the lunatic and cracked me over the head a couple of times with so much force that I speedily awoke, and saw this wild-eyed man standing over me saying, "If you move I will kill you." I didn't move; only said, "You have made a mistake;" at which he backed out of the car. Thereupon the passengers all rushed in with revolvers in hand, wanting to know where that lunatic was. Though I have seen many crazy people since, I can never forget the terrible glare of those eyes, and can compare them to nothing but the fiery glare of a cat's eyes in the dark. I returned to Kansas City and laid up for some time, as the physicians feared that erysipelas would set in. It was not more than a week after this that the lunatic was seen on a house-top hurling bricks down on the passers-by. He was at last lassoed with a rope and taken to the station-house. He butted his brains out against the iron bars of his cell and killed himself. EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS AGAINST A PISTOL. I was playing monte one night on the _Robert E. Lee_, when a fellow stepped up to the table and bet me $800. I knew it was all the money he had, for he tried to make it $1,000 by putting up his watch; but in those days I would not turn for a watch unless it was a Juergunsen or very fine make. When he had lost his money and spent a few moments studying, he whipped out a Colt's navy and said, "See here, friend, that is all the money I have got, and I am going to die right here but I will have it back." I coolly said, "Did you think I was going to keep the money?" He replied, "I knew very well you would not keep it. If you had, I would have filled you full of lead. I am from Texas, sir;" and the man straightened himself up. Pulling out a roll of money, I said, "I want to whisper to you." He put his head down, and I said "that I didn't want to give up the money before all these people; that then they would want their money back; but you offer to bet me again, and I will bet the $800 against your pistol." That pleased him. "All right," he said, and the $800 and pistol went up in my partner's hands. Over went the wrong card. I grabbed the pistol, and told my partner to give me the stake money. Pulling the gun on him, "Now," I said, "you have acted the wet dog about this, and I will not give you a cent of your money; and if you cut any more capers, I'll break your nose." I presented the pistol to the mate of the boat, who kept it for a number of years, and said that it was the best he had ever owned. Another time on the same boat I was playing euchre with a Californian, when we got to betting on poker hands. He lost $1,600 and his watch, then told the clerk that he was going to his state-room for his pistol, and going to kill that gambler on sight. The clerk soon gave me a hint, and I got out old Betsy Jane; and pretty soon he came along, holding his pistol under his coat, and just as he stepped out of the cabin door I pulled down on him, saying, "I have got you, my boy, and if you make one move I'll turn her loose." He saw I had the drop on him, threw up both hands; and taking his pistol away, I threw it into the river. IT WAS COLD. There are many occasions when a shrewd man can get in his work on gamblers, it matters not how smart they are, provided his conduct is not suspicious, and his ambition so vaulting that when it leaps it is not lost upon the other side. I shall never forget the trip I made down the river from Louisville in the good old _ante-bellum_ days. When we reached the mouth of the Cumberland River, Anderson Waddell, who is now one of Louisville's wealthiest citizens, and William Cheatham came on board bound for the New Orleans races. Charles Burns and Edward Ryan, better known to the sporting fraternity as "Dad Ryan," were along with me. Both Waddell and Cheatham were gentlemen of good repute in Nashville, and it was not long before they proposed a game of poker. Burns and Ryan both sat in the game, and at the time they were unknown to the gentlemen. The wine flowed freely, and everybody felt very happy, and I resolved it was about time for me to go to the bar and procure some cards similar to those they were playing with. It did not take me long to run up three good hands, and, sitting down by Ryan, I laid the cold deck in Ryan's lap. It was not long before the cold deck came up, and then the boys began to bet lively, each getting in a few hundred. Then Waddell commenced to smell a rat, and turning to Cheatham, said, "Hold on, Bill, don't go in any deeper, as I think this deck of cards does not feel as warm as it did a few minutes ago." "Oh, no," responded Bill, "I hardly believe there is anything wrong." At last they came to a call; then they knew that they had got the worst of it, yet they never uttered a word or make a kick, and when we reached New Orleans they confessed that the boys had made suckers of them. Poor Bill is now dead, and Waddell, who is still living, would, if asked, laugh and say that he had long ago learned not to hunt up poker games on steamboats. HOW I WAS BEAT. Sam Houstin and Harry Monell were in business with me working the Missouri Pacific, and we were very successful, making a great deal of money. During the summer we played the bank, and in the winter operated on the river and Southern roads. Immediately after the big fire we resolved to go to Chicago, but, at the last minute, Houstin was unable to go; but I told him he should be in with the play, and share the profits as if he was along. Monell and I started, and made a few hundred dollars, and when Houstin joined us he received his share of the spoils. We were all stopping at the Tremont House, on Lake Street. We made a little money, and one Sunday morning I arose early, and resolved to go out on the road about twenty miles. While waiting for breakfast I made the acquaintance of a gentleman from Texas, who had just sold some cattle that he had brought with him. We had a cocktail together, and I sent the porter to awaken my partners, whom I duly introduced to the stranger, letting them know that he had money, and to keep a sharp lookout on him until Monday morning. When I returned at night I found that my partners had beat the Texan, and he had Houstin locked up in jail. I carried him down a good supper from a restaurant, and then hunted up the Texan, who told me that he had started in betting, and at first won and then lost $7,600, and that his only object in arresting Houstin was to scare him so as to get his money back. The other man he could not find. He said he had gambled when in Texas, but these fellows were too smart for him, and that he could not afford to lose that money. When the case was called for trial, the Judge dismissed it on the ground that they were all gamblers. Nothing was said about the settlement of the game for a couple of days, when one morning they both arose, paid their bills, and skipped, and I never received a cent of that money. I have since learned that Monell is doing time at Sing Sing, along with "Paper Collar Joe," while Houstin is an old man trying to lead a square life, I understand, down in Florida. The late Sherman Thurston once said to me, "George, those fellows are rotten apples;" but I did not heed his advice, and let them alone. SETTLED OUR HASH. Jew Mose and myself were once traveling on the Missouri Railroad, having headquarters at Cheyenne and making a good deal of money, when one evening I picked up a man on the sleeper and beat him out of $1,200. That game settled our hash, for he proved to be one of the directors of the road, and as soon as he reached Omaha he had a lot of handbills printed and hung up in the cars, not only prohibiting gambling, but that conductors permitting the game on their cars would be at once discharged. I was then running a game in Greer Brothers' Gold Room Saloon, and occasionally slipped out and started a game on some of the trains. There were a dozen cow- boys aboard one night, when Mose opened out and took in a couple of them. They began to drink heavily, and then resolved to make the gambler disgorge. I expected fun, so I told Mose to get off and jump on the engine at the first station. He was none too quick, for the boys went through the train and never found him; but they never said a word to me, as they supposed I was a sucker like themselves, for at the time I was very roughly dressed. These cow- boys, while very blustering when on the trains, were peaceable enough when they entered a gambling-house; for the gamblers would stand no foolishness with them, and were always prepared to draw at a second's warning. I RAISED THE LIMIT. I recollect playing in a game of poker at one time on the steamer _Natchez_. It was a five-handed game, and the party were all friends of each other. We were playing on the square, with a straight deck of cards and for a small limit. I could enjoy myself in such a game for a limited time, then the old desire to play my tricks would come over me, and I could not resist the temptation. I did not want to beat my friends only on the square, but I did want to have some fun; so I excused myself for a few moments and left the table. On my return I sat in again, and the game went on as before. We had been playing a short time, when one of the boys picked up his hand, got a glimpse of it, and then threw it down as quick as lightning, saying, "What's the limit?" All the others looked at their hands, but none of them seemed to remember what limit we had been playing. One thought it was $10, but was willing to raise it to $20 if the others would agree. I remarked that the limit had been but $5, but I never kicked if anybody wanted to raise her. So they all consented to raise it to $20. The one next to the age put up the limit, the next one saw that and went him twenty better, the next one did the same. I said, "Boys, you are bluffing, so I will just call." The age then raised her the limit, and it went around until most of the boys had put up all their money. Then it came to a draw. Some took one card, some stood pat, and I took three. Then the betting was resumed at a lively rate. Those that had put up all their money borrowed from friends; and, to tell the truth, I never did see four men have so much confidence in their hands. I kept calling, and finally it was a call all around, but no one wanted to be the first to show down. I threw down three tens, when they all said, "I've got you beat." I said, "Gentlemen, it's a call all around; why don't you show down?" They all came down about the same time; and you should have been there--for all the passengers on the boat were looking on. They saw each other's hands, and I be gol darned if every one of them didn't have fours, and they were all aces at that. All four of them spoke up in the same breath, "Who dealt the cards?" I replied, "I did." We sent for the first and second clerks to bring a quire of paper and figure out who won the money and how much each one was entitled to. After the problem was solved we resumed the play, but first the boys made me swear I did not have any more cold decks on my persons with sixteen aces in them. As I had raised the limit to $20, I took the oath, and we again settled down to a square game. GOT OFF BETWEEN STATIONS. A man by the name of Charlie Adams, Tripp, and myself, started out from Chicago on the Michigan Central Railroad one day, to turn a few honest dollars. We took separate cars and began looking for a game. I was in the ladies' car, and thought I saw plenty of material, but the most of it was handicapped with female riders. There was one old gentleman sitting alone, so I took a seat beside him and began to feel his pulse. He had sold a pair of horses for $800, and an interest in a patent for $1,600. I did not want to play him in that car, for I wanted some of the other a little later on; so I invited him to join me in a smoke. He declined, and told me that he never smoked a cigar, chewed tobacco, or drank a drop of liquor in his life. Then I knew he would be a darling sucker; so I invited him to go over in the smoking-car until I could have a little smoke myself. He consented, and we went over. We took a seat just behind a green looking countryman who was smoking a cob pipe, and it was not long until he turned round and asked us the name of a station we had just passed. We did not know the name, so he said: "I don't wonder you can't tell the names, for I never saw so many towns strung 'long a railroad. Why, out where I live we don't have a town only about once in fifty miles." I asked him where he lived. He replied: "When I'm to hum, I lives on a ranch in Colorado; but I've been to Chicago sellin' of my steers, and them thar fellows came nigh gettin' the best of me with some of their new-fangled games; but they gave me some of their tickets, and when I get home I'll make the boys think I didn't take my critters to Chicago for nothing. I guess as how they would have got more of my money, but I left it up at the tavern with the feller that had his hair all glued down to his forehead as if he thought it would fall off. So when they got all I had with me they thought I was broke and let me go." The old gent asked him to show us how they beat him with the tickets. He said, "I've not larnt it yet, but I will try and show you;" so he got out his three tickets and began to throw them on the seat, explaining that we must guess the ticket with the little boy on it. We guessed, sometimes right and sometimes wrong. I bent up the corner of the little boy ticket, and told the old gent not to turn that card until we got a bet out of the fool; so we would miss it every time after that. Finally I offered to bet him $500 that I could turn up the boy ticket the first turn. He said, "No, I won't bet on her yet, for I can't play her good 'nough." Then I offered to bet him five to two, so he got out his big roll, saying, "This is the money I left up to the tavern, so I'll just try you once." I put up my $500, and he put up $200. I turned the ticket with the corner bent, and won. He looked at me a moment, then said to the old gent, who was holding the stakes, "Give him the money, for gol darned if he didn't get her fair." Then I offered to bet him $1,000, but he said, "You got an eye like an Indian, and I don't want to play with you any more; but I will play with your pap" (pointing to the old gent). The old fellow said, "I am a church member, and never bet; but I expect some one will win all that fellow's money before he gets home." "Certainly," said I; "and we may as well have it as any one else." The old gent got out his money and wanted to bet $100, but the fellow would not bet less than $1,000. I then offered to put up the balance, but the fellow would not have it, saying, "Your eyes are too good." Then the old gent put up the money in my hands and turned the card; but it was not the winner, for somehow, in mixing them, the corner of the boy card had got straightened out and the corner of another was turned up. I put a mark on the boy card with my pencil while the fellow was putting away his money, and then told him as he was a little winner he should let me bet once more. He said, "All right," so I put up $1,000, turned the marked card and won. The old church member could not stand it to see me win all that fool's money, so he put up $1,000 more in order to get even. The fellow told him he would make it $1,500; and as that would get him out ahead, up she went, and he turned the marked card; but, as was the case with the crocked corner, the little mark was on another card. The old gent dropped back in his seat with a groan, and just then a gentleman who had been sitting across the aisle got up and said, "You fellows have been trying to rob this boy out of his money. I have been watching you, and will report you to the officers at the next station." The old gent got up and started back to his car, saying to me in a whisper, "You had better get out of this, or you may get into trouble." I replied, "I think so myself." So I got up and started back with him, but he was in such a hurry that I got lost from him. When the train got up to the next station, there were three less passengers on board than when that fellow said, "I will report you to the officers." A GOOD NIGHT'S WORK. There had been quite a number of communications received by the officers of the Michigan Southern, complaining about the gamblers beating the passengers on that road, consequently orders were issued to the conductors not to allow any gambling on their trains. They did try to prevent it, but the boys were too smart for them, and got away with many a good dollar while the conductor was collecting fare or out on the platform at a station. The result was, the complaints continued to go to the officers of the road, and some of them went so far as to claim that the conductors were in with the gamblers. The poor conductors insisted that they could not watch the rascals and their trains at one and the same time; but the superintendent thought they could, and threatened to discharge any one who was complained of again. He found out one day that he conductors were right and he was wrong. I will tell you how he was convinced. Tripp, Adams, and myself got on a train going out of Chicago on the Michigan Southern one evening, and took seats in different parts of the car. In a few moments after the train started, the conductor and a fine looking old gray-headed gentleman came into the car where we were seated, and something told me that he was one of the officers. I saw them talking together a short distance from where I was sitting alongside of a big fat man. The conductor was evidently pointing us out, for I could see by his actions that they had us spotted. The other boys knew what was in the wind, for we had all been there before and understood our business. The conductor left the car, but the old gentleman took a seat facing us; so we began to think the jig was up for that trip, for there was a pair of eyes constantly upon us. But as we did not make a move, the old fellow got a little careless, took out a package of papers, and began to look over them. When I saw he was very much interested in the papers and began to use his pencil, I gave Tripp the wink, and he slipped over to my seat. We went through the old business about the same as if the old pair of eyes was not in the same car, only we talked low, and while the car was in motion no one could hear what was going on. Just before we reached a station, Tripp beat the big fat man out of $600, and he had beaten me out of $500 before we got him to put up. I gave him the office to get off at the station; so when the cars stopped, he was on the platform. There was a Jew sitting just behind us who had been watching the game, and he saw Tripp out on the platform, so he laughed and said, "You see that fellow? He gets off when he wins your moneys." The old superintendent jumped up, put away his papers, and said: "What's this? Some one been _gambling_ in _this_ car?" The Jew told him that the fellow with the slouch hat had won $600 from the big fat man, and $500 from me. I told my fat friend it was no one's business if we lost our money; so when the old gent, who had been watching his papers just long enough for us to get our work in, came up to us and asked if we had lost our money, my fat friend said, "It's none of your business; the money did not belong to you." Just then the conductor came in, so the superintendent said to him: "Those d----d villains have played their games right under my very nose, beat these d----d fools out of over $1,000, and got off. Now, if any one comes into my office and tells me our conductors are in with the d----d gamblers, I will take a club and knock his d----d brains out. You attend to the train hereafter, and let the d----d suckers take care of themselves." The conductor said, "All right, sir." The old fellow was so hot that he went out into another car to cool off. My fat friend bid me good-bye soon after, and asked me to call on him, should I ever stop off at his place. I promised to do so, and we separated warm friends. When I told Tripp what the old superintendent said, he replied, "George, it's the best night's work we ever did." At another time we were playing a train (or at least we had paid our passage for the purpose of turning a few dollars), but I noticed the conductor was watching us very closely; and I knew that about the time we had our man ready, he would drop down on us and tell the sucker that we were gamblers, and then we would have all our trouble for nothing. So I told my partners to work up the business, and when I saw everything was O. K., I would go to the conductor and entertain him until the job was finished. Well, the boys had a fellow all ready to blow himself, when I saw the knight of the punch bearing down upon them. I jumped up and met him, but he was in a hurry, and did not want to stop; so I caught him, and held on until all was over. He kicked like a government mule, but it was too late; so he said I would not catch him again. I gave him a cigar, and told him I would try a new scheme next time, as a burnt child dreaded the fire. He laughed, and so did I, and that ended it. HE'S NOT THAT OLD. About forty years ago I was a pioneer in the great Northwest (or Lake and Central States), and was pretty largely interested in the different branches of business that paid a large profit on the amount of capital invested. I was running keno in St. Paul; playing poker with the Indians, and running the risk of losing my scalp, in Minnesota; building frame shanties out of green lumber for lodgers, at a dollar a head, at Winona; and running a restaurant, saloon, billiard and keno room at Dubuque, Iowa. I was kept pretty busy looking after and attending to my different branches of business, and I divided my time between them. At one time while I was in Dubuque looking after my restaurant, saloon, billiard and keno rooms, I met a robust, rosy-cheeked young man, who had come out West seeking his fortune in the show business. He came into my place and introduced himself, as he was a total stranger in those parts. I took quite a liking to the good-looking young man, and I told him to make my place his home while he remained in our town. He thanked me for my kindness (for in those days I was kind), and said he would be pleased if I would assist him in advertising his show. They did not have such large, handsome show- bills to draw the crowds (to the bill-boards, I mean) in those days, as they have now; but this young showman knew a thing or two, so he adopted the plan that is largely practiced by our minstrel troupes at this late day. He got some of us ordinary-looking chaps to show him the town--I don't mean like it is done in these days. He wanted us to walk around all the nice streets, so he could see the people, and so the girls could see him. We did it; and the result was, all the girls in that place were at the show the first night. I got all the boys to go over and give the young fellow a lift; and when he left the town, he was much better fixed financially than when he landed. All the girls (and some of the boys) were sorry to see him leave. He thanked me for the favors (more especially for the one of showing him the town), and he has not forgotten them to this day, for we often speak of the old times out West; but he insists that it is not near forty years ago. But I know why he don't want me to give dates. He need not fear, for I will not tell who the good looking, rosy-cheeked boy was that I met in Dubuque about forty years ago; and no one would ever guess, for at that time he was not running a Grand Opera House--and, "by Joe" (Bijou), I don't believe he ever expected to. CANADA BILL. Canada Bill was a character one might travel the length and breadth of the land and never find his match, or run across his equal. Imagine a medium-sized, chicken-headed, tow-haired sort of man with mild blue eyes, and a mouth nearly from ear to ear, who walked with a shuffling, half-apologetic sort of a gait, and who, when his countenance was in repose, resembled an idiot. For hours he would sit in his chair, twisting his hair in little ringlets. Then I used to say, "Bill is studying up some new devilment." His clothes were always several sizes too large, and his face was as smooth as a woman's and never had a particle of hair on it. Canada was a slick one. He had a squeaking, boyish voice, and awkward, gawky manners, and a way of asking fool questions and putting on a good natured sort of a grin, that led everybody to believe that he was the rankest kind of a sucker--the greenest sort of a country jake. Woe to the man who picked him up, though. Canada was, under all his hypocritical appearance, a regular card shark, and could turn monte with the best of them. He was my partner for a number of years, and many are the suckers we roped in, and many the huge roll of bills we corralled. He was an arrant coward, though, and would not fight a woman if she said boo. His right name was Jones. When Tom Brown and Holly Chappell traveled with me, the four of us made a quartette that could give most any crowd any sort of monte they wanted. Brown got $240,000 for his share of the profit, and Chappell went North with his portion, and is to-day as poor as myself. Bill never weighed over 130 pounds, and was always complaining of pains in his head. I always found him honest to a fault; and when the poor fellow died, I felt that I had lost one of my truest friends. THE NATCHEZ AND THE LEE. When the great steamboat race came off between the _Natchez_ and the _Robert E. Lee_, the excitement all along the Mississippi River, and at St. Louis, New Orleans, and all the river towns, was at fever heat. Betting ran high, a great deal of money changed hands, and very little else was talked about for a long time. I came to the conclusion that the boats were pretty evenly matched, but thought that the _Natchez_ ought to beat in a straight run. I knew the _Lee_ could make two landings to the _Natchez_ one, the latter boat being somewhat top-heavy and difficult to handle. However, I put my money on her, and believe she would have won had not Captain Canon out-generaled and out-managed Captain Leathers. Captain Canon took off every extra pound of freight, including anchors, chains, beds, and bedding, even taking the doors and shutters off the hinges; while the hold and decks he saved to be filled with dry pine knots. Besides, he engaged the steamer _Paragoad_ to go up above Baton Rouge, loaded down with the choicest of fuel. The _Paragoad_ was a very fast boat; and when Baton Rouge was reached, the _Lee_ never stopped her engines, only slackened her speed a little, while the _Paragoad_ lay alongside and dumped the fuel on to the _Lee_. The _Natchez_ had to land and take a coal-boat in tow, and by this management made a difference of over three hours. This gave the _Lee_ a start of perhaps five hours, as when she did land it was for a moment only. The _Natchez_ kept everything on board, and caught all the winds, while they whistled through the _Lee_. On the day of the race the excitement was so great in New Orleans that when the _Mayflower_ advertised to take people up about twenty miles to see the fun, it was not long before she was loaded to her gunwales with all the young bloods of the Crescent City. A jollier set of fellows never got together; and as money was plenty, they made the wine fly with a whirl. I hunted up old Bill and Dad Ryan, and made up my mind we would tackle the gentry and given them something to spend their money for. Bill opened up, and the young sprigs of the aristocracy began to pile up the bills, which Bill was not slow to rake in. There was nothing mean about Bill, and he didn't refuse to take gold watches and sparklers; and after the game closed, some of the fellows resembled picked ducks. They wanted to redeem their watches and diamonds, so Bill agreed to meet them at a certain well known saloon the next day, as all he wanted was the stuff. Nearly all of them wished to make me a nice present, and none of them ever met me afterwards without asking me up to smile. Just as Bill was closing up, an old fellow, who knew me well, came up and said: "Devol, who is that old fool trying to play that game?" My friend had been up on the hurricane roof, and had not noticed the game going on; so I remarked to him: "Hold on. I have been watching him, and am going to take him in pretty soon." I then gave Bill the wink to keep on, and turning to the old fellow, I observed, "Don't leave here, as I may want you to hold stakes for me." "All right," was the answer; and then I turned to Bill and said, "Let me see your cards;" so I picked up the one with the old woman on it and put a pencil mark on it, which I showed the old man (who, by-the-by, was a large wholesale grocery merchant, whom I had known for twenty-five years, and he had seen me play monte many a time). I asked the old fellow that was turning the cards, "if he would bet on the game." "Yes," he replied; "I'll bet you can't find any card you may mention, after I mix 'em up." Then I said, "Hide the old woman." So he mixed them up again, and I said, "I know it's hard to find, but I'll bet you $1,000 I can pick her up the first time." He laid up the money on the table, and I continued, "This gentleman will hold the stakes." "All right," said Bill, and he put the money in the grocery-man's hand, and I turned the card. Bill said, "All right; fairly won. Give him the money;" and I pocketed the stuff. Then I offered to bet him $2,000, but Bill declined to bet with me any more; so my friend the grocery-man spoke up: "I'll bet you I can turn the card." Bill replied, "I have just lost $1,000, and if I bet any more it will not be less than $2,000." So I handed my friend the money to put up; but Bill wouldn't stand it, and spoke up: "I won't do that. If you don't play your own money, I won't bet;" so I told him to just lay it up and turn the card, and I would hand it to him. He got out his wallet and put up $1,700, and I loaned him $300 to make it up; so he turned the card. The old fellow could not believe himself. He stood still for a few minutes, looked at Bill, then at me, and finally said, "Devol, lend me a five-dollar bill, and I will go home and stay there until I get some sense." He did what he said he would, and I never saw him for a couple of months, when one day, as I was passing his house, he hailed me, and calling me in he counted me out $305 in five-dollar bills, and said, "Here is what I owe you. Now I want to know if you have found any more old fellows who don't know how to play that game of monte." Of course I laughed at the joke, and we were always good friends. DICKY ROACH AND I. While playing one night in St. Louis at old Mr. Peritts' game of faro, and Dick Roach was dealing, luck ran dead against me, and at every play I turned up loser, when in came a drunken man who was quarrelsome, and insisted on annoying me. I told him that I was in no condition to have anybody clawing me around. Then he got mad and wanted to fight. I said nothing, and stood it as long as I could, when I got up out of my chair, and hit him a slug in the ear that curled him up on the floor like a possum. Then I cashed my checks and set out for a walk. I knocked around for about half an hour, and got to thinking about how much money I had lost, and resolved to try my luck again. There was no other bank open, so I went back to Peritts' game, and there, sprawled out on the floor, lay the big lubber that I had knocked over, and Roach was kneeling down by him and rubbing him with ice water and a towel, so I resolved to take another walk, when Roach, catching sight of me, said: "Devol, I guess you owe me something for taking care of your patient, and if that's the way you hit, I don't want you to hit me. I've been rubbing this fellow ever since you left." Dick was fond of fun, and had a man who went by the name of Shell Fairchild, who he thought could throw down or whip anybody, and he was willing to put up his money on him. One night we were all in Loops' saloon, when Fairchild and Dick Roach came in. Thurston and Roach got into an argument about wrestling, and Thurston said, "I have got a man that can put your man on his back for this fifty- dollar bill," pulling out the money. Roach covered it in a minute, and then Thurston asked me if I would wrestle him. "Yes," I said. We picked out a place, tossed off our coats, and I put him on his back in a minute. That wasn't satisfactory , so I did it again. "Satisfied," said Roach, as he handed Thurston the money. Sherman, poor fellow, bucked the fifty dollars right against the bank, and then, of course, Roach got it all back again, and Sherman only regretted that he hadn't stuck Roach for more. KNOCKED DOWN $300. Canada Bill and I were on board the steamer _Doubloon_, going up the Red River on one occasion. Bill was doing the playing, and I was driving and baiting. We had caught a nice string of fish, and had about come to the conclusion that there were no more of our kind left worth fishing for, when a nice looking young man came swimming up. We thought at first he was too small to angle for; but you can't sometimes always tell, for we found out that this one was larger than anything we had caught that evening. He came right up, and, before we had time to put on fresh bait, wanted to bet $500 that he could turn the winner. Bill said, "All right; I'll go you just once," and began counting out the money. I caught a glimpse of the sucker's leather, and gave Bill the office to raise him about $4,000. Bill then said, "I'll just raise you $3,000 if it breaks me." The young one then turned to me and asked if I would hold the money. I told him that I did not like to hold stakes, for one or the other must lose when two men bet, but if they had a thorough understanding, and would promise not to quarrel, I would hold the money. The sucker replied: "I guess I understand what I'm about, and all you have to do is to give the money to the one who wins it." "All right," says I; "but I know the loser is not as well satisfied as the winner, and I want you gentlemen to have a fair understanding. Put up your money, and I will hand it over to the one who is the lucky man." He counted out what he thought was $3,500, but I saw it was $3,800, for I was not a bit excited, although I did not like to hold stakes. Bill put up $3,500, for he heard me tell the young man he had put up that amount. After Bill had mixed them up and said he was ready, the sucker made a dive and nabbed the card with the mark on it, but it was not the winner. I asked him if I should give up the money (just as if I did not know anything about the game). He replied, "I made a mistake. Give him the money." I handed it over to Bill, and said to the young man as he was walking away, "I am sorry for your loss, but some one must lose when two men bet." He replied, "It's all right, but I thought I had a sure thing." After we closed up, and were taking our night-cap, I said to Bill, "What do you think of our last catch?" "Well, George, when that chap came right up and offered to bet $500, without any coaxing, I thought he was a smart one, and may be he would get the right card. I don't believe I would have raised that $3,000 if it had not been he wanted you to hold the stakes. Then I knew he was a sucker sure enough." We had another night-cap and then went to bed. The next day we settled up, and when Bill divided the $3,800 we had won on the last shuffle, he only accounted for $3,500. I said, "Bill, that fellow put up $3,800." "I guess not, George," he replied; but I could see that he had knocked down $300 on me. MY VISIT TO OLD BILL. A short time after the occurrence narrated in the preceding story, Canada Bill said to me, "George, don't you think we could make big money on the wharf-boat at the mouth of the Red River, out of those Texas boys that get off there to take the Red River boats?" I replied, "Yes, there is plenty of money there, Bill. When do you want to go up?" I thought he wanted to stop off for a few days, as we had often done before; but he said, "George, I am in poor health, and I want to quit the river and settle down, and I want you to be with me." I did not blame the old fellow, for many a time we would have some pretty hard knocks and duckings in our business on the rivers and railroads; but I was well and hearty--and then I was of a roving disposition, and enjoyed the life I was leading--so I said: "Bill, you go up there and take a rest just as long as you like; but for me, I could not think of settling down on a wharf-boat, with nothing but cow-boys to break the monotony. I'll stick to the old thing as long as they will let me, or until I get married." I did not think just then there was any possibility of my doing the latter thing; but men don't always know just what they will do, for I am married now, and have a dear old mother-in-law, too. "Well, George, I don't like to leave you, but I will try her just once, anyhow." We separated. Bill went to the wharf-boat, and I began looking for another partner. A few months after dissolving partnership with my old friend Bill, I met a man from Red River who told me that Bill was making big money up there. He said, "Why, that crazy looking old fellow is running a corner grocery, livery stable, and winning all the money and horses about the landing." I was not sorry he was doing well--in fact, I was glad of it; and I resolved that I would stop off on my next trip and see him. So in a few days I was on my way up to the mouth of the Red River. When the boat landed I started off, and there stood the old fellow, just as natural as life. I would have known him among ten thousand. He caught sight of me, and then he began to stretch those long thin legs of his, and in an instant he had me by the hand, saying, "Why, George! I'll be gol darned if I haint down-right glad to see you, old boy. Come right up and let's take something." We had a few drinks, talked over old times, and to tell the truth, I was just as glad to see the old boy as he appeared to be to see me. After we had drank enough to make us feel pretty good, Bill said, "George, I've got some of the best critters in my barn that there is in this part of the country, and I won most of 'em playing the baby ticket." As we had been together for about an hour and had got no further than the bar, I proposed that we go to his stables and see the horses, for I was always fond of good stock. As we went into the stable, we saw a fellow sitting on a box just inside of the open doors. He looked like a bull-driver, with his large whip, slouch hat, pants in boots all covered with mud, and an old pipe in his mouth. I did not take much notice of him, as I supposed he belonged around there; and then I had come to look at Bill's fine horses. While we were looking at the stock, some one called Bill, and he excused himself for a few moments. In a short time Bill came back, and I began asking him some questions about a horse I had been looking at; but Bill did not appear to hear me, but said, "George, did you notice that bull-driver sitting by the door as we came in the stable?" "Yes, I saw a fellow sitting there, but I supposed he belonged around here, and I did not pay any attention to him." "Why George! What do you think? That fellow is out there on the box counting his money, and I'll be gol darned if he hasn't got nigh on to $10,000, for I saw him counting over the big bills until I couldn't stand it any longer, and I just came back here to get you, for I know, George, that you can get it if any man can." I replied, "Bill, I didn't think that old tramp had any money; but if you saw it, all right. We will give him a whirl. How will be play him?" Bill then said, "Well, George, you go and get in with him, and when you are all ready just give me the old sign, and I will come up and try the old monte on him." "All right," said I. So I found the fellow, and began my part of the business. I inquired where he came from and all that, told him I was a planter waiting for a boat, and invited him to take a drink. While we were drinking, old Bill came up, rigged out just as I had seen him so many times before; so if the fellow had noticed him and I together when we went in the stable, he would not suspicion that Bill was the same person. We were just taking another drink when the old crazy looking fool came up, so I said to the bull-driver, "What do you think of that fellow coming up there? Let's have some fun with him." "All right," said he. So I said, "Come up and join us in a drink; we are just taking one." Bill walked up and began his talk about where he had been, where he was going, and how he had lost his money. He got out his tickets and showed us how the game was played. We bet the drinks and cigars. I lost $100, then I put a spot on the baby and won $500. The bull-driver began to get nervous, and finally offered to bet $500 he could turn over the baby. Bill thought his time had come, so he said, "I'll just go you $5,000 that you can't turn the baby." The driver got out his big roll and counted out $5,000. Bill counted out $4,200, but I called it $5,000. Mr. "Bull-driver" then said to me, "If I win that money, I'm going to have it; if I lose it, all right; but I won't stand any foolishness." Old Bill gave one of those peculiar chuckles, saying, "All right; if you win her, you shall have it." He then mixed them up as well as I ever saw him do it in my life, and when he was ready the driver made a grab and we both thought he was going for the one with the spot on it; but I be darned if he didn't grab up the one with the baby on it, just as he said he would. Then he turned to me and said, "Hand over that money, for I won it." Bill said, "Hold on, that's one rub on me. Try it again." Mr. Bull just yanked out a gun as long as your arm, and drew her down on me, saying, "See here; I want that money d----d quick, for I won it fair." He then turned the big gun on Bill, and said, "Tell him to hand it over, or I be d----d if I don't blow h--l out of you d----d quick." Poor old Bill was shaking all over, but he managed to say, "Give her up, George." He forgot himself when he called my name; but the old fellow was excited, and did not know that he was giving us both away. I handed the fellow the money, and he walked away, saying, "I don't want any more to do with you d----d fellows, for you are in with each other." Bill and I stood looking after the fellow until he got on the wharf- boat, then he turned to me and said, "George, I've been thinking, and I be darned if I can make out how it was he turned the baby. And, George, another thing I can't understand. I've seen more than ten guns cocked up against your head, and that's the first time I ever saw you weaken." "Well, Bill, I tell you there was blood in that fellow's eyes, and I could see he meant business; besides, Bill, he won the money fair, and you know a fellow will fight like thunder for his own." "All right, George; but I've always said no man living could make you give up. But I guess you was right this time, for I be darned if I didn't think he was going to let her go at me before you could hand over." We took a drink, and then Bill went to his room to take off his make-up. While he was thus engaged, I walked down on the wharf- boat, and there was the bull-driver, waiting for a boat that was just coming in to the landing. I waited for Bill to come down; but I guess he was feeling bad; so I went up to the stable, and there he sat, on the same box where he saw the bull-driver counting his money. I went up to him and said, "Bill, I won $500 and lost $100 while we were playing that fellow, so I owe you $400." He said, "That's right, George." Then I said, "Bill, you only put up $4,200 against his $5,000, but I called it $5,000." "That's right, George." "Well, Bill, do you remember the fellow that put up $3,800 against the $3,500, and you thought I didn't know it?" He looked all around the stable as if he was looking for the bull- driver, but he didn't say a word. I counted out $4,200 and handed it to him, saying, "Bill, here is all your money but $300. I wanted to come up and see you; but you know I like to have some fun at the expense of my friends, and it cost me just about $300 to rig out the 'bull-driver' to play you for a sucker." Bill looked at me for a moment, and then said, "George, I am a sucker, for I might have known you was up to some of your old tricks." BEFORE BREAKFAST. After settling up with Canada Bill for the "bull-driver" racket, I said to him, "Well, old boy, you now see that we are all suckers, and can be caught if the bait is nicely handled." "You're right, George," he replied. Then I said, "The faro banks are my diet, and short cards have landed you many a time, but I must confess that I was a little fearful that the bait I had fixed up for you would not land a sucker; but it did, all the same, didn't it Bill?" "Yes, George," was all he would say. "Well now, Bill, that we have had our fun, let's shake hands and be good friends." He looked at me for an instant, gave one of those old chuckles, held out his hand and said, "All right, George." We went over to the bar, and sealed the compact with a ----. He arranged his business, and we started on the war-path once more, and were together for two years after that, and made a world of money; but we were both suckers when our kind of diet was spread out before us. At one time, after forming our new partnership, we made our headquarters at Canton, Miss., and worked the trains up and down the railroad. We made big money during the week, but on Saturday night we would run down to New Orleans, and get away with the most of it before Monday morning. We were at the Canton depot one evening when the train arrived from New Orleans, and among the passengers that got off was my old friend Jack Hardy, from Brookhaven, Miss. He was one of the best men that the sun ever shone upon, and loved to play poker better than to eat when he was hungry. After supper we got up a game with some of the Canton boys to amuse my friend Hardy. We played along until about four o'clock, when some of the Canton boys thought I had bested them, so I quit and went to bed. Bill was not in the game, but had gone to bed early, as we were to take the up train at about six o'clock in the morning. I overslept myself, and the train had left when I reached the depot. I did not see old Bill, so I went back to the hotel. About eight o'clock I went in to breakfast. While I was enjoying my morning meal, old Bill walked in and sat down with me, saying, "George, where was you this morning when the up train came in?" I replied, "I was up late last night playing poker with Hardy and the Canton boys, and overslept myself; but what in the d---l have you been doing with yourself? for I walked down to the depot to find you, for I knew you would not go out without me." "Well, George, I did go up about six miles, but could not find you on the train, so I got off and walked back." "The h--l you did!" says I. "Yes, George, I went up, and if you had been with me, we would have made over $3,000, for the train was full of the best suckers I ever saw." "I'm d----d sorry, but I wanted to entertain my old friend Hardy, and that's what I get for neglecting business." Bill then said, "George, we got $1,700 out of the trip, anyway, and here is your half." I laughed, and told Bill he had done well to make so much, and walk six miles before breakfast. He did not need to tell me of his winnings, for I could hardly believe him when he did; but the "bull- driver" racket at the mouth of Red River had taught him a good lesson, and I believe did him good; at least it did me to the amount of $850--before breakfast. FOOT RACE. One day, after Bill and I had worked the morning train on the Jackson Road with that degree of success which was warranted by our prudence and perseverance, we took an afternoon train into the city, and as I was glancing through the cars I spied both of the superintendents aboard, so of course I made up my mind that there would be no playing on that train. To make the matter doubly sure, one of them came to me and said, "George, do not play any on our trains." "Certainly not, gentlemen, and you can rest assured of that" (while you are aboard), I said to myself. We had not traveled far when the news came that a freight train was ditched a short distance up the road. Our train stopped, and the superintendents went to the wreck of the engine. Then I saw my chance and got up a foot race among the passengers. Meanwhile Billy opened up on a log as the contestants were getting ready to run. A crowd soon collected around Billy's booth, and he garnered in 1,200 good dollars and some fine gold watches. Up came the engine, and when the superintendents heard of it, they said, "We might have known that Devol would fix up some plan to get these suckers' money." Thus it was that I was always blamed for all the devilment that was done. I really believe if a horse had been stolen the verdict would have been: Devol did it. FORTY MILES AN HOUR. The train was going out of Louisville. The rate of speed was forty miles an hour. Ten Owen County yahoos had been beaten at three-card monte. They pulled at long black bottles. The vacuum made by the loss of their money, they filled with whisky. "Boys, let's have our money and watches back, or kill that gambler," shouted one of them. Owen County boys are rough, and tough. It's a word and a blow, and the blow first. When in crowd together, Owen County boys are as brave as a warrior; single-handed and alone, they are as cowardly as a sick kitten. Canada Bill was not well, so I had been doing the playing. Bill did the capping; and as he lost, their suspicion did not light on him. I suddenly had an idea. I rushed back into the hind sleeper, and gave the porter a five-dollar bill. "Tell them the door is locked, and I have the key," were my words. I was none too quick. The train was going at forty miles an hour, and was sixteen minutes behind time. La Grange was only three miles off, and well I knew that if I got off there I would have to give up. Did I want to give up my hard-earned money? Never! Lowering my body carefully at a clear spot in the road, I jumped, took chances, broke no bones, rolled over in the dirt, and heard a shower of bullets whizzing past my ears from the fast receding train, that was soon out of sight. Fortunately the country was not new to me, and skipping over a fence, I avoided La Grange, and soon reached the Lexington Junction, some distance above. "Have you heard the news?" said a switchman. "No. What is it?" "The Owen County boys have just killed some gamblers a short distance below La Grange." "Glad of it," was all the response he got. Meantime I walked in towards Lexington. At the first station I boarded a train for Lexington, put up at the hotel for a couple of days, and there revived an acquaintance with Clem Payne, clerk of the hotel, whom I had known twenty years or so ago at Kansas City. One morning I was called for the early train for Louisville, and while waiting for breakfast I made the acquaintance of a large fat man, who was going on a stage journey afar back in the country. We got into conversation (I was always partial to conversation with strangers), and it was not long before I showed him the big three. He became intensely interested, and in a few moments I had his twelve fifty-dollar bills. I did not deem it advisable to wait for breakfast, but, paying my bill, jumped into a hack and drove to the first station in time to make the train. Before La Grange was reached, I entered the baggage-car and told the baggage-master to pile the trunks all around me. I was thus completely hid, as snug as a bug in a rug. When La Grange was reached, there were signs of tumult about. Five of the Owen County gang were at the depot, and they boarded every train, and had been doing it for two days. A newsboy gave me away, and told them where I was secreted. They all then remained on board and kept a regular watch over me until Louisville was reached. The train moves slowly through the city. I quietly slipped off; not quick enough, however, for one of them espied me, and, pulling his revolver, shot--not me, but himself. His companions all ran. He lay upon the ground bellowing like a calf, and said I had shot him. The police arrested me. Mr. Shadburne was the Chief of Police. I related to him the true facts of the case. "Release that man," he said. "I will be responsible for his appearance in the morning." Morning came, and the Owen County deputation were early at the court-house with a lawyer. They wanted to compromise for $500. "No, sir, not for a cent." They dropped to $100. The lawyer wanted $50. I gave them $100, and they went off with their hard-earned stuff. BILL WOULD GAMBLE. One of Bill's most striking peculiarities was his love for gambling. He loved gambling for its own sake, just as the moralists love virtue for its own sake. No man that I ever came in contact with ever struck me as being so fond of gambling. I have seen him give parties two points in casino and seven-up, and they would play marked cards on him. On one occasion when we had a settlement there was $375 in small gold coin, which I told him to keep and we would fix it up at some other time. No; he wouldn't have it that way. He wanted to play seven-up for it. This I positively declined, saying that when partners played together it sometimes broke friendship and gave rise to hard feelings. But he insisted until at last I played him. We cut for deal, and he dealt. Hearts were trumps. I stood, and made three to his nothing. I dealt; he begged; I gave him one, and made three more. Thus I was six to his one. He dealt, and I picked up the queen and stood, which was high. I went out, and refused to play any more. But Bill was bound to play with somebody, so he picked up a man and gave him two points in seven-up, and they kept at it all day, until Bill lost $1,100. NO GOOD AT SHORT CARDS. Bill couldn't play any short card game. Monte was his hold, and the gamblers knew it. I never knew Bill to play at a short card game that he did not quit loser, and I have known him to play as long as seventy hours at a sitting. One night we were on a boat that was putting off freight at the wharf-boat that lay at the mouth of Red River. Bill was in his element. He had a big pile of money up in front of him, and a large crowd intent on watching the game. Soon I noticed a fellow sitting at Bill's right who was fishing for one of the hundred-dollar bills, trying to coax it over to his side of the house. I waited patiently until he got it, then went around to him and said, "Is that the way you gamble where you live?" "I don't know what you mean," he said, still holding his hand over the stolen bill. I gave his hand a push, and there lay the bill, which I grabbed. Then turning to Bill, I said, "You would sit here and let these ducks steal all your money. Won't you never drop to anything?" The fellow was on his feet in a minute, shouting, "That is my money. I took it out of my pocket and was waiting for a chance to bet it." "You lie; you were trying to steal it." Three or four of his friends at that arose, and I knew that war was in sight; so I slipped my big gun into my overcoat pocket, and expected h--l. But just then somebody yelled "Monte!" and the mate coming up, the facts of the case were stated to him, and he said, "Everybody must keep quiet." Bill of course cleaned the crowd out, and reached the wharf-boat with a large roll of the good green stuff; but he did not keep it long, for Jack Armstrong, of Louisville, was lying there in wait for him to play casino at $50 a game. MONUMENTAL GALL. There are some men who, when they are caught once, like burned children ever after dread the fire. Others there are who have such overweening confidence in their own smartness that their lives are nothing but a series of losses. Canada Bill and myself were nearing Magnolia, about a hundred miles above New Orleans, when Bill opened up his three cards. It was not long before a crowd gathered about to witness the sport. One large man in particular watched the play as a hawk does a chicken. This I was not slow to perceive; so turning to Bill, I said, "What'll you bet I can't turn the baby?" "$1,000 that no man can turn it." I pulled out a roll that looked like $1,000, though it was not; for we had been playing bank, and were nearly busted. Bill won, and I lost. Then he said, in his screechy voice, "By golly! you see I've got two cards to your one, and can win every time." The big fellow was getting terribly worked up, for he knew that the corner of the baby card was turned up. Then he commenced getting out his money, and I was soon by his side. "Can you guess it?" I innocently asked. "If you can, tell me, so I can get even." But he was too selfish, and proposed to win it all. He offered to bet $100, but Bill wouldn't have anything but a thousand-dollar bet. Up went the money quicker than you could say Jack Robinson. The result is easily foreshadowed. The man turned up the wrong card. He made a grab, however, for the money, but I was in a second between him and the stuff, so that Bill got there first. "There's going to be trouble, Bill," I whispered. "Get off." He lost no time in obeying. The train was just leaving the station. The fat man followed, and chased Bill around the car. Bill jumped back; so did the fat man. Then Bill slid off again, but the fat man was at his heels. This could not last long. Bill's slim build helped him in the emergency, and again he caught the train. The fat man was unable to, but the conductor backed the cars and took him aboard. "Where is the tramp cowboy that robbed me?" he excitedly demanded. "He jumped off as you got on." "I wouldn't mind the loss of the money," he said, "but the idea of being swindled out of it by such a cowboy looking kind of tramp breaks me all up." Where was Bill? In the sleeper was a smooth-faced young man who had taken off a cowboy suit of clothes, put on a bran new suit of black broadcloth, gold eye-glasses, clean-shaved face. This preacher- looking fellow soon came into the car where the big man and myself were talking over the loss, and sat down near us. I was busy pumping the sucker to see if he had any more money. "Why, anybody can play that game," he said, and of course I remarked: "The dealer though has every advantage, as he has two cards to your one. If I had some cards, I would show you how it is done." That was enough for the preacher-looking man, and, slipping back into the sleeper, he procured some cards and dropped them down into one of the seats near me. I saw them and picked them up, observing, "I believe these are the same cards." The sucker looked at them and declared that he believed they were. I began playing the cards, but the fat fellow said, "You are pretty good, but you can't handle them like the cowboy did." "It wants practice," I said. I practiced on, when up stepped the preacher-looking, gold-glassed individual, saying: "I'll bet you a dollar I can guess the card." "Oh, I don't want to bet with any boy preacher," I said. "I'm no boy preacher. I'm studying to become a priest." "You'd better keep that dollar; that's my advice." I was only waiting for Bill to put a mark on the card, which he soon did while I went back to get a drink. As I came back they all began to laugh at me, and the big fellow said, "Any fool could tell the card the way you throw them." Then I pretended to get mad; so I offered to bet $2,000 that no man could turn the right card. The priest spoke up, "I'll bet you $200 in gold that I can do it." "Put it up," I said. This made the sucker crazy, for he was so anxious to get even that he pulled out and counted down $860. But I would not bet less than $1,000. There was a little man standing near who offered to loan him the $140 to make up the $1,000, when Bill turned and said, "I'll bet you $500 that my friend, the big man, wins." Talk about monumental gall; I thought then that calling the fat man his friend, who a few moments before had been chasing him around, ready to kill him, was about the grandest specimen of sublime impudence that I ever saw. The big fellow turned the card, and lost as usual, and the little man looked at me, then at the fat man, as much as to say, you two rascals are partners. He took the priest aside, who was no other than Canada Bill, and assured him that he was positive of this fact. I won the money, and there was no kick. CLOSE CALLS. I never will forget the night that Canada Bill and myself were on the Michigan Southern Road, where we had been working for some time, and finally shaken down a man for $1,200. He telegraphed ahead for a warrant to arrest Canada Bill, and I knew that Bill would have to hustle, as the cars would be searched. I hurried him into the sleeper and found a top berth that was empty, while a lady occupied the lower. Her dress was laying in the top berth, and she was fast asleep in the lower one. "Bill, jump into this," I cried, holding up the garment. He refused at first, but as the emergency was desperate, at last consented, and, tying a handkerchief around his head, his face being as smooth as a baby's, made as fine a looking woman as you would want to see. Along came the officers with the conductor and lantern, and searched all the berths in the sleeper; but as soon as they spied the two ladies in the two berths, upper and lower, they apologized and hastily withdrew. When I was asked where Bill was, I informed everybody that he had gotten off, and I feared was seriously injured. Reaching Detroit early in the morning, Bill managed to escape from the cars unnoticed, and I got out at the depot as if nothing had happened. Another time, on the Missouri Pacific from Kansas City to St. Louis, Bill and I succeeded in beating a Jew out of a few hundred dollars. He was a gamey little hooked-nosed son of Abraham, and, like all the rest of his class, loved money as a duck does water. So when he was on the platform he drew a pistol from his hip pocket, and resolved in an instant to die, thinking, no doubt, it was preferable for a Jew to be dead, rather than penniless. Placing the muzzle to his mouth, he pulled the trigger. A flash, loud report, when all the passengers rushed out to see what had happened. The Jew lay on the platform, bleeding at the mouth. We straightened him up, held over his head to spit out the blood, when out dropped the bullet. Two of his teeth were gone, which must have checked the speed of the bullet, as it had found lodgment in the rear of his mouth. Of course he didn't die, but he had a close call. Bill and I made a good deal of money one night going up on the cars from Jackson, Miss., to Vicksburg. The suckers began to kick, and I saw trouble ahead, so I told Bill to hustle into the sleeper, but he sat still. I went on into the smoking car. A large man grappled Bill, and, pulling a long bowie-knife, demanded every dollar he had won, and the watches. The conductor hurriedly called me, and grabbing my Betsy Jane, I rushed back just in time to knock one of the men senseless with the butt end of the weapon, which I drew on the rest and held them at bay. This was long enough to allow Bill a chance to reach the platform, pull the bell cord, and jump off. I was not long in following, and that, too, was too close a call to be styled pleasant. A EUCHRE HAND. One evening I played a game of euchre on the _Grand Republic_ with a sucker. I gave him a big hand, and told him I could euchre him. He offered to bet $100, and I bet him $500. Up went the money, when down came the clerk, who I knew would stop the game; but quickly giving my hand to my partner, I rushed up and grabbed the clerk, good naturedly holding him until Bill had all the stuff taken. The clerk made a holy howl and a terrible kick, but I gave him the laugh, telling him that if he made me give up the money it would be taking the bread and meat out of my mouth. This amused him, and no more was said. I was playing in a game of poker at one time, and one of the party was a friend of mine. I saw I could win some big money if I could get my friend out of the game. I tried every way I could to run him out, but he was game, and would not run, so I at last ran him up a hand, and then broke him; then he retired in good order. After getting him out I started in and made the balance of the party sick in less than no time. After the game broke up, I found my friend and asked him how much he lost. He told me. I handed him the amount, saying, "I tried to get you out of the game without winning your money, but you would not go, so all I could do was to break you; but I never try to beat a friend, so I want you to have all your money back." He thanked me very kindly, and said, "George, if you ever want a favor that is in my power to grant, do not hesitate to ask it of me, for I will be happy to grant it." The above is one of the many similar circumstances that I have experienced during my forty years as a gambler. I always loved to play a social game with my friends, for a small limit, and I never took any advantage, unless it was for a joke, or to run a friend out, and then I would return all I had won. BILL'S PRESENT. My old friend and partner, Canada Bill, presented me with a very fine double-barreled shotgun, which I would often take with me when we were out on our trips. We were on the L. & N. Railroad one morning, and I had the gun with me. We had left our baggage in the ladies' car, and were over in the smoker, when we saw a sucker. We went to work on him in the usual way, and it was not long until Bill had $400 of his money. I expected he would kick, from the way he was squirming around; so I gave Bill the office to get off, and I went back in the ladies' car where we had left our baggage. Old Bill was sometimes slow in getting off after he had won the money, and on this occasion he was again behind time. I had not been seated but a moment, when a brakeman came running in and told me my partner was in trouble. I jumped up, grabbed my shotgun, and started for the smoking-car; and I did not get there any too soon, for the four-hundred-dollar sucker had Bill crouching in a seat, and was standing over him with a big gun covering him. He had given Bill but two minutes to give up the money, and Bill had out his roll counting her out. I rushed up, struck the big fellow with the new gun on the side of the head and knocked him senseless. His big gun dropped on the floor. I picked it up and stuck it in my pocket. Bill lit out as soon as he could get out of his seat, and left me to look after the big fellow on the floor. With the assistance of some of the passengers I got him up, and found he was pretty badly hurt. I told him I was sorry I had hit him, but I thought he was going to kill the old fellow. He said, "I was only trying to scare him so he would give me back my money, as it was all I had. I could not have shot him if I had wanted to, as the pistol was not loaded." I pulled out the old thing, and sure enough there was not a load in it. I asked the fellow what business he was engaged in, and he told me he was a ship-carpenter. As that was my father's business, I felt very sorry for him, and I gave him $100 and left the train at the next station. I learned from the brakeman that Bill had dropped off a few miles back, and I knew he would show up soon; so I left the baggage at the depot, took my gun, and made for the woods. Robbins were plentiful, and in a short time I had eight nice birds for our breakfast. I went back to the station, where I found old Bill waiting for me. He was glad to see me and the birds, so he said, "George, I'm glad I bought that gun for you, for it saved my life to-day; besides, we will have birds for breakfast." I replied, "Yes, Bill, that was the worst fellow you ever met. He would have killed you, sure, with that big gun." GOOD LUCK. Canada Bill and I went over from Canton, Miss., to Vicksburg at one time, to catch a boat for New Orleans. We met all the boys, and had a good time while waiting for a boat. The Meader boys (Jesse and Aud) had fitted up very fine faro rooms but a short time before our visit, and they were very glad to see us. Jesse wanted to buy all the wine in Vicksburg for me, for he knew I was a good producer. After he had expended about $50 for wine, he invited me to go down and see their rooms. He did not ask me to play. He said, "Just come down, George, and see our new place." I went down and took a survey of the house, and then I was introduced to the faro-table, where "Aud" was doing the honors. They knew well I could not see a bank in full blast without changing in. I told "Aud" to give me $100 worth of checks and I would try my luck in the new house. I got the checks, and they gave me a front seat so that I could bet all over the lay-out if I so desired. On the first deal I won out about $400. "Aud" shuffled up again with a great deal of care, and I started in again. I played three deals, and then looked up at Aud, saying, "This is too much of a see-saw, and I guess I will quit, for I don't want to miss that boat." I cashed in my checks, and I had won just $1,900. Some of the boys laughed, but Jesse and Aud looked as sober as Mose Wilson used to look when he was on the police bench saying "Thirty, fifty." The Meader boys were game to the backbone, and although they could not laugh with the other boys when I made my first play in their new house, they did ask me to have some wine, and gave me a very pressing invitation to come and see them again; for well they knew my luck would change, and then they could laugh as heartily as any of the boys. They were right, for if I had to-day the money I have lost in Vicksburg alone, I could go into the furniture business and carry as large a stock, on a cash basis, as any house in this country. Bill and I caught the boat for New Orleans, and I was $1,900 ahead. We made good money going down, but it was nearly all deposited in the faro bank before we left the city. GOVERNOR PINCHBACK. Great oaks from little acorns grow; and you can never tell the eminent position to which the little bare-footed, ragged boy may climb if he has good luck. There is Governor Pinchback, of Louisiana. He was my boy. I raised him, and trained him. I took him out of a steamboat barber shop. I instructed him in the mysteries of card- playing, and he was an apt pupil. Never shall I forget the night we left New Orleans on the steamer _Doubloon_. There was a strong team of us--Tom Brown, Holly Chappell, and the boy Pinch. We sent Pinch and staked him to open a game of chuck-a-luck with the niggers on deck, while we opened up monte in the cabin. The run of luck that evening was something grand to behold. I do not think there was a solitary man on the boat that did not drop around in the course of the evening and lose his bundle. When about thirty miles from New Orleans a heavy fog overtook us, and it was our purpose to get off and walk about six miles to Kennersville, where we could take the cars to the city. Pinchback got our valises together, and a start was made. A drizzling rain was falling, and the darkness was so great that one could not see his hand before his face. Each of us grabbed a valise except Pinch, who carried along the faro tools. The walking was so slippery that we were in the mud about every ten steps, and poor Pinch he groaned under the load that he carried. At last he broke out: "Tell you what it is, Master Devol, I'll be dumbed if this aint rough on Pinch. Ise going to do better than this toting along old faro tools." "What's that, Pinch? What you going to do?" "Ise going to get into that good old Legislature; and I'll make Rome howl if I get there." Of course I thought at the time that this was all bravado and brag; but the boy was in earnest, and sure enough he got into the Legislature, became Lieutenant-Governor, and by the death of the Governor he slipped into the gubernatorial chair, and at last crawled into the United States Senate. He did me a good turn when he got up in the world, and true and high honor did not dim the kindly feeling he had for me. I had been playing on the Jackson Railroad, and my luck had been good; but I was satisfied, from certain ominous signs, that a big kick was brewing. To avoid trouble I got off the train a few miles before reaching the city, and had been in town a day or two when the Chief of Police sent for me. Of course I responded, when he told me, "Devol, you have beat one of the Police Commissioners out of $800, and he says you shan't live in the city." "I have lived in the city too many years to be run out by any one man." Thinking it best to have this matter settled, I went to my old friend Bush, and we took a hack and drove to the executive mansion. Pinchback, my old boy, was Governor then; and though it was late at night, he insisted on calling us in, woke up all the servants, and set out a royal lunch, with all sorts of liquors, and we had a high old time. "Go to bed, George," he said, "and don't give yourself any uneasiness. I'll settle that fellow in the morning." That was the end of the $800 Police Commissioner. A GOOD STAKEHOLDER. Sherman Thurston, my old friend, is dead. He has passed in his checks, shuffled his last cards, dealt his final lay-out, and been gathered to the gods. He was an honorable, great-hearted man, and I can recall the time when no living man could do him up in a rough- and-tumble fight. Cow-boy Tripp was once doing the playing for me on the Missouri Pacific Railroad; and as I saw Sherman, I said to him: "See that conductor? I've got a little game going on here, and a first-class sucker in tow. Now the conductor is watching us very closely, and as soon as he sees him put up his money, he will walk up and stop the game. What I want you to do is to go and sit alongside of him, and entertain him until the lawful proceedings are over." Tripp opened up the game, and the sucker put up his stuff; and sure enough the conductor made a rush to stop the game. But Sherman grabbed him by the waist and held him as you would a baby, and kept on talking all the time, telling him not to have any fuss, that he didn't want to see any trouble, etc. Sherman Thurston was the best stakeholder in America. He was death to coat-tail pullers. He had a way of acting as if he was in a terrible passion, and coming down on their feet with a stamp that made them lie quiet. Sherman was a man of hard sense and native resources that rendered him ready for any emergency. Once when we had won some money from a man, he began to raise a fuss and carry on like one bereft of reason. Sherman humored him. He locked him up in the car, and told everybody that he was a lunatic that he was removing to the asylum--to keep away from him, as he was dangerous and entirely irresponsible. Then when the fellow got too noisy, Sherman went and said, "See here, old fellow, you had better keep still, for gambling is a penitentiary offense in this State, and you are just as much implicated as the man who won your money." That settled it, and the man quieted down as mild as a pet lamb. SHE KISSED ME. A woman's heart-rending shriek rang through the cabin of the steamer _Huntsville_ one afternoon, as she lay taking in wood. I was standing on the guards watching the jolly, happy negroes as they seized the huge sticks and ran to the music of their camp-meeting hymns and piled it near the engine. Rushing back, I saw that a little girl had fallen overboard into the water. Losing no time, I jumped overboard and got ashore with the little one. When I carried her, dripping and wet, to her parents, who stood on the gang- plank, the mother caught the baby in her arms and nearly smothered her with kisses; and my turn came next, for she began to hug and kiss me, pouring forth her gratitude; but I pushed her away, as I did not want her husband to see her kiss me. The little one was taken into the ladies' cabin and dry clothes put on her, and the father came down and wanted to recompense me, but I would not have it, for I said, "I have only done what I would for any child that was drowning." Years afterwards I met the young lady and her father traveling on one of the New Orleans packets. She had grown to be a beautiful young lady, but her mother had been dead many years. THE TRICK KNIFE. There are a great many devices, some of which are very old, some a little more modern, and some new ones are being manufactured every day, to catch the uninitiated, all of which are more or less successful--for there are just as many suckers to-day as there were forty years ago. I remember seeing a knife that was so constructed that the blade could not be opened without pressing upon springs. It had one spring that if pressed would allow the blade to open; and there was another spring that would lock the first one so that it would not work, and when the second spring was used, no one could open the blade with the first spring alone. Like most tricks, this knife racket took two persons to work it successfully. The one with the knife would be dressed up like a countryman, and he would go up to a person who he thought could be played for a sucker, and enter into conversation with him. Finally he would show the knife, and explain how to open the blade when locked with but one spring. About this time the capper (a well dressed man) would come up, and the country looking fellow that owned the knife would say to the sucker, "There comes a fellow; say nothing to him about the spring, and we will win some money." The capper would take the knife and try to open it, then he would say, "That is a dummy; it was not made to open." The owner of the knife would then say, "Yes, it can be opened." Then the nice man would try it again, and finally he would offer to bet that no man could open the knife in ten or fifteen minutes. The sucker would take him up; and as he did not know anything about the second spring, of course he lost his money. I did not have any use for such contrivances, as old monte was good enough for me; but I always tried to keep posted on all the tricks and schemes, so as to be able to down the schemers at their own games. Bill and I went on board the steamer _Bart Able_, bound for New Orleans, late one night. I was tired and sleepy, so I told Bill I would go to bed. He said he would take a smoke, and then join me. I had not been in bed but a few moments, when a black boy called me and said that my partner was in trouble in the barber shop. I was up and into my pants in a moment. I grabbed old Betsy Jane and started. When I arrived at the shop door, I saw two fellows standing over Bill; one had a big pocket-knife, the other had a poker. I did not stop to inquire what the trouble was about, but rushed in, struck the fellow with the knife, and as the fellow with the poker started to run I let him have one, and they both measured their lengths on the floor. I turned to ask Bill what the d---l the fellows were after him for, when they both jumped up and lit out. Bill said: "Well, George, I'll tell you. Them fellows took me for a sucker, and bet me $10 that I couldn't open a big knife they had; but, George, I knew how to open her just as well as they did, and I won their money. They wanted me to give it up; but when I saw the black boy start after you, I thought I would hold on until you came, then I knew they would get left--didn't I, George?" "Yes, Bill; you bet you won't have to give up when I'm around." "George, them fellows took me for a sucker. Do I look like a sucker?" "No, Bill; you look like a nice, smart counter-hopper," I replied. Bill laughed and said, "George, I'm $10 better off than I would have been if you had not got here just in time; let's take something and then go to bed." The fellow dropped his big knife, which we found on the floor; so that he was out $10 and his knife by tackling--not a sucker, but one of the oldest and best sucker-catchers in the country. TWO-FORTY ON THE SHELL ROAD. During the war, after Ben Butler took possession of New Orleans, the city was always full of Union officers and soldiers. Money was very plentiful, and of course everything was lively. I was running the race-course and gambling games out at the lake, and was making big money. I had nineteen good horses. Some were trotters, some pacers, and some runners. I would drive out and in over the shell road, which at that time was one of the finest drives in this country. I did not allow any one to have a faster horse than myself, and generally drove a pacer, as the road was very hard, and would stove up a trotter in a short time. I had a very pretty bay mare that could pace in 2:30 every day in the week, and she had beaten fourteen other horses at the State Fair in 2:26½. I drove "Emma Devol" (the bay mare) most of the time. I had a big black horse called the "Duke of Orleans," which was faster than "Emma Devol," but I hardly ever drove him on the shell road, as I kept him for the race-track. I was driving the "Duke" out on the road one evening, when I overtook a big fellow by the name of Jim Dueane, who was a lieutenant of police at that time. He was a good, clever fellow when sober, but very quarrelsome when drunk. He was driving a good horse, and I could see he was under the influence of liquor. He asked me where I got the plug I was driving, for he did not recognize the "Duke." I told him it was an old fellow I had bought for $50 to drive on the road, as I did not want to stove up my race-horses. We were about two miles from the lake, when he offered to bet me a bottle of wine he could beat me to the lake. I took him up, and we started. I let him get a little ahead, so I could see how his horse moved. We were going along in this way for the first mile, when he looked back and said, "Come on, Devol, or you will have to pay for the wine." I replied, "All right, I will do it, as I do not want to lose the bet." I gave "Duke" the word, and he got right down to business and passed Dueane so quick that he did not know what to make of the old plug. After I got about 100 feet ahead of him, I looked back and told him to come on or he would have to pay for the wine. He tried very hard to catch me, but it was no use, as "Duke" was not that kind of a horse. I was at the lake, out of my wagon, and had the blanket on the "Duke of Orleans," when Dueane drove up. I could see that he was not in good humor. He got and hitched his horse, and then we walked over to the hotel to get the bottle of wine. I began laughing at him, and wanted to know what he thought of the "Duke" as a $50 plug, when he let drive at me. I ducked my head, and he hit it a pretty hard lick. I started for him, but some of the officers jumped in between us and put a stop to the fight, and in a little while he apologized and we were drinking together. I could have whipped him, for I was in my prime at that time; but I was glad they separated us, as I did not want to have any trouble with the police. While we were drinking and talking about the race, a great big colonel of a New York regiment, who was pretty drunk, spoke up and said, "I can whip any man that will do anything to Dueane." I knew he had reference to me; but the room was full of shoulder- strapped fellows, and I did not want any of his chicken pie just then, so I paid no attention to his remarks. He kept on with his abuse, and I was just itching to get at him, but knew I would not stand a fair show unless some of my friends should drop in, which I expected they would do before long, as it was a little early for the town boys. In a short time a friend of mine, by the name of Joe Summers, and a crowd of New Orleans boys came in. Then I knew I would have a fair show, so I walked up to the big colonel and said, "You are a big lubber, and can't fight just a little bit." Up went his hands, but before he could lead off I gave him one under the chin, and he measured his length on the floor. My friends were all around us in an instant, and Joe Summers said that it should be a fair fight. I was ready to give him my head when he got up, but the big lubber said, "That will do." In ten minutes after I knocked him down we were drinking wine together, and no one would have though we ever had a difficulty. He was so big that he thought he could bluff me; but he did not know that I was about the worst man in that part of the country at that time to bluff at any game, more especially at the game of fight--for I would rather have fought than not, and I did not think there was a man living in those days that could whip me in a rough- and-tumble. We had several bottles of wine on the strength of our little misunderstanding. The result was, we were all feeling pretty good and liberal, and I do believe we opened 200 bottles of wine before 2 o'clock. There were about seventy-five teams hitched around the hotel, and I knew when their owners started home they would get to racing on the shell road, and some of the horses and buggies would get hurt; so I told a stable-boy to put my horse up, and I would wait until morning. A few of the others did the same thing, but the balance started, and some of them were so drunk that they could not see the road, although it was as white as marble. The next morning after I had eaten my breakfast I had my team brought out, and started for the city. The wine of the night previous had done its work, for I saw seven buggies, or parts of them, strewn along the road. Dueane had run into the toll-gate, and came near killing himself and his horse. Wine is a great worker when one gets too much of it inside. It gave employment to the buggy-makers, and put me to bed on that occasion; and I was glad of it when I saw the wrecks it had made of my boon companions of the night before. A MILE DASH. About the time referred to in the preceding story, the livery business was very good in New Orleans, and some of the livery-men kept quite fast horses, which they would let out to persons they knew would not abuse them. My old friend Dick Barnum was running a stable in those days, and is in the same business to-day; but he is getting old now, like myself, and I suppose he goes to church regularly every Sunday instead of going out to the race-track, as he and I did twenty-five years ago. I was at Dick's stable one day when he was feeling pretty good, and he began bragging on a horse that he had, and which he called "Tom Parker." I let him blow for some time, when I said to him: "Dick, you don't weigh more than 140 pounds, and I weigh over 200. I'll tell you what I will do. I will hitch my black horse to a skeleton wagon and put on a bag of sand weighing 150 pounds. You can hitch Tom to a sulky and we will drive our own horses, and I will bet you $250 that I can beat you one dash of a mile around the track." He said, "Put her up." We put up the money in Johnnie Hawkins' hands, and agreed to pace that afternoon. The news of the race spread rapidly, and there was a large crowd at the course to see the sport. Henry Foley was in the judge's stand, and we were all ready. The bets were about even, although my horse was handicapped with four wheels to Dick's two-wheeled sulky, and besides I had 350 pounds to his 140. We tossed up for the pole, and Dick won. We went up the stretch and came down for the tap, but Dick wanted the best of it, and was about ten lengths ahead when he went under the wire. I nodded to Henry, so he let us go. Dick went flying from the start, and I eased my horse around the first turn, so that when I got straightened up on the back stretch Dick was 100 yards ahead. The betting was then $100 to $5 in favor of Dick, as they all thought that I could never close up that big gap. I gave old "Duke" one cut across the back, and he went down that stretch like a race-horse, sure enough. We came around the next turn, and when I got square into the home stretch I gave the horse a war-whoop, and we went past Dick so fast that he thought he was tied to the fence. I went under the wire about ten lengths ahead of Dick, and the fellows that had taken some of the $100 to $5 bets raised the yell and kept it up until you would have thought they were a pack of wild Indians. My friend Johnnie Hawkins took all the bets that he could get in that short time. Dick did not blow about "Tom Parker" any more after that, and when I would ask him if he wanted another race, he would say, "No, George; I would rather take a drink;" and that was about all I was ever able to get out of him. I hope to see the old fellow alive and happy the next time I visit New Orleans; for he is a good, clever fellow, and I hope he will live as long as I do--and I expect to live forever. MULE THIEVES. During the time I was running the race-course and my games at the lake I was taken down with the yellow fever, and was confined to my bed for about twenty days. I was about well, and had been sitting up for a few days, when my horse-trainer, and a friend of mine by the name of George Leonard, called to see me; and as I was feeling so much better, they wanted me to go out to the track and time one of my pacing horses with a running mate. So I muffled myself up in a big overcoat and went out. I sat in the buggy and held the watch, but when they came to ask me what time had been made, I was lying in the bottom of the buggy. They took me back to my room, and I was just as sick as I had been any time during the fever. I had the best physician in New Orleans, and he said, after I was out of danger, that if it had not been for my iron constitution he could not have pulled me through. I felt the effects of my last attack with yellow-jack for two years afterward, and I am not afraid of it to-day. A short time after getting well of the fever, I was at the livery stable early one morning where I kept some of my horses. The stable was owned by my friends William and George Leonard, and they were large dealers in horses and mules. When I arrived the boys were red-hot, for they had sold twenty head of good mules to some fellows the evening before, and had allowed them to put the mules on board of a little boat lying at the landing, on the promise that they would pay the money as soon as the bank opened the next day. The boys had been down to the landing, and had found that the boat and mules were gone. They wanted me to go with them and catch the thieves, so we armed ourselves with pistols and double-barreled shotguns, took a fast packet, and started. About forty miles above the city we saw the little boat lying at the levee, but as we passed, it could be seen that there were no mules on board. We went up about a mile, and then got off and started back a-foot. When we got near the little boat, we saw the mules in a pasture. We "let" down the fence and started to drive them out, when the fellows saw us and came off to stop us. I told the boys to take the mules and I would take care of the d----d thieves. They were coming with their guns out. I pulled my shotgun down on them and told them to halt, which they did. When the boys got the mules on the run up the levee, I followed them, and the thieves followed me. They ran us up into a little town, when they got out a replevy and took the mules. We had a trial and won the case, so we put our mules on a boat and were soon back in New Orleans. The Leonard boys get the money now before they let the stock go aboard a boat. AN HONORABLE MAN. Some men are the soul of honor, and if they lose a bet will walk right up to the captain's office and settle; while others are fast enough to make bets, take chances, and all that sort of thing, but when it comes to paying their losses, if there is a hole to crawl out of, they are the very men to do it. Coming out of New Orleans one time on the steamer _Peerless_, I was open for business, waiting for somebody to try his luck, when, looking around, I espied one of the leading dry good merchants of the Crescent City, whose place of business was on Canal Street. He asked me the kind of game I was running, and I explained it to him, when my capper came along, and, looking on, made a bet for the drinks that he could turn the jack. The capper won, and we had the drinks all around, when he took the jack and turned up a corner, taking care to let the merchant see what he had done. Then he began bantering me to bet with him. I persisted that I had the best of it, as I had two chances to his one, and was dead sure to win two out of three times. The merchant had often seen me playing short cards and rouge et noir. We kept up a running conversation for some time, till at last I told him that I had never run a game I would not bet on, except this one. Then the capper offered to wager $100 that he could turn the right card. "Put up your money," was all I said, and I handed mine to the merchant. Sure enough, he turned the right card, and I unconcernedly remarked, "Well, you got her." Then the merchant wanted to bet me $100 that he could turn the right card, when I replied: "I will make just one bet with you for $500." He began going through his pockets, and only found $425; so I said: "I'll back out, as I do not know much about the game, anyhow; but if there is any other game you want to be on, why, I am your man." Continuing, I said: "Any other game but this one, I will bet $10,000 on. I pride myself on betting as big as anybody." "This is the first time I ever knew of your backing out," replied the merchant. The capper then offered to bet $500, and began to abuse me. He put up his money, guessed the right card, and of course won. Things were now getting exciting, and my merchant friend was very warm under the collar, and wanted to bet me the $425; but I wouldn't have it, and said in a majestic manner: "No, sir; nothing less than a cool thousand, as I am now a big loser." The capper offered to loan the merchant some money to make up the balance, but I would not allow it. At last he put up his watch and diamond pin, and went to turn the jack. Of course he lost. Afterwards he came to me and gave me a check for $1,000, and I returned him his jewelry and money. We stopped for half an hour at one of the landings, and he slipped off and countermanded the payment of the check by telegraph. When I presented the check at the bank I was shown the dispatch, and to this day the check has never been paid, though the merchant still does business on Canal Street. He was an honorable, high-toned merchant. MY PARTNER WON. Dunlap and I got on the steamer _Paragoad_ one evening at Baton Rouge, and seeing no one of board that I thought was of any particular service to me, I got a bottle of wine and a good cigar and was sitting in the hall, when a coal merchant whom I knew very well in Baton Rouge came along, and seeing me said: "Devol, this is rather a slim trip for your business." Laughingly I replied, "Yes." "But that don't hinder us from taking a drink together, does it?" "I have just had one, thank you." He insisted, and I did not hang back; so, after smoking, we sat down near the bar, when he remarked that this was the first boat he ever was on where they didn't have a game of poker. I thought myself it was something strange, as in those days everybody played cards. At last we got to throwing for the drinks, when he finally remarked that if there were one or two more around we might have a good game of poker. Though I said I didn't care to play, as I was sleepy, yet he persisted. Along came Dunlap, whom he did not know, and I asked him if he ever played poker. He replied a little, when he was at home in Illinois. "Come on, then, and take a drink," said the coal man. I gave Dunlap the wink, and excusing himself for a moment he went to his room, and procuring a pack of marked cards gave them to the barkeeper. When he came in, the coal man at once began: "Sit down, and we'll make up a game." Then Dunlap asked the barkeeper for some cards, and of course the marked pack was handed out. It was then half-past 12 o'clock. We started in at a $20 limit, and played until the table was needed for breakfast. The coal man and myself were both losers. He said he lost $2,300. I lost $900, but as I lost it to my partner, I was not broken-hearted. HAUNTED. One night, anxious to reach New Orleans, I took a stern-wheel boat out of Wichita; and as it was late, the clerk said the only berth he could give me was in a state-room with another man. I crawled into the top berth, and towards morning I was awakened by a noise beneath me. Carefully looking over the berth, I spied the occupant of the lower berth with a long Colt's navy revolver in his hand. His hair was disheveled, and his eye was wild, while his actions indicated that he was hunting for somebody. I lay very quiet, however, thinking that he was either a victim of delirium tremens or a lunatic. At last he arose and opened the door and went into the cabin, the only occupants of which were the porter and the watchman. They lost no time in leaving, when they saw a man clad only in a night-shirt and drawers, with a drawn revolver in his hand. I arose and dressed, as I had had enough of such a room-mate; and on telling the clerk of the facts, he said: "That's strange, for I knew the man very well. He never drinks, but he has killed three men." That settled it with me. He was haunted by the ghosts of his murdered victims. McCOOLE AND COBURN. When the McCoole and Coburn fight came on, I left New Orleans for the purpose of witnessing the sport. On reaching Cincinnati, John Franklin invited me to go over to Latonia Springs and see Coburn. I did so, and spent a pleasant afternoon with him. He invited me to come over and keep him company; and as I thought I could turn an honest penny as well as have a little recreation, I packed up my faro tools and went into the dark and bloody ground back of Covington. When any strangers came along, I opened up and caught all that was in sight. As the time for the fight drew near, a number of Coburn's friends came on from New York. They were glad to see him in such good heart and spirits. They came with a good deal of money to back him up; and as the boys had to do something to while away the weary hours, Joe introduced them to my partner, saying that he was a New Orleans gentleman who had come on to aid me in money matters. Joe called him a planter, and the New Yorkers were so pleased with him that they invited him into a game of poker. The result was that he did them up for a few hundred, and one of the party, who was an old faro dealer, secured a few of the cards, examined them in another room, and coming back, observed: "Count me out of this game. I don't want any more of it." That broke things all up; and the next day they began on Coburn and gave him a terrible cursing for steering them against such a game as that, when they came on with good intentions to back him in the fight. They never said anything, however, to Hoy, as they knew he was always looking for the best of every game, and was as ready to fleece a friend as a foe. When we were going down to Cold Spring, I opened up on the cars and won a little money. Just then a man stepped up and began to get out his money, when Elliott and his gang rushed in, picked up the fellow, and threw him up against the top of the car. When he came down he didn't have a cent. I was amused to see him hunt around for his money. When we reached the ground I opened out, having a negro to hold the stand for me. At last, as the crowd began to rush for the ring, I told Hoy that I would go and see the fun; so I handed Hoy all my money except a lot of broken bank-notes that I had. This I rolled in a large wad and placed conspicuously in a side coat pocket. I noticed, as I edged close up to the ring, that I was closely eyed by the thieves, and it was not long before the pocket- book disappeared. Then I made a terrible squeal, and when the reporters came around I gave out that I had been robbed of $3,500. The next day the papers all had an account of the robbery of Mr. Devol, of New Orleans. Hazen at last found my pocket-book, which was worth more than the money it contained, and had a good advertisement free. SALTED DOWN. If the old saying, "Every man has his price," be true, then every man can be caught on some scheme or trick. There are persons who have never made a bet of any kind in their lives, that would do so if they saw something that they knew to be a sure winner. Then there are others who will bet on many things, but they pride themselves on being too smart to bet on any man's trick; and the more they see others doing so, the more sanguine they are that no one could ever catch them with chaff. I have met many of the latter class, and always tried to down them. They, of course, would not bit at the monte bait, for it was too stale for them; so I would study sometimes for hours how to take the conceit out of them. I remember being on board the steamer _Grand Duke_, coming out of New Orleans, at one time just after the Mardi Gras Festival. The boat was crowded with passengers, and we were having a very lively game of monte, when a fellow from the Red River country, named Picket, came up to the table and began pulling coat-tails. He was one of those smart Alecks who knew all the tricks (or at least he thought he did), and he imagined that it was his especial duty to warn others of their danger. If he could not stop them with a tail pull, he would tell them not to bet, as I was a regular gambler and would win their money sure when they thought the sure thing was in their favor; and some of them would not heed his warning, but put down their money, and of course lose it. I put up with Picket's interference for some time, and then I put up my cards, resolving to down the Red River man if it lay in my power. I invited all hands to join me in a drink, and then excused myself, saying: "I'm suffering with the toothache, and will go to my room." In a short time I returned and took a seat in the hall near the stove, as it was quite chilly. Mr. Picket and a number of other gentlemen were seated around, and we soon got to telling stories. My tooth ached so badly that I could not enjoy the stories, and was constantly complaining of the pain. A great many remedies were suggested, but they could not be had on the boat. Finally the barkeeper recommended hot salt held on the side of the face. I asked him if he had any. He said no, but I could get it in the pantry. I got up and went for the salt. I returned in a short time with a package of salt about the size of a goose egg, which was twisted up in a piece of paper. I put it on the stove, and when it got hot I held it to my face until it cooled off, then I put it back on the stove. While the salt was getting hot a second time, I went to my room to get something. The barkeeper said to the crowd: "Let's have some fun with Devol." So saying, he opened the package, threw out the salt, and filled up the paper with ashes. I came back, picked up my salt, and held it to my face. Picket asked me if it was doing my tooth any good. I told him I thought it was. Then they all laughed at the idea of hot salt being good for the toothache, and Picket said: "Devol, do you know that when salt gets hot it will turn into ashes?" "No, I don't. What do you take me for? You must have been drinking," I replied. They all laughed again, and Picket spoke up, saying: "I don't believe you have any salt in that paper." I set the package on the stove again, and replied: "You must take me for a d----d fool, sure enough; but you don't look like you had any more sense than the law allows. I got that salt out of the salt-bag, and I tasted it before I wrapped it up, and I know it is salt, and that settles it." "But, Devol, salt does turn to ashes when it is hot; and I will bet you the drinks for the crowd that there is no salt in that paper on the stove." Then they had another big laugh at my expense, and I got mad. I jumped up and said: "I will bet you $500 that there is nothing in that paper but salt." Picket jumped up also, saying: "I will just go you once, anyway." I put up my $500 with the barkeeper; but Picket did not have but $350, and he wanted to bet that. I told him he could back out, but I would not bet less than what I had up. Then he put up his watch and chain for the other $150. One of the men that had been enjoying the fun, said: "I will bet you $100 that Mr. Picket wins the money." I replied, "I will not bet less than $500." Then Picket said, "He wants to bluff you out; but he can't bluff me worth a cent." So the man put up his $500, and I covered it. Everybody was excited, and some of my friends who had seen the trick that was being played on me told me not to bet; but I was mad, and would not listen to them. When all was ready, the package was taken off the stove and handed to the barkeeper. He untwisted the paper and spread it out on the counter, and in it was as nice fine white--salt as you ever saw in your life. The barkeeper tasted some of it, just as I did when I put up the _two_ papers _just_ alike, and then handed me over the money and Mr. Picket's watch and chain. Mr. "Red River" took a large pinch of the bait, and it (or the loss of his money and watch) came near strangling him. He did not entirely recover from the effect while he remained on the boat; for every time he was well enough to come out of his room, some one would say "Salt," and that would make him sick again. I have caught a great many suckers in my time, but Mr. Picket was the first one I ever salted down. THE ARKANSAS KILLERS. For many years I almost lived on board the packets. I felt more at home on any of the Mississippi steamboats than I did on land in any city or town in the United States. I had friends wherever I went, and I knew every officer and many of the crew on nearly every boat that ran the river. While on water, I did not fear any man or set of men; but there were localities on land along the Mississippi River that no man could hold his own with the rough element that lived around them. So I always gave such places a wide berth. Helena and Napoleon, Ark., were two towns where it was not safe for any man to do the bluff act, for they would kill him just to see him kick. I won some money from one of Helena's killers at one time on board a steamer, and he set up a big kick; but as he was alone, he was like all men of his class--a coward. I well knew that if he caught me on his ground I would get the worst of it, so I resolved never to give him a chance; but one evening I was compelled to get off at Helena, as things had gotten a little too warm for me on board the boat, and I thought I would run the risk of the killers rather than give up the money I had won at that time. I went up to the hotel to get my supper and wait for another boat, and one of the first men I met was the fellow I had beaten out of his money. I knew there would be trouble, so I put Betsy Jane in a handy place, resolving to use her for what she was worth if the killers got after me. I did not leave the hotel until the boat arrived; and just about the time I was starting out, the clerk told me that some of the gamblers had beaten one of the worst men in the country on a boat, and he was down at the landing with a crowd of his roughs, waiting to do him up. There was a lot of persons waiting for the same boat, among them some gamblers. I told the clerk to send for a carriage, and I would not go down until just as the boat was about to leave. All the others left the hotel and started for the landing before the boat came in. The killers jumped on the poor gamblers, supposing of course that I was among them. They beat them up fearfully, and came near killing one of them. During the excitement I was driven to the plank and jumped out, and was on board before any one recognized me. When the killers learned that I had given them the slip, they were determined to board the boat and get me; but the mate got his crew on the guards and would not let any of them on board. The boat backed out at once, and I was again at home among my friends; and you can bet I was glad of it, for I think that was one of my close calls. CHEAP JEWELRY. Before the war, there was hardly a boat of any size that plied up and down the Mississippi and its tributaries that did not count among its travelers or passengers some peddler with his pack. For the most part, his stock in trade consisted of cheap jewelry, gilded sleeve-buttons, galvanized watches, plated chains, various notions and unassortable knick-knacks. Sometimes these peddlers carried along a wheel, and had the things marked with numbers corresponding to those on the wheel. The charge was a dollar a spin, and at whatever number the wheel stopped, the article corresponding belonged to the investor in the game. Captain Dix was then in command of the _Hiawatha_, a packet running from New Orleans to St. Louis. One evening Captain Dix said: "George, I have got one of those infernal wheel peddling chaps aboard, and he has been annoying the life out of me. I've driven him out of the cabin, and he has taken refuge in the barber shop. I wish you could take him in." Strolling down towards the barber shop, I caught a glimpse of the fellow; and being satisfied that he did not know me, I watched his game for some time, and then ran against it $5 worth. "That's a heap fairer game than I lost $1,000 at," I said to the owner. "What game was that?" he curiously asked. "The fellow called it Rocky Mountain euchre. I'll go and get you some of the tickets, and show everybody how the fellow chiseled me out of my money." "Oh, that's three-card monte," said the wheel man. Alexander was along with me; so I began throwing the cards around awkwardly, when my partner stepped up to the table and began guessing for fun. Finally he bent one of the corners and showed it to the wheelman, whispering to him: "Let's have a little fun out of the old fellow." Aleck told me to mix 'em up, and offered to bet the drinks that he could turn up the old woman. "I've got two chances to your one," I replied; "but I'll go yer." He turned the wrong one, and I laughed, as did the wheel man. Aleck then began blackguarding me, saying that I dare not bet on it; that he did not believe I had any money; till at last I pulled out a bundle that made the wheel man look wild. Aleck kept on daring me, so at last I bet him $100 that he couldn't find it the first time after I had done mixing them. Then he made the bet, putting the money up in the wheelman's hands; and sure enough, he turned the old woman. Then I offered to bet him again for $200, and he turned it a second time. Then I pretended to drop on him, and refused to bet, saying "that his eyesight was too fine;" but he offered to bet me "that the wheel man could do it." I replied that I'd bet any amount that he couldn't, unless he told him how. This settled the wheelman, who said that he could turn the right card for $100. "But I am already a loser for more than that, and I won't bet now for less than $500." He began counting out his roll, but could only make out $430. He was wearing a $100 watch and chain, and Aleck whispered to him to put up that for the remaining $70. This he did, and I soon raked them in, as of course he got the wrong card. The fellow looked a little blue, but Aleck made him believe that he had in his hurry picked up the wrong card. So the fellow was bound to have revenge, and he put up his jewelry and wheel, all of which I soon won. When Captain Dix came around, he was so overjoyed that he set up the wine and had a hearty laugh over it. I gave the fellow $50 and paid his passage back to St. Louis, while his jewelry I gave to a lame fellow that I knew in New Orleans, and it was a start in life for him. The next morning, before the story of the jewelry man had gotten out among the passengers, we took in two or three suckers, and were intending to get off at Baton Rouge; but noticing several good men getting aboard, determined to try our hands on them. The fates were propitious, for we won $1,400 and a watch from one of them, and the other was plucked for $700 and a $200 diamond pin. I afterwards learned that they were both wealthy men who had been up to see the Governor, so the trifling loss of their pocket money did not affect them. WON AND LOST. We had been playing monte at one time in the bar-room of the old Prentis House at Vicksburg, Miss., and had just closed up, when in came four fellows that lived back in the country. We thought they had some money, so we opened up again to take it in. It was not long until we had all of their cash stuff. Then one of them pointed out a fine horse that was hitched with three others out at the rack, and wanted to bet me the horse against $200. The others then said they would do the same thing, so I put up $800 against their four horses, and they selected one of their party to turn the card. He turned and lost. I sent a black boy to put my horses into the stable, and he started with two of them, when two of the fellows rushed out, jumped onto the other two horses, and went up the hill as if the d---l was after them. I sent word to them by the other two that if they ever came back to Vicksburg I would have them arrested for stealing the horses. I did not wait to see if they ever did come back, but sold the two horses I had left for $300, and took the next boat for New Orleans. There was a poor woman with six children on board the boat, and she did not have any money to pay her passage, so we passed the hat around, and every person on the boat that was told about the poor woman chipped in something, except one stingy fellow. We took the money to Captain Leathers, as we were on his boat; but he refused to accept one cent for her passage, and told us to give the money to the woman. He gave her a state-room, and treated her as if she was paying full price for her passage. After the poor woman and her children had been taken care of, we opened up monte, and one of the first fellows we caught was the man who would not chip in to help the poor woman and her little children. We downed him for $800, and he kicked like a government mule. He went to the Captain, who had been told how mean he had been, so he got no sympathy from him or any one else. The passengers called him "Old Stingy," and asked him if he was not sorry he had not given something to the woman before he lost his money. It always did me a great deal of good to down a stingy man, for I knew he would soon have more, even if he had to starve himself to get it. DETECTIVES AND WATCHES. Tripp and I were playing the trains on the Missouri Pacific Railroad at one time. We had been out on the road, and were on our way back to St. Louis, and had got away with all the suckers on the train. I was enjoying a smoke in the sleeper, when a nice looking gentleman came in. I offered him a cigar, telling him I was in the tobacco business at New Orleans. We talked cigars, tobacco, etc. I learned he was a United States detective from Arkansas, on his way to Washington City. While we were talking and smoking, in came Tripp dressed up like a cow-boy. He told his story, and finally caught the fellow for $1,000. The detective did not do any kicking until we got to St. Louis, then he went to the chief of detectives, who was at that time a Mr. Horrigan. He told the chief how we had robbed him, and wanted us arrested. Mr. Horrigan was a sensible man, and knew that the sucker expected to win our money, or he would not have lost his. So he told him that his experience was worth what he had lost, and that he had no time to hunt up gamblers. The detective went on to Washington City a sadder but a wiser man. I always enjoyed taking in detectives, for they think themselves too smart to be caught. They are but human, and like other mortals can be landed for suckers if the bait is good and nicely handled. At another time on the same road we met a new conductor, or at least we supposed he was a new one, as he did not know us, or we him. When we started to play our game he broke back to the sleeper, and I found out from the porter that he went to the superintendent and told him here was a lot of gamblers in the smoker, and asked him what he should do. The superintendent was something like Mr. Horrigan, the Chief of Detectives of St. Louis, for he told the conductor to look after his train and let the gamblers look after the suckers, as he did not care if they lost all their money, for they would not bet if they did not expect to win. I inquired the name of the superintendent, for I thought he must be a brother of Mr. Horrigan, but his name was different. We downed several fellows. The conductor looked on, but did not say a word. I learned that he was a freight conductor, and had never run a passenger train before, so I excused him for wanting to interfere; and as I had now a few good watches, I let him have one very cheap, and he appreciated my kindness. Speaking of watches, I had orders from a great many persons to win them certain kinds of watches. So when I got one to suit the order I would take it to my customer in place of the pawn shops. My old friend, Simon McCarthy, of Indianapolis, had given me an order to win him a good watch. So one day, going into the city, I downed a gentleman for some money and his watch. When I got to Indianapolis I went to see Simon, and told him I had a watch I thought would suit him. He looked at it, and when he opened the back case he threw up both hands and said: "Why, George, this is our Mayor's watch. Where did you get it?" I told him I won it coming in on the train, and described the man. He told me it was the Mayor, and advised me to return it to him. I learned where he lived, went to his house, rang the bell, and asked to see the Mayor. He came out to the door, and I handed him his ticker. He asked me to come in, and told me to say nothing about it, and if he could ever do me a favor he would do so. I did a good thing for myself that night, for it was but a short time after that until I was arrested and taken before his Honor. He let me off with a big fine, and after my prosecutors were gone he remitted the fine, and we then had a drink together. I wanted to return what little money I had won from him, but he would not receive it, saying it was well invested. FIGHTS. Before the time of railroad in the West, the steamboats on the Ohio, Mississippi, Missouri, and other rivers carried a great many passengers, as it was the most pleasant and rapid mode of travel in those early days. I was on board of some water craft nearly all the time for forty years of my life, and during that period met with a great many rough characters. I believe that I can truthfully say I have had more fights in the cabin and bar of steamboats than any other man in this country. I never tried to pick a fuss with any man; but in my business it was very hard to avoid them without showing the white feather--and in those days there was no such tint in my plumage. The officers did not like a fuss on their boats, but most of them had rather see a fellow fight than to take an insult; and I can not call to mind just now a single case, in all my many fights, where the captain of a boat blamed me for licking my man; but I do remember some good old captains who would rather see a fight than eat when they were hungry. I always carried the very best pistol that could be bought for money, and had one that I called "Betsy Jane," for which I paid $100. I never wanted to turn her loose, for I did not want ever to kill a man. I only used her as a bluffer, and she has often responded to my wants successfully. I was on board the steamer _Kate Kinney_ coming down the Missouri River at one time, and had won a great deal of money. One big fellow lost $700, and I could see he was very mad about it. He would go to the bar and take a big drink, and then come back to the table. Finally he got himself nerved up pretty well, so he said to the bystanders: "I have a d----d notion to kick that table over and break up his game." I replied, "It will do you no good to kick the table over, as I have caught all the suckers, and am now going to quit and take a drink." I started to the bar, and invited all hands to join me. The big fellow followed, but would not take a drink. I could see he was sizing me up, and I knew he wanted some of my mutton, so I said to him: "We have all had a drink but you; won't you join me?" He replied, "I can buy my own drinks, and you can go to h--l." I did not reply to him, but walked out into the cabin. He followed me out, for he knew he had me afraid of him by my not resenting the insult. He got up pretty close and said: "If you did get my money, I can lick you." I told him he had better find an easier fight, when he let fly at me. I was on my guard, caught his lick on my arm, and then I lit into him, and we had it rough-and-tumble all around the hall. We came near upsetting the stove; but I had him whipped in about two minutes, and he squealed like a pig under a gate. At another time I was coming down the Missouri River from St. Joseph to St. Louis, and had beaten a fellow out of $40. He was a rolling- mill man from St. Louis, and I found out he could hit a pretty hard lick. I was playing a game of euchre in the hall after closing up monte, when this fellow slipped up and hit me a lick on the side of the neck that came near flooring me. I rallied and was on my guard in an instant. He came at me again, and we had it up and down and around the cabin for some little time before I could get a crack at him with my head. When the old head did get a chance, it was not long until he cried quit. The Captain and every one who saw the fellow hit me from behind said they were glad to see him get licked, and so was I. At another time I was in a game of poker on the steamer _Telegraph_ coming up from Madison, Ind., and there was a big blacksmith in the game who was very quarrelsome. He wanted to fight every time he would lose a dollar, so I ran him up a hand and then broke him. He left the game and went into the bar. My old friend Jake Bloom had the bar at the time. The big fellow told Jake he was going to whip that fellow they called Colonel when the game was over. Jake told him he could get a much easier fight, if he wanted to lick some one. He replied: "Why, I can lick that fellow in a minute." I was sitting where I could hear what he said; so, as there was very little more money in the party I was playing, I left the game and went into the bar-room, and said to the blacksmith. "Come, old top, and join me in a drink, for I beat you on that last hand." He replied, "I don't drink with such fellows as you." He had hardly got the words out of his mouth before he was lying on the floor, for I gave him a lick under the chin that straightened him out. As he was getting up, I let the old head go, and down he went again. He said, "That will do;" so I let up on him. He went to his room, and did not leave it until the next morning, when he had to be led off the boat, as he could not see. He swore out a warrant for my arrest; but when the policeman came to get me, the clerk told him I had left the boat. That was the last I ever heard by my big blacksmith. THE ENGLISHMAN AND HIS GUN. Every nationality has its suckers, and it would be pretty hard for me to decide which has the most, for I have, in my time, downed them all. I was on board the steamer _Great Republic_ at one time when there was a number of English lads among the passengers. They had come over to this country to hunt the buffalo, and had brought their guns with them. I got acquainted with them, as they were often in the bar-room after the bloody, blarsted wine, and they liked to talk about Old h'England and their fine guns, you know. I got one of them to show me his gun, and I think it was the finest piece I ever saw. Each gun had two sets of barrels, and had the owner's name engraved on it, inlaid with gold, and not one of them cost less than $500. I tried to buy one, but it could not be done. One night after my partner had gone to bed I was in the bar-room, when one of the English lads came in. He had been in bed, but got up to get a blarsted drink, and he invited me to join him, which I did, and then I insisted on him joining me in a small bottle. We drank three bottles, then I excused myself, and sent for my partner to get up and come to the bar-room. I then began telling the English lad about a new game, and finally I got out the tickets and was showing them, when my partner came in about half asleep. He, like the English lad, had been in bed and had got up to get a drink. He invited us to join him, as he did not like to drink alone. We accepted, and as the lad was feeling pretty good by this time, he could not let a gentleman treat without returning the compliment, you know. My partner and the lad got to guessing for fun, and then proposed to wager the wine. I lost a bottle, and so did my partner. While we were drinking my partner put a crimp in the baby ticket, but took good care that the English lad saw him do it. Then he wanted me to bet money on the game, and I said: "I have two chances to your one, and could win all your money if we would bet." The Englishman laughed, and said: "Why, lad, you 'avent a bloody bit of a chance; you would lose every blarsted cent you 'ave if you bet." My partner kept bantering me, when I pulled out a roll of greenbacks that made them open their eyes, saying: "I would not be one bit afraid to wager all that." The Englishman gave me a nudge and said: "Lad, don't you do it." My partner then said: "I haven't got one-half so much money, but I will bet you $500 I can pick up the baby ticket." We put our money in the Englishman's hand, and I turned to him and offered to bet him a bottle of wine that I would win the money. He took me up. My partner turned the card, and I lost the money and the wine. He wanted to bet me $1,000, but I told him he was a little too lucky for me. I saw Johnnie Bull was crazy to bet, so I said to him: "Do you think you could guess the baby ticket?" "Indeed I do," he replied. "I will wager you that you can't." He got out his leather bag and counted out twenty sovereigns. I saw he had plenty more, so I would not bet him less than one hundred sovereigns. He put them up, and I put up $500 in greenbacks. He turned the card and lost. My partner made him believe that he had made a mistake, by showing him that the corner of the baby ticket was still turned up. He wanted to bet with me, so I took him for $500, and he won. That made Johnnie Bull hot, as he did not have any more ready money except maybe $50. I saw he was ready for anything, so I told him I would bet him $1,000 against his gun if it was on the table. He jumped up, went to his room, and soon returned with his case. He unlocked it and showed me his gun. I put $1,000 in the barkeeper's hands, as I wanted to get the gun where he could not snatch it and run, as I expected he would do, if I gave him a chance. I mixed the cards, and he went for the baby, but he must have been excited, for he missed it. It was fun to see him. He looked at the cards, at me and my partner, then at his gun case, but it was behind the bar, and he could not get it. As soon as he could speak he said: "Oh! my gun; I've lost my gun." He walked up and down the guards, coming in every moment to look at his gun. I finally told him if he would raise the money I would let him have his gun for $500. Then he was happy, but he would not go to bed or leave the bar for fear I would get off with his fine English gun. The next morning he told his companions, and they raised the $500 in less than no time. I heard them talking. One would say to another: "The lad has lost his gun, lads, and we must get the bloody thing for 'im." I could have got $1,000 for it just as quick as the $500. I tried to show the other Johnnie Bulls how the lad lost his gun, but they would not come within a mile of the table. I bid them all good- bye and left the boat at Vicksburg, but I was always sorry I did not keep that gun. TRAVELING KENO. Away back in the fifties, when there was but few railroads in the Northwest, I went by stage from LaCrosse to Portage City, Wis. It was during the winter season, and a bitter cold day. I came very near to freezing on the road, but I expected to make money, and I guess that was what saved me. I had a keno outfit with me, and it was my intention to play the surrounding towns after the manner of a traveling show. The first thing to be done after my arrival was to get thawed out, then to see the Mayor and get his permission (or license) to advertise and run my game. I called upon his Honor and stated my business. He did not know much about keno, so I explained the little innocent game to him. The result was, I got authority to open my game. I secured a room that had been used as a school-room, and advertised that I would open the next night, and in a short time after the door was opened the room was full of pupils. Some of them had never been to such a school, so I had to teach them the first principles; but it did not take me very long, as all those that had taken lessons rendered me all the assistance in their power, and I was very thankful for it, as I was anxious to get to work. After distributing the books, I began to call the numbers, and I must say I never saw a more quiet and attentive set of pupils in a school-room. We were getting along so nicely that I began to think it a pleasure to teach such nice boys, when a great big, rough-looking fellow came in, stalked all around the school-room, and made so much noise that I had to call some of the numbers over again. Some of the boys told him to sit down, take a book and study his lesson, but he would not do it. I saw he was a bad boy, and would not let the other boys alone; so I spoke to him very kindly, telling him to sit down, and see if he could not learn something; but he was one of the worst boys I ever saw, for he told me to go to h--l, and he would do just as he pleased. I remembered when I went to school how my teacher used to serve me when I was a bad boy and would annoy the other boys. So I told the scholars we would take a recess for about twenty minutes. They all threw down their books, and most of them went out to play. During recess I walked up to the bad boy and said: "You are a very bad boy to come in here and annoy my pupils, and you deserve a whipping." He replied: "You are not man enough to whip me." That was all I wanted him to say; so I let fly and gave him a good one on the jaw, and then I kept it up, until he cried worse than I ever did when I went to school. He got out of that school room faster than he came in, and then I called order and went on with my duties just as if nothing had happened out of the regular order. I remained in Portage City for some time. My pupils liked me and paid their tuition promptly. Some of them paid much more than they could well afford, but they did it voluntarily. I went from Portage to Madison, where I had a good game, but I had to whip a fellow the second day, and in fact I had one or more fights in every town I went to; for there is nearly always some big bully in a town or city that has whipped some one, and he thinks that every one is afraid of him, and he can do just as he pleases; but they found out that they could not run me on my keno business. A BULL FIGHT. The steamer _John Walsh_ was on an upward trip, two days out from New Orleans. A crowd of gentlemen were gathered about the bar, punishing wine at $5 a bottle. With flushed faces, jocund laughter, and the incessant pop of the champagne corks, the time flew unheeded past. The barkeeper smiled when at the little window of the bar the ebony head of a stalwart negro appeared. "Say, boss, gimme some whisky." Everybody turned, and laughter that was about to burst forth, or the jest that was ready, was hushed; for the negro's head was split open and the blood pouring down his cheeks in rivulets, crimsoning his swarthy, shiny skin and clothing. "Been fighting?" said the barkeeper. "Yes; de fireman he butted me." Up came the mate, who observed: "We've got a fireman down below who has killed two or three niggers by butting them to death with his head." "Send him up," I said, "and I'll butt him till he is sick of butting." We had all been drinking wine, and everybody laughed, supposing that it was the liquor talking, and not me. "Why, Devol, I wouldn't give five cents for your head if that nigger gets a lick at it," spoke up a young planter who was in the party. Then I got mad, and exclaimed: "I'll bet $500 I can make the nigger squeal." The mate roared out with laughter; but I put up my money, and so did the young planter, thinking that I would back out. He only had $175 in his roll, and he offered to bet that. "All right; I don't back out. I'll butt the nigger for $175." The money was soon up in the barkeeper's hands; and then the mate knew that I meant business, and he put up $25 to make bet the even $200. At this juncture the mate called a halt. "Wait till I see if the nigger will butt with a white man;" and rushing down stairs, the "image of God cut in ebony" was interviewed. "I doant like for to butt a white man," he said, "for I'm afraid I'll kill him, and den dey hang de ole nigger." But the mate said, "I've just put up $25 on you, and I want to win it." "All right; if yer means it, boss, I'll go yer." At the bar I procured a long string and a ribbon from a cigar bunch, and started down stairs. Instantly the wildest excitement reigned on the boat. Two of the deck-hands stood guard at the foot of the stairs to keep the crowd back, and the hurricane roof and boiler deck were thronged with an eager and excited crowd. Fastening one end of the string to the jack-staff and the other to the steps at about the proper height, the ribbon was tied in the centre of the string, and the black man and myself stood back five feet on either side, and at a given signal were to come forward and strike at the ribbon. Then the passengers said it was a shame to let that nasty nigger butt that nice white man to death; but as there were no S. P. C. A. officers aboard, the game went on. The deck-hands all rolled up their eyes and looked at me as they would at a corpse. Just before the word ready was given, I asked the nigger if he had any money to put up on the result, and running his hand down in his watch-pocket he pulled out a ten-dollar bill. I covered it, and the planter told the nigger he would give him $10 more if he downed me. I cocked my eye on the nigger's head, and saw that it was one of those wedge-shaped cocoanuts so peculiar to people of African descent; so I inwardly resolved to hit him on one side of his wedge-shaped cranium. The nigger had his face to the sun, so that I felt confident that I could hit him pretty near where I wanted to. The word was given, and at the ribbon we both rushed like a couple of frenzied bulls. I gave him a glancing blow that skinned his head for about three inches. The next time there was a crash, a jar that shook the boat and drew a shriek of terror from the passengers, for the nigger fell with a dull thud on the deck. He lay as stiff and cold as a dead man. "Dat nigger is done gone dead! Dat nigger is no good any more!" shouted the alarmed roustabouts. The mate lifted him up, and he began bleeding from the nose, eyes, and ears. The mate kindly asked him if he wanted to butt any more. He did not reply, only shook his head sadly and murmured inaudibly, "No." They applied whisky and water to his head, and at last removed him into the deck to cool off. Many years have rolled by, and I have never heard the last of that butting adventure. The papers wrote it up, and in less than ten days every planter on the coast had heard of it. The planter who lost the $175 tells the story to this day; and Bill Patterson, the mate (he is dead now), used to tell it to every new crew that he shipped. Towards night the old nigger came crawling up stairs and said: "Massa, you have done for this poor nigger, for I must go to the hospital and get cured up." I returned him his $10, and for the rest of the trip the passengers paid for everything I wanted to drink. IT SHOOK THE CHECKS. It never pays a man to be too officious and volunteer information or advice when it is not asked, for he very often makes enemies and courts a disturbance that he could easily have avoided if he had simply minded his own business. Some seven years ago I attended a fair at Cynthiana, Ky., and opened out a gentleman's game in the Smith Hotel bar-room. There were a number of sports from Louisville and Cincinnati present, and everything was moving along lively, and as decorous as a funeral, when some of the Paris and Louisville boys indulged in a scrimmage and were arrested. Everybody left the hotel and went to see the result of the trial. I sat near the judge, and when the evidence was all in I whispered to him to fine them $10 each. This he did, and as we were leaving the court-room, I noticed that a big fellow from Paris, Ky., regarded me with very sour looks. After supper I opened up my game, and in he came, and going to the bar-keeper, whispered in a tone of voice loud enough for me to hear: "I am going to whip that dealer." Pretty soon I closed up the game, and then Sam Aliways and myself took a turn around the town, and running into a saloon, met the big bully. He had his coat off and a six-shooter a foot long hanging to his side; so, edging up to where he stood, I tapped him on the shoulder, observing: "You are the gentleman that is looking for a fight." As soon as he saw who it was, he grabbed for his shooting-iron; but just as he got hold of the handle, I dealt him a blow in the neck and he fell over against the counter, but I soon grabbed him and hit him a butt with my head. That ended the fight. He had sense enough to say, "That will do;" and seeing a policeman coming in one door, I went out another, hastened to the hotel and paid my bill, and caught the train for Covington. I was none too quick, however; for the next day when Aliways came along with my tools, he said that the fellow had a host of friends in the town, and that at least fifty fellows came around armed with case-knives, axes, double-barreled shotguns, revolvers, and rocks; and that if they had caught me, I would have met a fate worse than the martyr Stephen or the Chicago anarchists. The fellow went by the name of Bill Legrets. When he was asked why he didn't shoot me, he said: "Shoot h--l. The first lick he hit me, I thought my neck was disjointed; and when he ran that head into me, I though it was a cannon-ball." Bob Linn was dealing up stairs at the time, and he afterwards said that when the bloody duffer fell to the floor, that all the checks on the table trembled like aspen leaves. Poor fellow! He is dead now, having been shot in Paris a few years since. WITH A POKER. Once when traveling in the West, and winning some money from a man from Kansas City, some smart Aleck told him that I had cheated him, so he made up his mind to kill me on sight. I made some inquiries, and ascertained that he was a desperate man and had already killed his two men. Accordingly I put my gun in my pocket and staid about the town, just keeping my eyes on the lookout, and at last went up to Omaha. I was sitting one evening playing the bank, having forgotten all about the Kansas City man, when a friend of mine came to me and said that the man was in the adjoining room, and would soon be in to play faro. I lost no time in making my preparations to meet the gentleman. My friend had no pistol, nor had I; but seeing a poker lying on the floor near the stove, I rushed for it; and as I knew I could not go out without going through the room where he was, I simply put the poker under my coat and got up close to the door that led into the faro room and awaited his arrival. It was not long; and as soon as I saw him and was sure, I let drive and caught him square in the mouth, knocking him stiff. Then I rushed forward, and, grabbing him, secured his pistol, as I thought he would in all probability turn it loose on me. Then I attended to his head for a few minutes, endeavoring to kick the fight out of him. I learned afterwards that he had a very bad reputation, having killed three men and been warned off the plains by a vigilant committee. He was confined to his bed for a couple of weeks, and I was congratulated on all sides for having walloped the fellow. LEFT IN TIME. Thirty-five or forty years ago the Cincinnati boats used to carry a great many passengers, and the New Orleans boats were always well filled. I once got aboard the _Yorktown_ at Vicksburg. There was a full passenger list, and when I opened up there was at once a crowd around my frugal board. They seemed to enjoy the fair, and I won a good pile of money. At last we reached Bayou Plaquemine, at which point there was a strong current sweeping down the bayou, so that flat-boats were frequently driven in there and stranded. The _Yorktown_ undertook to land at the mouth of the bayou, but the current which flowed like a mill-dam was too strong, and she started down the bayou. They headed her at once for the bank, and her stern swung around, and, lodging against the opposite bank, formed a perfect bridge across the mouth of the bayou. The boat was loaded to the guards, and the water ran through her deck rooms so rapidly that I thought every minute she would sink or fill with water, but they put weight on the hatches, then dug around the stern, so as to let her swing around. Just then two boats came along, one upward bound and the other down. One of them pushed and the other pulled the boat off, and then I began to look around, only to see that all the passengers had gone ashore. After wandering about the town the suckers decided it was time to kick and have me arrested, but I divined what was in the wind, and, like Lord Byron's Arab, silently folded my tent and crept away. I reached New Orleans first. ON THE CIRCUIT. During the summer of the Centennial year I followed the races; gambling on horses, running faro bank, red and black, old monte, and anything else that came up. I had a partner at the beginning by the name of John Bull, of Chicago, and he was a good, clever boy. He dealt faro, and I the red and black. We separated at Jackson, Mich., he going to Chicago and I to Cleveland, where I witnessed the great race between "Goldsmith Maid" and the horse "Smuggler," on which I lost some money; but I had a good game of red and black, so I was about even. I then concluded I would follow the trotters through the circuit. While sitting at the hotel one day in Cleveland I saw on the opposite side of the street a face and form that I thought I recognized. I ran over, and sure enough it was my old partner, Canada Bill, and with him another great capper by the name of Dutch Charlie. I was more than glad to see Bill, and he was very glad to see me. He wanted me to tell him where I had been, what I had been doing, and where I was going, and would up by saying: "George, let's go and get something." We soon found a bar-room, and began telling each other all that had happened since we were last together. I told Bill I had about made up my mind to follow the horses through the circuit. He told me that he and Charlie were going to do the same thing, and insisted that I should join, allowing as "how we three would make a good, strong team." I agreed. So it was settled we would all work together. While we were talking a slick-looking fellow, who I took to be a store clerk, walked in, and Bill invited him to take a drink, which he did, and I was introduced to Mason Long, who now styles himself "the converted gambler." Bill, Charlie, and I left Cleveland and went to Buffalo, but the night we left we had downed a sucker for $1,300, and thought best not to wait for morning. We caught some good ones on the trip over, and they set up a great big kick. They telegraphed a description of Bill to Buffalo, so we got him to get off before we reached the city, telling him where to meet Charlie and myself the next day. We went on to the city and waited for Bill to show up, which he did the next night. He was too smart to come in by rail, so he got a man to drive him in. We kept him in his hotel for a few days, until we thought the kickers that we had beat out of $2,100 had left the city. Then we made him dress up in store clothes, which he did not like a bit, saying: "I don't feel good in the tarnal stuff things, nohow." We thought best not to try our old games in Buffalo for fear the police would be looking for Bill, so we played the faro banks, bet on horses, and quit big losers at the end of the week. Dutch Charlie saved his money. He did not play the bank or horses, and it was well for us that he did not, for we always had a roll to use in making a bluff, which sometimes we would not have had if it had not been for him. We went from Buffalo to Rochester, and as we did not catch any kicking sucker on the way down, we had clear sailing during the week. We won a pile of money at monte, but Bill and I lost heavily at the races and faro banks. From Rochester we went to Utica, where I remained but a day or two, then concluded to run down to Philadelphia and see the Exposition. I bid the boys good-bye, promising to return before they left Utica. I did not take but little money with me, as I did not expect to do any bluffing while I was away. I took in the faro banks the first night, and the next day did not have a dollar. I started out on the street and soon met a man that I knew by the name of John Wilson. I saw by his actions he was like myself, "running light," for he did not ask me to take something, which I knew was his custom, for he was a clever fellow. We understood each other very soon, and parted. I had not gone very far until I heard some one call my name. I looked up, and saw two old friends of mine from New Orleans in a carriage that had just passed me. Then I knew I had struck oil. I lost no time in getting alongside of that rig and shaking hands with Samuel DeBow and Wm. Graham from my adopted home. They invited me to accompany them to the Exposition grounds, which I was very glad to do. They soon saw by my actions that something was out of tune, so they pressed me to know what it was. I told them, and I soon had all the money I wanted. After taking in the Exposition and a very large quantity of wine, I bid my friends good-bye, promising to meet them in Saratoga within a week. I went back to Utica and found that the boys, Bill and Charlie, had won $3,800, and they insisted that I was in with it. From Utica we went to Poughkeepsie, and in a few days I again left the boys to meet my New Orleans friends at Saratoga. I put up at the same hotel where they were stopping. The next day we took in the races, where I met another friend by the name of Rufus Hunt. He was well posted and gave us some good pointers. We bought pools and won $900. Then we all tried to see how much wine we could take in, and I do believe we got in $900 worth. Canada Bill came over, and we spent a week with my friends. Then we promised to meet them in New York City, and left for Poughkeepsie, where we found Dutch Charlie, and we all took a Hudson river boat, called the _Mary Powell_, for New York. On our way down we got into a friendly game of euchre with an old gent, and we relieved him of $700. After dinner I went up on the roof and saw my old friend Captain Leathers, of the steamer _Natchez_, in the pilot- house. He was insisting that his boat could beat the _Mary Powell_, and when he saw me he said: "I can prove it by that man coming up here now." I was glad to see the old fellow so far from home, so I told the pilot that the _Natchez_ was the fastest boat on the Mississippi; and Captain Leathers went down to see the boys and the barkeeper. Bill, Charlie, and I remained in New York for some time, and we proved what old Bill said in Cleveland: "We three would make a good, strong team." The time came when I was compelled to leave the boys and go to Chicago, and that was the last I saw of old Canada Bill and Dutch Charlie until the following winter, when they both came down to New Orleans, and them we again made the suckers think we three were a good team. STRATEGEM. We went on board of Captain William Eads' boat at St. Charles, Mo., late one night, and found that all the state-rooms were taken and we could get no bed. There was no one up about the cabin except the officers of the boat, and as we never tried to win their money, things looked a little blue for any business before morning, unless some of the passengers could be got up. Young Bill Eads, a son of the Captain, was one of the pilots on the boat. He was off watch and at the bar drunk when we got on board. His father had married a young wife that day, and was taking his wedding trip on that boat. Young Bill was mad because his father had secured a young step-mother for him, and was just raising "Ned" about it. A short time after going on board, the boat made a landing, and while we were tied up, the other pilot came down to the bar to see Bill and also to get something. His name was John Consall--an old friend of mine. I invited him and Bill to join me, and while we were drinking I said: "I wish we could get up a little excitement, so some of the suckers would come out of their holes." Young Bill replied: "I'll get them out for you, and that d----d quick." John Consall went back to the pilot-house, and soon had the boat on her way. Bill went out, and in about twenty minutes there was the darndest racket on that boat you ever heard. Everybody was sneezing at one and the same time, and you would have thought they were trying to blow the roof off, from the amount of noise they made. Bill came up to us out on the guards, and said: "Didn't I tell you I would drive them out of their holes?" I looked into the cabin, and, sure enough, everybody was out of their rooms, rushing up and down the cabin and finally out on the guards. Old Captain Bill and young Bill's new step-mother were among the crowd, and it was fun the see the young bride rushing around after her old hubby, trying to keep him from blowing up the boat with his sneezing and cursing. He would pull away from her every time he would make a big sneeze, and then he would curse until another one would overtake him. He and young Bill knew what was the cause of all the racket, and the old one soon learned who had put the red pepper on the hot stove. He tried to find his bad boy, but he was up on the roof, so his step-mother did not get to see her hubby throw him overboard, as he swore he would do if he caught him. They opened all the doors, and soon the red pepper was all out of the cabins and state-rooms. The old Captain and all the passengers, except a few good suckers, went back to bed. Young Bill came out of his hiding-place, and we all took something to wash down the pepper. We went to work on the fellows who remained up, and won $1,200, besides several good watches--which we would not have had a chance to do if the passengers had not been sneezed out. I appreciated the part Bill and John had played, and presented each with a good watch. At another time I got on a boat after all the passengers had gone to bed, and did not want to wait until morning without doing some business; so I inquired after the passengers, and learned that there was one on board who had been drinking and flashing his money. I sent the porter to his room and told him to knock and tell him to get up at once, that the boat was on fire, but for him not to make any noise. In an instant the fellow was into a part of his clothes and out into the cabin. He rushed up to where we were sitting and wanted to know where the fire was. We told him down stairs under the boiler. Then he told us that some one came to his room and told him the boat was on fire. We laughed, and told him he must have been dreaming--and he thought he must have been, if we had heard nothing about it. We all took something at his expense, and then my partner began to throw the tickets. We beat him out of $500, and as he started to the room, he said: "I wish the d----d boat had been on fire." MOBILE. General Canby captured Mobile, taking 1,000 prisoners, 150 cannon, and 3,000 bales of cotton on the 12th day of April, 1865, and this about closed the war of the rebellion. I was in New Orleans at the time running the race-course and my games. I knew there would be plenty of money at Mobile after the Union Army took possession, and I resolved to get over there just as soon as possible. So in a short time after the surrender I was in Mobile trying to get permission to open up my games. It was not long until I had a faro bank in full blast in the city, and a rouge-et-noir and wheel game at a resort on the shell road, about seven miles out from the city. I had a partner in the faro bank by the name of Pettypan. He was a Creole, and not the best fellow in the world by any means when in liquor. He looked after the city trade, while I ran the game out on the shell road, in which he had no interest. The Union officers, and all the citizens that could afford it, would drive out to the road-house where I was holding forth, and I was making a barrel of money out of them. My old friend and former partner, Charlie Bush, was running faro in New Orleans, and when he heard how much money I was making at Mobile he came over to run opposition. I gave him a call and he downed me for a big roll. He made big money, and then wanted to go back to New Orleans without leaving any of it, but the Grand Jury indicted him and made him come down pretty heavy. They got an indictment against me at the same time, but somehow it got into a pigeon-hole, and I guess it is there yet, for I never heard anything of it after Bush left. My partner in the faro bank was a little jealous of me, for I was making more money out on the shell road than he was in the city. One day when we were settling up our bank account he got mad, as he was drunk, and pulled his gun and said he would shoot me. He knew I did not have any gun with me, so he took this advantage. I saw he had me, so I just opened my vest and told him to shoot. That made him ashamed of himself, and he put up his gun and apologized. I was dealing red and black at the resort one night, when an officer came up and said: "I'll bet $25 on the red." I replied: "Which $25 do you mean?" Then he said: "It don't make any difference which. I say I will bet you $25 on the red." "No bet goes on this layout unless the money is up," I said. He then straightened himself to over six feet, and said: "You are a d----d rascal." "That is the conclusion I have come to about you," I remarked. Then he made a rush for me, and at it we went. We had a lively time for a few moments, but I soon got a chance to give him my old head, and he hollowed enough. He went away and washed himself, and I did not see any more of him. His fellow officers heard how he had acted, and as he was a very quarrelsome man, they told me I served him just right, and they were all glad of it, and I had a better game after that than before. I remained at Mobile for some time, then sold out and went back to good old New Orleans, for it was hard in those days to stay away any great length of time, and even now I feel more at home there than any other place in this country. Sometime after my return to New Orleans I was taken down with the yellow fever (of which I have spoken in a preceding story). I remained for a few months, when I took a notion to go North. So I sold out, and again I was on board one of the packets going up the old Mississippi. I played all the old games up to St. Louis, and then I took a Missouri River packet and went to Omaha, still keeping up my games. I then started out on the Union Pacific Railroad, and went as far as Julesburg, which was at that time the terminus. I remained there, playing the contractors and every one else I could get a hold of, until the road was finished to Cheyenne City. I won a great deal of money, but as the good old game of faro followed in the track of civilization and the railroad, I lost nearly as fast as I won. I remained in the West for five months, when the old desire to get back home on the Mississippi took possession of me, and I could not resist the temptation, so I turned my face to the east, and in a short time I was in St. Joseph, Mo., where I met my old friend Ben Allman, who was running a fine large billiard hall. I concluded to stop and open a keno room, so I went to Chicago, bought a very fine outfit, and opened up over Allman's place. I advertised my business in all the papers, just as a dry goods merchant would advertise his business. My keno netted me from $150 to $200 per day, and I set a lunch each night at a cost of $25. Most men would have been content, but I was not, as I still longed for the life I had led for so many years on the river. So I sold out, and was soon in St. Louis ready for a down river packet. On my way down I won considerable money, and that, together with the fact that I was on my way back to the place I loved so well, made me happy. One night I went on board a boat that was so crowded with passengers that I could not get a room; so I opened up monte, and as I was winning money, I did not realize that I was sleepy until they began to make up cots in the cabin, and most all the passengers had gone to bed. Then I would have given almost any price for a place to sleep, but all the cots were engaged, and I was left. Nothing remained for me but to patronize the bar, which I was doing, when a man came in to get a drink that had been asleep on one of the cots. I told him as he had been resting if he would let me have his cot for the balance of the night I would give him $5. He accepted my proposition, and I went to bed. I had been lying down but a few moments, when there was a fuss started near me. I raised up to see what was the cause, when I saw two Jews that had come aboard at Baton Rouge, and they were fighting for the possession of a cot. I got up and told them to stop their fighting and join me in a drink. They accepted the invitation. While we were drinking I learned that they had been playing cards at Baton Rouge before they had got on the boat, and had had a falling out over the game. I told them I saw a fellow playing a game that beat anything I ever had seen. They wanted to know what it was, so I showed them the three cards, and in a short time I had won $200 from them. I forgot all about being sleepy while I was working up the Jew boys, and by the time I had won their money the steward was clearing the cabin to set the tables for breakfast. I had lost the sleep for which I had paid $5, but I did not mind it much, as I had won $200. A DUCK HUNT. During the winter season, wild ducks are so plentiful around New Orleans that a good wing shot can bag a hundred of them in a few hours. I have often seen men coming in on the boats and trains with hundreds of nice wild ducks, and at such times I would promise myself to lay off and have a hunt; so one morning I took my gun and about a hundred rounds of ammunition and went out on the L. & N. Railroad to Lake Pontchartrain. I killed at least twenty-five ducks, but only got six of them, as they fell in the water and I had no dog to fetch them. I went back to the station with my six ducks, and there I saw five Frenchmen and some dogs, and they had about 200 ducks. I felt ashamed of myself, so I tried to buy some of their ducks, but they would not sell. Then I thought I would interest them in old monte until the train arrived; so I opened up on an old fish box and soon had them guessing for the baby ticket. One fellow wanted to bet a dollar, so I put up and he won. Another put up, and he won. Then I pulled out a roll and offered to bet them $50 against their entire lot of ducks that they could not turn the baby ticket. They all talked French to each other for a while, and then told me they would take me up. I told them to put their ducks all up beside the box and I would put up the $50. They did so, and all pointed to the same card, so I told them to turn it over. One of them did so, but it was not the card they wanted or thought it was, so they lost their ducks. The train arrived; I got my ducks into the baggage-car and went to the city. I had the game hauled up to a restaurant, and sent for a lot of my friends, and I gave them all the ducks they wanted. I sold some, and had some cooked for myself and my friends. All the boys heard of my good luck. Some of them wanted to borrow my gun, while others wanted to go out with me the next time I went hunting; and there were some of the boys who knew me very well, who said: "Devol did not shoot a single one of those ducks--he either bought or won them." I insisted that I shot every one; and as the Frenchmen did not know me, none of my friends ever knew that I won them on the baby ticket. QUICK WORK. I went fishing one day out on Lake Pontchartrain, and caught a large string of fine fish. When I got back to the hotel, I sent an invitation to some of my city friends to drive out that evening and join me in a fish supper. They accepted the invitation, and were all on hand at the appointed time. We were seated around a table enjoying ourselves drinking wine and telling stories, while waiting for supper, when we heard quite a noise down stairs in the direction of the bar-room. I told my friends to remain seated and have some more wine, while I went down and inquired into the cause of the racket. They did so, and I ran down to the bar-room. Looking in, I saw ten or twelve steamboat cooks, who were on a big drunk. They were breaking glasses, fussing with the barkeeper, and raising old Ned generally. I knew some of them, but as they were all pretty drunk, I concluded I could do no good, and was just turning away to go back to my friends, when four or five Union officers and a man by the name of Dave Curtis came up and started into the bar-room. They saw and recognized me, and insisted on me joining them. We all went in and were taking a drink, when the cooks began their racket again. One fellow was just spoiling for a fight. He was a bully, and had whipped some of his associates, so no one seemed to want anything to do with him. Like most drunken men, he wanted everybody to know what a great man he was, so he began on us. We requested him to go away and join his friends, but he would not do it, so finally I said: "That fellow must have a fight, or he will get sick." Then I told him I would let him try his hand on me, if he was sure he could lick any man in the room. He came at me, made a feint with his left and then let drive with his right. I dropped down, ran under, and had him on his back before he knew what I was doing. Then I gave him just one with "that old head of mine," and I broke every bone in his nose. He yelled like an Indian, then I let him up. His friends or companions did not offer to interfere in his behalf, so I expect they were very glad to see him get licked so easy and so very quick--for it was all over in much less time than it takes me to tell the story. I took another drink with the Union officers and then hurried up stairs to my friends whom I had left waiting for their fish supper. They asked me what was the cause of the noise down stairs, and I told them it was a lot of drunken cooks. I said nothing about having had a fight, and they did not know anything about it until we all went down stairs, when some one spoke to me about the fellow's nose being all broken, etc. Then they asked me when I had a fight. I told them while we were waiting for supper. They thought it was pretty quick work to raise a fuss and whip a good cook while another cook was frying some fish. A HARD HEAD. In most all of the many fights that I have been engaged in, I made use of what I have called "that old head of mine." I don't know (and I guess I never will while I'm alive) just how thick my old skull is; but I do know it must be pretty thick, or it would have been cracked many years ago, for I have been struck some terrible blows on my head with iron dray-pins, pokers, clubs, stone-coal, and bowlders, which would have split any man's skull wide open unless it was pretty thick. Doctors have often told me that my skull was nearly an inch in thickness over my forehead. They were only guessing at it then, of course, but if my dear old mother-in- law don't guard my grave, they will know after I am dead, sure enough, for I have heard them say so. For ten or fifteen years during my early life, the sporting men of the South tried to find a man to whip me, but they couldn't do it, and finally gave it up as a bad job. After they gave up trying to have me whipped, and they knew more about my old head, they would all go broke that I could whip or kill any man living, white or black, by butting him. I have had to do some hard butting in my early days, on account of the reputation I had made for my head. I am now nearly sixty years of age, and have quit fighting, but I can to-day batter down any ordinary door or stave in a liquor barrel with "that old head of mine;" and I don't believe there is a man living (of near my own age) who can whip me in a rough-and-tumble fight. I never have my hair clipped short, for if I did I would be ashamed to take my hat off, as the lines on my old scalp look about like the railroad map of the State in which I was born. During the winter of '67 or '68, John Robinson's circus was showing in New Orleans, and they had with them a man by the name of William Carroll, whom they advertised as "The man with the thick skull, or the great butter." He could out-butt anything in the show, except the elephant. One night after the show, Al. and Gill Robinson were up town, and their man Carroll was with them. We all met in a saloon and began drinking wine. While we were enjoying ourselves, something was said about butting, when Gill spoke up and said Carroll could kill any man in the world with his head. "Dutch Jake," one of the big sporting men of New Orleans, was in the party, and he was up in an instant, and said: "What's that? I'll bet $1,000 or $10,000 that I can find a man he can't kill or whip either." I knew what was up; and as we were all friends, I did not want to change the social to a butting match, so I said: "Boys, don't bet, and Mr. Carroll and I will come together just once for fun." The Robinson boys had great confidence in Carroll, and so did "Dutch Jake" have in me. I was at least fifty pounds heavier than Carroll, and I knew that was a great advantage, even if his head was as hard as my own. It was finally agreed that there would be no betting, so we came together. I did not strike my very best, for I was a little afraid of hurting the little fellow; but then he traveled on his head, so I thought I could give him a pretty good one. After we struck, Carroll walked up to me, laid his hand on my head, and said: "Gentlemen, I have found my papa at last." He had the hardest head I ever ran against; and if he had been as heavy as I was, I can't say what the result would have been if we had come together in earnest. Poor fellow! He is dead now, and I know of no other man with as hard a head, except it is myself. My old head is hard and thick, and maybe that is the reason I never had sense enough to save my money. It is said of me that I have won more money than any sporting man in this country. I will say that I hadn't sense enough to keep it; but if I had never seen a faro bank, I would be a wealthy man to-day. SAVED BY HIS WIFE. I shall never forget a trip that I took many years ago in the steamer _Tagleona_, a Pittsburg boat. It was her first trip out, and Adam Clark, who has now been dead for many years, was with me as a partner. He was doing the playing, and money was plenty. Clark was an Englishman, and when he spread his board in the hall- way and made his introductory speech, a great crowd gathered about; for as he dropped his h's, like all Cockneys, it was very amusing to hear him talk. In those days the big fish had the first choice, and the small fry, or poor fish, had to wait around some time before they got a chance to lose their money. I noticed an old man hanging around, and so I sized him up as a pretty solid fellow, and giving my partner the wink, I called up all hands to the bar, and they all came willingly enough except a couple of fellows, who hung back. I sent one of the crowd back to invite them up, as I did not want them to see what the old man lost. They came along, and while we were at the bar Adam downed his man for $4,000 at one bet. When we came back from the bar, Adam kept right on playing as if nothing had happened, using the same cards with the corner turned up. When the poor fish saw this they all wanted to play, so I said: "Boys, let's make up a pony purse and give him a good bet." This was readily agreed to, and when I asked Adam what was the least he would turn for, he said $2,000. I was pretty sure there was not that amount of money in the party, but I remarked that I would go half of it. Then a little wizen-faced, dried-up old man said he would put up $400. The rest chipped in, and $900 was raised. I put up the balance, and we were all ready to turn, when down the cabin rushed a woman squealing like a stuck pig. Adam looked up, and the little woman grabbed the dried-up old man and shouted: "Where's my money? Give me my money!" Of course such a commotion aroused all the passengers on the boat, who were anxious to see what the trouble was. I got the old lady to one side, and when she cooled off a little, she said that she had $400 in her dress pocket and had lain down to sleep; that when she awoke she found her money gone, and knew no one had taken it but her husband, as he had done such a trick before. "I knew he was gambling," she said. Adam counted out the $400 and handed it back to the old man, and said: "That settles it. I won't take the bet." Somebody turned the card for the balance, and, of course, Adam won. At another time a man lost a few hundred dollars and then went back and got the keys of his wife's trunk, and, securing some jewelry and a fine shawl, sold them to a passenger, and receiving the money came around and lost it. After the game was all over I learned of the occurrence, and going to the party who had purchased the goods I made him disgorge, and paid him what he paid for them. Taking the goods and wrapping them up in a paper, I handed them to the lady, at the same time I advised her to keep her keys from her husband, and have no doubt she was very grateful to me for it, for she seemed to be. I did not want the lady to lose her jewelry and shawl, for I have noticed that a man who will gamble away all his money, and then steal his wife's money, jewelry, or clothes to raise a stake, is not the man to replace what he has stolen, in any great hurry. COLD STEEL. We got aboard of Captain Charles Blunt's boat at Omaha, Neb., bound for St. Louis, Mo. We played our games during the trip, without anything of notice occurring until we made a landing at a wood station, about twenty miles above St. Joseph, Mo. It was a lonely place in the woods, with nothing but long wood-piles to make it a desirable place to stop over night at. There had been some trouble between the deck-hands, who were mostly Irishmen, and some of the officers of the boat. So the former chose this lonely spot to settle the matter. After loading the wood they all armed themselves with clubs and bowlders, and took possession of the stairway, swearing that no man should come down on deck or let go the line until their wrongs were righted. Captain Blunt was a brave man, and did not like to be forced to do anything against his own free will; but he did not know just how to manage those fellows, for they were a bad crowd, and had the advantage of him in numbers; besides he had no arms on board except a few pistols, and he knew that an Irishman did not fear gunpowder. Finally I said to the Captain: "If you will take my advice, we can soon run those fellows ashore, and then we can cut the line and leave them." He asked me what I would do, so I told him to get all the butcher knives in the kitchen, and everything else on board that would cut, or looked like it would, and arm the officers and passengers, and we would charge down the steps on to the fellows. He thought it a good plan, so we were soon ready. I wanted the largest knife, telling the Captain I would lead if he would let me have it. He wanted the glory of leading the attack himself, so I had hard work to get the largest one; but I did get one about fifteen inches long. We all rushed out of the cabin and down the steps with a war-whoop, and before the deck-hands had time to rally, we were onto them, cutting right and left. We did not want to kill; we only wanted to scare them. I got a lick on the head; it did not hurt, but it made me mad, and I cut two or three fellows across the part that they sit down on, and they began to yell cold steel, and made a rush for the plank. The others followed, and were in such a hurry they did not take time to find the plank, but jumped overboard and waded out. Some one cut the line, and we were soon away from shore. The Captain told the pilot to hold the boat, and then he told the deck-hands if they would come on board and behave themselves he would take them to St. Joseph. They promised they would not raise any more disturbance, so he took them on board and we started on our way. Soon after starting some one told the Captain that the deck-hands were talking about having me arrested when we got to St. Joseph, so he put me ashore on the opposite side of the river, and when he was through with his business at St. Joseph he came over after me and took me to St. Louis. We landed alongside of the steamer _Emigrant_ a short distance below St. Joseph. Captain Blunt went over on board and told the officers all about our gallant charge. My old friend, Henry Mange, who keeps a boat store in New Orleans, was running the bar on the _Emigrant_ at the time, and he often asks me about the war on the Missouri River. "RATTLESNAKE JACK." "Rattlesnake Jack" was about the last man I worked with as a partner playing three-card monte. His right name was Jackson McGee. He was born and raised in the mountains of Virginia, and spent much of his early life catching snakes, which he would sell to showmen, who gave him the name of "Rattlesnake Jack." He was over fifty years of age, and weighed about 160 pounds, at the time he and I worked together. He was a good talker, and had but few equals at throwing the three cards. He looked like the greenest sort of a backwoodsman when he had his "make-up" on. He was not the bravest man in the world, but he was not afraid of snakes, and could make some good big bluffs with his long six-shooter. He is now living in West Virginia with his family, and no one would think, to see him, that he used to catch rattlesnakes for a living, or played three-card monte with old Devol. He has a beautiful daughter, who is highly accomplished, and Jack is proud of her. Old Jack and I were on board of the steamer _Natchez_ one Saturday night, coming out of New Orleans, and she had a large number of passengers on board. We did not see any good monte suckers, so I opened up a game of rouge-et-noir and did a fair business until 11 o'clock; then I closed up and went to the bar, where I met a gentleman I had often seen on the packets. He knew me and my business, for he had seen me play monte several times. He invited me to join him in a drink, and then laughingly said: "Devol, how is the old business, anyway?" I laughed back, saying: "Oh, it's just so-so; but let's take another drink." He accepted, and while we were drinking, old "Rattlesnake Jack" walked up and said to the barkeeper: "Mister, how much you ax fur a dram o' liquor?" The barkeeper told him 15 cents. "Fifteen cents?" says Jack. "Wall, now! Up whar I live you can get a dram for 5 cents; but let's have her, even if she does cost 15 cents. I reckon as how it must be perty good." The barkeeper set him out a small glass and a bottle. Jack looked at the glass, picked it up, and stuck his finger in it, then set it down and said: "Say, mister, do you call a little thing like that a 15 cent dram o' liquor?" The barkeeper told him he did. Jack filled the glass full, saying: "Up whar I live they give you a tin cup when you take a dram." He pulled out a roll about the size of a "boarding house pillow" to pay for the drink, and the smallest bill he had was $100. That made my friend open his eyes, and he whispered to me: "Devol, he would be a good subject for you." I replied, "Yes; and I am going to have some of that money before I go to bed." My friend then turned to Jack and said: "Old boy, where do you come from?" "I used to live in Greenups," replied Jack. "Where in the world is Greenups?" "Wall, Greenups is up nigh the Big Sandy." As I was born in the part of the country, and knew something about the people, I asked Jack if he was one of those fellows who made the counterfeit half-dollars on the Big Sandy. He laughed and said: "No; but I'd spent more'n a half-bushel of 'em for dames afore they got on to 'em." I then asked Jack where he was bound for, and he replied; "Wall, you see I sold my farm up on 'Sandy' for a perty big pile, and pap writ me to come out whar he lives in Texas and buy another; so I'm just goin' out to see pap, and if I likes it out thar, I reckon as how I'll stay." My friend then asked him if he would not join us in a drink. "I'll jine yer in a dram; but I'll be gol darned if you don't look just like a chap what dinkered me out of $1,000 when I got off at Cincinnati to see the town; but he wasn't so big." That made my friend laugh. He asked Jack how he lost his money. "Wall, I'll tell yers. I went into a place what thar was a big glass full of beer painted on the winder to get a dram, and a nice- looking chap got talking to me, and perty soon he asked me to have a dram along with him. Then another fellar what was thar, he axed us if we ever played Rock-mountain euchre. He had some tickets, and he would jumble 'em up, and then we would bet yer on 'em. This nice-looking chap he bet him, and he win $500. Wall, I just planked down my money, and the fellar win it; but he gave me the tickets for a dram, and I'm goin' to take 'em out what pap lives--but I won't tell pap I lost anything, fur he don't know how much I got fur my farm." My friend said, "Why, Devol, he has been playing three-card monte." I told him not to give me away, and I would get the fellow to play the game for us. Then I said to old Jack: "What are you going to do with the tickets when you get out to Texas?" "Wall, I'm goin' to larn 'em, and when I get out to pap's I'll win all the money them gol-darned cow-boys hev got." "Do you think you can learn them well enough to win their money?" "Oh, yes; I'm larnen 'em all the time, and sometimes I can mix 'em up so I fool myself." My friend thought he must help me, so he invited us to join him in another drink. Old Jack said: "Wall, I don't care if I do." After getting another dram into old Jack I asked him if he would show us the tickets. He said: "Yes, but you mustn't spile 'em, fur I want to keep 'em perty till I git out war pap lives." He then pulled out a leather pouch, opened it, took out a handkerchief, unfolded it very carefully, and produced the three cards. My friend shrugged his shoulders and laughed. I asked old Jack to show us how he played the game, when he said: "I can't show yer so good without a table." I told him there was a nice table in the barber shop, and invited him to go back. He consented, so we were soon in the shop seated around the table, and Jack began to throw the cards. My friend was very attentive, for he was sure I would win the old fellow's money, and he did not want to miss any of the fun. I told Jack I would bet him the drinks I could turn up the ticket with the boy on it. He said: "Wall, look here. I've got the name of bein' the spunkyest fellar up at Greenups'. I never 'lowed any man to back me down fur a dram, or two drams, either." He mixed them up; I turned the wrong card and lost. Then Jack laughed so loud and long that it attracted the attention of everybody that was awake on the boat, and quite a number of gentlemen came in to see the fun. When Jack recovered from his big laugh, he said: "I knowed yer would miss it." I called for the drinks, and then told my friend I did not want to turn the right card until I could get a big bet. After we drank our liquor, I began bantering old Jack to bet me some money, but he did not want anything but drams. I kept on playing him, and finally he said: "I'll go yer once for $5, anyhow." I told him to put up. I turned and lost again. Then old Jack rolled off his chair and roared so loud that I was afraid he would wake up all the passengers on the boat. The room was soon full of people, and every one was crowding around to get a look at the old fool that was making so much noise. Jack ordered the drinks, saying: "You fellars think I haint got no sense, but I'll bet yer's long's I's got two kerds to yer's one." While old Jack was paying the barkeeper for the drams I put a pencil mark on the boy ticket, and my friend saw me do it. I then offered to make another bet. Old Jack said: "I'll bet $10 this time." I told him to put up, and he did. Then I replied: "I will raise you $500," and I put up the amount in my friend's hands. "What's that? What yer put up $500 agin my $10 for?" My friend told him he would have to put up $500 more, or he would lose his $10. "Wall, I'll be gol darned; I haint goin' to be backed out, fur if the boys in Greenups would hear on't they wouldn't speak to me when I go back thar." He put up $500 more, then mixed the cards, and I turned the winner. Everybody roared with laughter. Old Jack turned around, looked at the crowd for a moment, then said: "You fellars kin laugh at me just's much as yer like, but I don't 'low no man to back me down." He then told the barkeeper to bring him a dram. I said to my friend: "That old fool will lose all his money before he gets to Texas, and I may as well have it as any one else." He replied: "Yes; and I'm going to have some of it myself." He then insisted on making a bet. I told him to make a good big one, as the old fellow was getting too drunk to handle his cards, and he might fall over and stop the game. My friend then ordered the drinks, thinking, no doubt, that if he would treat, old Jack would bet more liberally with him. When the bystanders saw Jack take another of those big drams, some of them remarked: "Those gamblers have that old fellow so drunk they will win all of his money before they let him go. It's a shame, and we ought to stop it." My friend offered to bet $500, when old Jack said: "Boys, I'm drinking, and I don't care, fur my spunk's up, and I'd just's soon bet her all the first bet; them tarnal fellers guzzled me out of $1,000 in Cincinnater, and I wants ter get even." So saying he pulled out his big roll, slammed it down on the table, and said: "Thar's my pile, and you fellars darn't cover her." I whispered to my friend, telling him that now was the time. Then I asked Jack how much he had in the roll. He said: "Wall, I don't know; I had $7,000 when I left Greenups, and I lost $1,000 in Cincinnater and what yer win just now, so I reckon I've got nigh onto $6,000." I requested one of the bystanders to count the money, which he did, and found it to be just $5,500. My friend had $3,400, and I put up the balance. I told him to turn the card, as he had up the most. Old Jack mixed them up, but he was so drunk he could hardly pick up a card. My friend could hardly wait for Jack to say ready before he dove in and grabbed the one with the spot on it, but when he turned it over he saw it was not the one with the boy on it. Old Jack snatched the money from the gentleman that was holding stakes, and shoved it down into his pockets. Then turning to the crowd, he said: "Wall, why don't yer's laugh now?" They did laugh, for most of them felt like it. Old Jack joined in, and laughed louder than any of them, and then turning around to the table, he began looking for his precious tickets. He had put them in his pocket without any one seeing him, but pretended he was ruined if he could not find them. I told him the barkeeper had some just like them, and I would go and get them for him. That quieted him down, and he said: "Wall, if I kin get t'others I don't care, fur I wanted to show 'em to pap when I gets out thar in Texas." I went to the bar, as though I had gone for the cards, and returned with them. Old Jack laughed when he saw them, saying: "Wall, I be gol-darned if they haint just like t'others." I gave Jack the new set, but I turned up a corner on the boy card so every one could see it. Then I told him to mix them up, and I would make him a bet of a $1,000. We put up the money; I turned and won. Then the bystanders began to take more interest in the game than ever, and the fun began again. One fat gentleman crowded in and wanted to bet. I said: "Boys, let us make up a pony purse, and we will all bet on the same card." My friend wanted to get into the same party, but did not have any ready cash, so he asked me for a loan, offering his watch and diamond as security. I let him have $1,000, which he put up. The fat gent put up $1,300, and another man put in $400. I put up $1,000, which made the purse $3,700. Old Jack was very drunk, but he got up his money someway, and then began to mix. We picked on the fat gentleman to do the turning. He took his time, as most fat men do, but when he turned the card it was the wrong one, so we lost all our money. Just then some one yelled out: "Sold again and got the money." That broke up the little game, and old Jack said: "Boys, come and take a dram with me, and then I'll go to bed." We all went to the bar, and when Jack took his big dram I noticed that he drank out of a different bottle from the rest of us. He then went to his room, and in a short time I went to look for him, but I did not find him in his room. He was up in the texas eating up the officers' lunch. My friend said he would send me the money to redeem his jewelry by the barkeeper the next trip. As I had downed him for $3,400 in cash I gave him his jewelry on his promise. He did not keep it, and well I knew he would not. The next time I met him he said nothing about the $1,000, so I told him he did not owe me anything, as I got one-half of what he lost, and that I had sent out West and got "Rattlesnake Jack" on purpose to down him at the old game that he knew so well. That made him mad, and he would never speak to me after that, and that nearly broke my heart. "SHORT STOPS." McGawley, "Rattlesnake Jack," and myself were on the Morgan Railroad, going out from New Orleans. I occupied a seat beside an old gent from Iowa, on his way to Texas to buy a farm. The conductor was on to our racket, and would not give us a show. We had to wait for a change of conductors before we could open up for business. I gave Jack the office to come up, which he did, looking like a Texas ranchman. The cow-boy had been to New Orleans to sell his critters, and wanted a dram. The old gent did not drink, nor did I--just then. The cow-boy had been pranking with a new game, had lost $1,000, but had plenty more left. He showed us how he had lost his money. I bent up the corner of the winning card and won a few hundred dollars. McGawley, not knowing anything about the corner of the winner being turned up, lost a few hundred dollars. The old gent knew all about the corner and how I won. He wanted to bet, but his money was sewed up in his shirt. I had a sharp knife that I loaned him. He cut his shirt and got out his money. The cow-boy would bet his pile, amounting to $10,000, against the old gent's pile. I would bet with him if I was the old gent, for he had but $4,600. The money was put up. The card was turned. The old gent lost. The cow-boy bet another man $200 and won, then asked him for a dram out of his bottle. I had an idea that my wife wanted me to come back and see her in the Texas sleeper. I would return as soon as I learned how her headache was. A station was reached. I got off. Looking after the receding train, I saw two men drop off; they walked back to the station. McGawley, Rattlesnake Jack, and myself waited for the next train to New Orleans, with $4,800 more than we had a few hours previous. We were on the train going in to New Orleans. Old Jack occupied a seat just behind a lady and gentleman. The lady had something lying in her lap about the size of an infant, covered with a shawl. Whatever it was, she was very careful of it. McGawley and I were seated across the aisle, near by. Jack was telling the lady and gentleman some very interesting story. He showed them three tickets. He threw them over each other on the seat beside him. The lady gave the gentleman some money, which he laid over on the seat where Jack was throwing the tickets. He reached over and turned one of the tickets. Jack put the money in his pocket. The lady gave the gentleman more money. He laid it in the same place as before. He turned one of the tickets the same as before. Jack put the money in his pocket the same as before. The lady talked to the gentleman in very angry tones. She talked to Jack very pleasantly. She took out more money and offered to lay it on the seat where the gentleman had laid the money before. Jack would not let a lady put money down. The lady uncovered the something she had lying in her lap. She showed it to Jack. They talked about it. She got up and called me over to hold it. Jack gave me $100 to hold. He threw the tickets. The lady reached over and turned one of them. She threw up both hands and said: "Mercy on me! What shall I do? I have lost my dear Tommy." I handed Jack the $100 and the twelve-pound Tommy. The passengers all roared with laughter. The lady scolded her hubby very badly. She cried, sobbed, and wrung her hands, saying: "I have lost my Tommy! Oh, my dear Tommy, Tommy; I will never see you any more!" Jack could stand it no longer. He handed his Thomas cat over to the lady. First she smiled, then she laughed, and then she said: "Hubby, get out your bottle and give this dear, good, nice gentleman a drink." The passengers all roared again. Jack took a drink. The train rolled into the depot. We all bid the lady and gentleman and "Tommy" good-bye and got off. "Selah." KICKERS. All men that bet should not be classed as gamblers, for some _things_ that style themselves _men_ will bet (to win, of course), and kick if they lose, which a gambler will never do, although he may sometimes be sucker enough to bet (to win) against a sure thing, like old monte, or a brace game. A kicker, or squealer, always speaks of the money he has lost, against any game, as his money; while the gambler considers the money he loses, against any game, as lost; and it belongs to the person who won it, and you never hear one of them do any kicking. "Old Rattlesnake" and I left New Orleans one evening on the steamer _Robert E. Lee_. We played the good old game in the usual way, and caught quite a number of good sized suckers, among which was one from St. Joseph, La. We got off at Baton Rouge, and took another boat back to New Orleans. The next trip we made on the _Lee_ we learned from my old friend Carnahan, the steward, that the St. Joseph sucker, whom we had downed on the last trip, made a big kick when he learned that we had left the boat at Baton Rouge. He said he would get a lot of the St. Joseph boys, go back to where we got off, and make us give up his money, or he would kill us. The steward told him not to do it, for said he: "Those fellows are bad men to fool with. I have seen twenty suckers try to make them give up, but I never saw them do it." As we were not within miles of this kicker, who, I have no doubt, styled himself a man, of course he could do a great deal of blowing; but when a short time afterwards we met him with a lot of St. Joseph boys at his back, we could not get within speaking distance of him. I was glad of it, as they were a bad crowd. Old Carnahan and I were cabin boys on the same boat before the Mexican war. He is dead now, but I shall always remember him for telling the kicker, "Those fellows are bad men to fool with." Old Jack and I traveled North during the summer season, playing the boats and railroad trains. We were going out of Detroit, Mich., on the Great Western Railroad, over into Ontario, one night, when there was quite a number of half- breed (French and Irish) Canadians on board. They had six or seven bull-dogs with them that had been fighting against some dogs in Detroit, and from their talk we learned that they downed Uncle Sam. So we thought (as we were Americans) that we would try and down them; not with bull-dogs, but with the good old game. Jack was soon among them, and in a short time, with my assistance as capper, he had downed several of the Canucks for a few hundred. They were kickers from the old house. They all got together and began cackling like a lot of old hens when a hawk is after them. No one but themselves could understand a word they said; but they soon made a rush for Jack and demanded, in English, that he give up their money, or they would kill him. Their bull-dogs wanted to take part in the fight, and I guess they would have done it if it had not been for their owners, for if a dog's master runs he will be sure to run after him. Old Jack whipped out that big, long six- shooter of his, and the instant they saw it they all started and made a regular stampede for the other car. The dogs took after their masters, and it was fun to see the passengers climbing upon the seats. The men and the dogs rushed into the ladies' car, and you would have thought it was on fire if you had heard the screams and yells that the passengers set up when the men and bull-dogs rushed in among them. The poor dumb brutes were frightened as much as their owners, and they set up the d----dest howl I ever heard in all my life. We were just nearing a station, so I told old Jack to drop off, which he did, and then he got onto the hind sleeper. The people at the station had heard the screams, and came running to see what was the matter. The railroad boys had hard work to get the dogs and men out of the ladies' car, but they could not get one of the dogs back into the cars he had been run out of. I did not blame the brutes much, for they had been badly frightened. We were coming out of Chicago at one time on the Burlington & Quincy Railroad, and had downed some suckers, when one of them began to kick like a bad mule. He told the conductor that old Jack had robbed him out of his money. The conductor told him he could do nothing except turn the gambler over to the police at the next station. He locked the doors to keep Jack from jumping off, and the sucker quieted down, thinking he would be O. K. when he reached the station. I saw two gentlemen from Quincy in the car that I was acquainted with, so I wrote a note to them, requesting that they tell the kicker he was in the same boat with the gambler, as he would be fined just as much as the man who got his money, and that the fine in Illinois was $100. The result was the fellow hid himself, and when the conductor pointed old Jack out he could not find the kicker. We got off with the officers, and as no one was on hand to testify, of course we only had to treat until the next train arrived. WILLIAM JONES. (CANADA BILL.) Canada Bill--peace to his ashes--is dead. He died in Reading, Penn., about ten years ago, and, poor fellow, he did not leave enough money of all the many thousands he had won to bury him. The Mayor of Reading had him decently interred, and when his friends in Chicago learned the fact, they raised money enough to pay all the funeral expenses and erect a monument to the memory of one who was, while living, a friend to the poor. I was in New Orleans at the time of his death, and did not hear the sad news for some months after. I hope the old fellow is happy in a better land. If kind acts and a generous heart can atone for the sin of gambling, and entitle men to a mansion in the skies, Canada Bill surely got one, "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." There never lived a better hearted man. He was liberal to a fault. I have known him to turn back when we were on the street and give to some poor object we had passed. Many a time I have seen him walk up to a Sister of Charity and make her a present of as much as $50, and when we would speak of it, he would say: "Well, George, they do a great deal for the poor, and I think they know better how to use the money than I do." Once I saw him win $200 from a man, and shortly after his little boy came running down the cabin, Bill called the boy up and handed him the $200 and told him to give it to his mother. He was a man, take him for all in all, that possessed many laudable traits of character. He often said suckers had no business with money. He had some peculiar traits. While he was a great man at monte, he was a fool at short cards. I have known men who knew this to travel all over the country after Bill, trying to induce him to play cards with them. He would do it, and this is what kept him poor. Mason Long, the converted gambler, says of William Jones (Canada Bill): "The confidence men and monte players were in clover. Among them was the most notorious and successful _thief_ who ever operated in this country, Canada Bill. He was a _large_ man, with a nose _highly illuminated_ by the joint action of _whisky_ and heat. Bill squandered his money very lavishly, and _drank_ himself to death in about a year after the incident I have related. He died a pauper." "But by all thy nature's weakness, Hidden faults and follies know. Be thou, in rebuking evil, Conscious of thine own." Is Mason Long converted? God and himself only know. Was he fully converted when he wrote "The Converted Gambler"? If the Bible be true, and it was left for me to decide, I would answer in the language of St. Paul: "Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal." A true Christian will exercise charity toward all offenders, granting a boon of pity to the erring, and cast a glance of mercy upon the faults of his fellows. He will cherish a recollection of his virtues, and bury all his imperfections. Is Mason Long a true Christian? Read his description of Canada Bill. Then read a true description of Bill's personal appearance on page 190 in this book. If Mason Long had never seen Canada Bill, I would excuse him, but he said he capped for him once, or at least he tried to do so. Has he shown any Christian charity in speaking of a man in his grave? Read what he says, and you will see that he or I are mistaken. Bill was not a thief, he was honest to a fault. He was not a large man, for he never weighed over 130. He did not have a nose highly illuminated by the joint action of whisky and heat. He did not drink himself to death within a year of 1876, for he visited me in New Orleans in 1877. He did not drink whisky at all. His great drink was Christian cider, and it was very seldom I could get him to drink wine. He did die a pauper, and God bless him for it, for he gave more money to the poor than a thousand professed Christians that I know, who make a great parade of their reformation. The public put all sporting men into one class, called gamblers; likewise they put all church members into classes and call them Christians, etc. There is as wide a difference between a true gambler and one who styles himself a sport, as there is between a true Christian and one who puts on the cloak of Christianity to serve the devil in. There is an old saying, "Honor among thieves." I will add a maxim or two: There is honor among gamblers, and dishonor among some business men that stand very high in the community in which they live. THE TWO JUDGES. "He can not e'en essay to walk sedate, But in his very gait one sees a jest That's ready to break out in spite of all His seeming." Some years ago Judge Smith was upon the bench of the Police Court at New Orleans, and during the time Judge Wilson occupied the same position at Cincinnati. Judge Smith made a trip to the North one summer, and stopped at Cincinnati for a few days on his way home. While in the Queen City he formed the acquaintance of Judge Moses F. Wilson, and as he was in the "thirty-fifty" business like himself, he felt as though they were somewhat akin. Judge Smith was very fond of a joke, and when he met Mose Wilson, he met a good-humored man, who had a fondness for "gags," and was ever joking. These kindred spirits were soon well pleased with each other. Wilson felt that the duty of entertaining a fellow Judge from a sister city was incumbent upon him, and he just spread himself to do it. They had a right royal time together, but all things must come to an end some time, and the time had come for Judge Smith to tear himself away and return once more to the field of his labor. They bid each other an affectionate good-bye, but not until after Mose had promised Smith to visit him the next winter, and stay forevermore. Judge Smith was at the depot. His baggage was on board, and he was just stepping upon the platform, when two gentlemen stepped up, and one of them said: "We want you," at the same time displaying his police badge. "What for?" inquired Smith. "Suspicion," replied the officer. "Gentlemen, you are mistaken; I am Judge of the Police Court of New Orleans." "Oh! you are? Well, we never arrest a fellow like you that he is not a Judge, lawyer, doctor, or some big bug somewhere, to hear him tell it; but you take a walk with us up to the chief's office, and explain to him who and what you are." Smith saw it was of no use trying to explain. The train was moving off with his baggage on board, and he was left (in the hands of the two officers). They marched him up to the chief's office, and when they arrived everything seemed to be in readiness for an immediate trial; for there was Judge Wilson, the prosecuting attorney, and quite a number of witnesses. Smith was found guilty of desertion. The judge fined him (a bottle), and ordered that he be confined within the city limits for one day. Smith paid the fine, but pleaded to be let off from the imprisonment. Judge Wilson was firm (for once in his life), so poor Smith had to serve out his time; but the Judge was kind enough to see that he did not suffer for the want of anything, and when he was set at liberty he was like some birds born and raised in a cage. They like the confinement, and when the door is open they will not fly away; but frighten the bird, and away it will go. It was so with Smith; he had already stayed too long. He got frightened and flew away to the sunny South. The cold blasts of winter were sweeping over the North, when Judge Wilson remembered his promise made to Judge Smith to visit him in New Orleans, and he was soon on his way to make his promise good, for he is a man of his word. He telegraphed Smith that he would arrive on a certain train, expecting, of course, that he would be received with a brass band, etc. The train on which Mose was being transported from the land of snow to the land of flowers was about ten miles from New Orleans, when it passed a northern-bound freight, and in a few moments two large men, with brass buttons on their coats, came marching into the Cincinnati sleeper. They came down the aisle, closely scanning the faces of all the male passengers. They halted at the seat occupied by Mose. They looked at him and then at a photograph they had with them. Finally one of them put his hand on Mose's shoulder, and said: "We want you's." The Judge took in the situation at once, for he had not forgotten the time he played a similar joke; but he did not like the idea of all the passengers (especially as there were a great many ladies on board) thinking that he was under arrest in earnest. So he smiled one of those sweet smiles of his, and said: "Officers, this is all a joke. I am Judge of the Police Court of Cincinnati, and I am well acquainted with the Judge of your Court. I expected to be received in New Orleans with a brass band, in place of brass buttons." "Do yez hear that? He a Judge of the Police Court; expected to be received wid a brass band. Why, he's got more brass than there is in twenty brass bands. He's the biggest thafe in the whole country. Didn't we see the chafe go right straight to the rogue's gallery and get his picture; and didn't he tell Pat and meself to come out here and arrest yez, and didn't we's ride on a freight train?" Mose saw it was no use trying to make the officers or passengers understand that it was a joke, so he said: "All right, I will go with you." "Of course yez will. Won't he, Pat?" "You bet he will," says Pat. The officers sat down facing him, so they could keep a watch on him, for they were afraid he would try to jump out the window. When the train arrived at New Orleans the officers got a carriage (at Mose's request), and they were driven to the chief's office. The chief pretended not to know the Honorable Judge, and told him to send for his friends. He called for an officer to take Mose down and lock him up, when in walked Judge Smith. Mose smiled and said: "Smith, I owe you one." Judge Smith told the chief he would be responsible for Mose while in the city, so he let him go. There was a carriage in waiting. They got in and were driven to Leon's restaurant, where they found a large number of Judge Smith's friends and a fine dinner awaiting them. After dinner, while we were drinking to Mose's health and smoking cigars, Judge Smith requested me to show our honored guest the baby ticket. I did, and downed him for a bottle, but it did not cost him a cent, for his Queen City money was no good in the Crescent City so long as he remained with the Judge, for they were kindred spirits. TAPPED THE TILL. It is often said that faro banks are never broke, but I recall one incident that will prove the contrary. It was during the war, and a number of us were playing together at New Orleans at Charlie Bush's, my old partner. They were all high rollers, and when one of them, who was a big loser, went to get his checks cashed for $1,000, the cashier pulled out the drawer and found that the bottom had been cut out, and all the money was gone. Some snoozer had crawled under the table, and with a sharp knife cut the bottom clear out. Of course the proprietors were very mad, but the joke was such a good one that it wouldn't keep. Still, in spite of all this, I had rather deposit my money in faro banks than the Fidelity, of Cincinnati, and I guess all honest citizens feel the same way. A SQUARE GAME. I met a man in a saloon one night at Cincinnati. He was a stranger, and he inquired of me if I knew of a good, big poker game. I told him there were no public games running at that time, that most of the hotels had games, but they were private. We took a drink or two together, and he again remarked that he would like a game. I invited him to my room, and we had a nice, square game from that time until morning. I won $900 from him, and as he was about broke I invited him to take breakfast with me. After we had finished breakfast and were smoking our cigars he began to kick. I told him if he was that kind of a man I would never play with him any more. I left him and went to bed. I got up in the afternoon and went out on the street, when I saw my poker friend in company with Detective Steve Mead. Then I knew he was a kicker, sure enough. Mead told me the chief wanted to see me, so we started for his office. On our way up Central Avenue we stopped to get a drink. I thought I could trust the good-looking barkeeper, so I just threw a roll over behind the counter, and was then ready to see his Honor. The chief asked me if I won the man's money. I told him I did. "But," said Chief Woods, "he said you cheated him." I replied: "Why, chief, how could I, a man that knows but very little about cards, cheat an old gambler like this fellow?" "I'm no gambler," replied the kicker. The chief asked Mead what he had learned, and he said: "They were playing a square game of poker." "That settles it," said the chief. So I walked out and down to where I had left my roll. The good- looking young man handed it over, and since then I have always thought Billy Gruber was an honest man and deserved to own two of the finest saloons in the Queen City. A COWARD. While in Chicago playing the bank one day I had some angry words with a fellow by the name of John Lawler, and I slapped him in the face. He did not resent it, but went out. About 2 o'clock in the afternoon I cashed in my checks and started to my room. I was walking down Clark Street, and was near the corner of Madison, when this fellow Lawler stepped out and began firing at me. The first shot would have hit me in the breast if I had not thrown up my arm; as it was, it struck me on the wristbone and ran up my arm near the shoulder. After the coward fired he began running backward, and kept it up until he had fired all six shots. I had nothing but a little cane, but I started after him, and just as he fired the last shot I struck him with my good arm and downed him. I was onto him, and was just getting that old head of mine ready when the police arrested me. There were thousands of people on the street, but you could not see a cop until the last shot was fired. The fellow was sent up for three years, and I signed a petition to get him out. I was mad when he shot me, and I guess I would have killed him if they had not taken me off; but I do not hold malice to any one, not even if he tries to kill me. I was laid up for some time with my arm. The bullet was cut out, and was as flat as a half-dollar. I went from Chicago to St. Paul to see my dear old mother and a sister, who were living there at that time. My arm is as strong as ever; or, at least, some fellows who have felt it since, say so. REDUCED THE PRICE. No one knows the difficulty that a man experiences who, having been a gambler for a long period of years, suddenly resolves to change his course, lead a new life, engage in a different business, and make a new man out of himself. It is all very well for moralists to say that all that is needed is will-power. There is something else. I well remember once that I resolved to leave the business. It was when I was living in Vicksburg. I saw an opportunity to start a beer garden. I rented a house and furnished it up in fine style, and stocked it up with liquors and cigars. My friends were glad to see this course I had taken, and promised to encourage me. They did so, and I could not complain for a lack of patronage. Beer I sold at five cents a glass, and as everybody before had been charging ten cents, I soon secured a large patronage. When the boats landed at the wharf the passengers and crew all came up and paid the garden a visit. Did I succeed in my new undertaking? No, of course I did not. The saloon-keepers all combined and kicked against me because I had reduced the price of beer. Two of them were members of the City Council, and two more of the Board of Aldermen. They sent spies to see if I sold liquor to minors, but being unable to detect me they resolved that I should not have a license. I had taken out my United States revenue license. I was compelled to sell out at a great sacrifice, and all my efforts at reform were unavailing. GENERAL REMARKS. When a sucker sees a corner turned up, or a little spot on a card in three-card monte, he does not know that it was done for the purpose of making him think he has the advantage. He thinks, of course, the player does not see it, and he is in such a hurry to get out his money that he often cuts or tears his clothes. He feels like he is going to steal the money from a blind man, but he does not care. He will win it, and say nothing about how he did it. After they have put up their money and turned the card, they see that the mark was put there for a purpose. Then they are mad, because they are beat at their own game. They begin to kick, and want their money back, but they would not have thought of such a thing had they won the money from a blind man, for they did think he must be nearly blind, or he could have seen the mark on the winning card. They expected to rob a blind man, and got left. I never had any sympathy for them, and I would fight before I would give them back one cent. It is a good lesson for a dishonest man to be caught by some trick, and I always did like to teach it. I have had the right card turned on me for big money by suckers, but it was an accident, for they were so much excited that they did not get the card they were after. I have also given a big hand in poker to a sucker, and had him to knock the ginger out of me, but this would make me more careful in the future. I've seen suckers win a small amount, and then run all over the boat, telling how they downed the gambler; but they were almost sure to come back and lose much more than they had won. I have often given a sucker back his money, and I have seen them lose it with my partner, or at some other game on the same boat. I have won hundreds of thousands from thieves who were making tracks for some other country to keep out of jail and to spend their ill- gotten gains. I enjoyed beating a man that was loaded down with stolen money more than any one else. I always felt as if it was my duty to try and keep the money in our own country. Young men and boys have often stood around the table and bothered me to bet. I would tell them to go away, that I did not gamble with boys. That would make some of the smart Alecks mad, and they would make a great deal of noise. So, when I was about to close up, I would take in the young chap. He would walk away with a good lesson. But when I had to win money from a boy to keep him quiet, I would always go to him and return the money, after giving him a good talking to. I meet good business men very often now that take me by the hand and remind me of when I won some money from them when they were boys, and returned it with a good lecture. I have sometimes wished I had one-tenth part of what I have returned to boys and suckers, for then I would have enough to keep me the balance of my life. I had the niggers all along the coast so trained that they would call me "Massa" when I would get on or off a boat. If I was waiting at a landing I would post some old "nig" what to say when I went on board, so while the passengers were all out on the guards and I was bidding the "coons" good-bye, my "nig" would cry out: "Good-bye, Massa George; I's goin' to take good care of the old plantation till you comes back." I would go on board, with one of the niggers carrying my saddle- bags, and those sucker passengers would think I was a planter sure enough; so if a game was proposed I had no trouble to get into it, as all who play cards are looking for suckers that they know have money; and who in those old ante-bellum times had more money than a Southern planter? I have often stepped up to the bar as soon as I would get on board and treat every one within call, and when I would pay for the drinks I would pull out a roll that would make everybody look wild. Then I was sure to get into the first game that would be started, for all wanted a part of the planter's roll. I have downed planters and many good business men, who would come to me afterwards and want to stand in with my play; and many are the thousands I have divided with them; and yet the truly good people never class such men among gamblers. The world is full of such men. They are not brave enough to take the name, but they are always ready for a part of the game. A gambler's word is as good as his bond, and that is more than I can say of many business men who stand very high in a community. I would rather take a true gambler's word than the bond of many business men who are to-day counted worth thousands. The gambler will pay when he has money, which many good church members will not. ANCIENT GAMBLING. Hobbes, the philosopher, says man is the only animal that laughs. He might have appropriately added, he is the only animal that gambles. To gamble or venture on chance, his own property with the hope of winning the property of another is peculiar to him. Other animals in common with man will fight for meat, drink, and lodging, and will battle for love as fiercely as the old knights of chivalry; but there is no well authenticated account that any of the lower animals ever chanced any of their property on "odd-or- even," or drew lots for choice of pasturage. No master has ever yet taught his dog to play with him at casino, and even the learned pig could never learn what was trumps. Hence gambling is a proof of man's intellectual superiority. Certain it is that men, from the earliest ages, have been addicted to some form of gambling, or settling matters by chance. It was by lot that it was determined in Biblical days which of the goats should be offered by Aaron; by lot the land of Canaan was divided; by lot Saul was marked out for the Hebrew kingdom; by lot Jonah was discovered to be the cause of the storm. Even in legendary days there is a pretty story that Mercury fell in love with Rhea (or the Earth), and wishing to do her a favor, gambled with the Moon, and won from her every seventieth part of the time she illumined the horizon, all of which parts he united together, making up five days, and added them to the Earth's year, which had previously consisted of only 360 days, and was now 365. There is not an age of the world, nor a people, who have not been gamblers. The Romans, the Greeks, the Asiatics--all have their games of chance. There was, indeed, a period in the history of the world when gambling was the amusement and recreation of kings and queens, professional men and clergymen. Even John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, played cards. The Rev. Caleb C. Colton was one of the luckiest of gamesters. He was a graduate of Cambridge, and the author of "Lacon, or Many Things in a Few Words." At one time in Paris he won $100,000. He left a large fortune, part of which he employed in forming a picture gallery at Paris. General Scott, the father-in-law of George Canning, made one of the largest winnings ever known. He won at White's one million dollars, owing to his sobriety and knowledge of the game of whist. Who loved his country more than Cato? And yet he was a great gambler. Guido, the painter, and Coquillart, a famous poet, were both inveterate gamblers. The great philosophers Montaigne and Descartes at an early age were seduced by the allurements of gambling. The generality of people throughout the world are of the opinion that gamblers are the worst people on the face of the earth. They are wrong, for I tell you there is ten times more rascality among men outside of the class they call gamblers than there is inside it. Person that the generality of people class as gamblers are only those who play at games of chance with cards. What are the members of the Board of Trade but gamblers? The Board of Trade is just as much a gambling house as a faro bank. Do not the members put up their (and often times other peoples') money on puts, calls, margins, and futures? Do not some poor people have to wait a long time in the "future" before they get back the money some rascal has put up and lost? Talk about the morality of gamblers. They are not thieves and swindlers, and I never heard of one who ever served a term in the penitentiary, or was arrested for embezzling money. GEORGE--"THE BUTTER." "There goes one of the most remarkable men in the country," said a well-known gentleman standing in front of the Gibson House yesterday. The person referred to was a stoutly-built, sandy- whiskered individual of medium size. He is well known to most men about town, and his exploits on Southern rivers might fill a book. It was George H. Devol. "I have known him for thirty-eight years," the gentleman continued, "my acquaintance with him having been strictly in the South. Do you know that physically he was for years one of the best men we had down there?" "No. Never heard that George was a fighter," added the reporter somewhat surprised. "Well, he was, and as good as they made them, too. I never saw him take water in my life, and personally I know that for nineteen years they tried to find a man to whip him. They couldn't do it. He was a terrible rough-and-tumble fighter, and many a tough citizen have I seen him do up. George was a great 'butter.' He could use his head with terrible effect. One night at New Orleans a stevedore tackled him. It was a set-up job. The stevedore was a much larger man, but George got the best of it. During the fight the stevedore's friends stood over George with drawn pistols, threatening to kill him should he do any butting. He can kill any man living, white or black, by butting him. Although over fifty years of age, I don't believe there is a man living who can whip him. New Orleans sporting men will go broke on that." "He made considerable money in the South, didn't he?" "Yes, he has won more money than any sporting man in the country. He had the privileges for years on all boats on the Southern Mississippi. When Ben Butler took possession of New Orleans he confiscated all of George's horses and sent him to jail. That little affair cost George just $50,000. He retaliated, however, for he had not been released two weeks until he beat one of the General's paymasters out of $19,000. It was on the Red River. I see he has settled down and quit sporting, and I am glad of it. Had he never seen a faro bank he would have been an immensely wealthy man thirty years ago. One night before the war I saw him lose $13,000 at one sitting. He left the table without enough money with which to buy a cup of coffee."--_The Cincinnati Enquirer_. 
5163	----	THE CRAIG KENNEDY SERIES GUY GARRICK ARTHUR B. REEVE WITH FRONTISPIECE CONTENTS I. The Stolen Motor II. The Murder Car III. The Mystery of the Thicket IV. The Liquid Bullet V. The Blackmailer VI. The Gambling Den VII. The Motor Bandit VIII. The Explanation IX. The Raid X. The Gambling Debt XI. The Gangster's Garage XII. The Detectaphone XIII. The Incendiary XIV. The Escape XV. The Plot XVI. The Poisoned Needle XVII. The Newspaper Fake XVIII. The Vocaphone XIX. The Eavesdropper Again XX. The Speaking Arc XXI. The Siege of the Bandits XXII. The Man Hunt XXIII. The Police Dog XXIV. The Frame-Up XXV. The Scientific Gunman An Adventure in the New Crime Science CHAPTER I THE STOLEN MOTOR "You are aware, I suppose, Marshall, that there have been considerably over a million dollars' worth of automobiles stolen in this city during the past few months?" asked Guy Garrick one night when I had dropped into his office. "I wasn't aware of the exact extent of the thefts, though of course I knew of their existence," I replied. "What's the matter?" "If you can wait a few moments," he went on, "I think I can promise you a most interesting case--the first big case I've had to test my new knowledge of crime science since I returned from abroad. Have you time for it?" "Time for it?" I echoed. "Garrick, I'd make time for it, if necessary." We sat for several moments, in silence, waiting. I picked up an evening paper. I had already read it, but I looked through it again, to kill time, even reading the society notes. "By Jove, Garrick," I exclaimed as my eye travelled over the page, "newspaper pictures don't usually flatter people, but just look at those eyes! You can fairly see them dance even in the halftone." The picture which had attracted my attention was of Miss Violet Winslow, an heiress to a moderate fortune, a debutante well known in New York and at Tuxedo that season. As Garrick looked over my shoulder his mere tone set me wondering. "She IS stunning," he agreed simply. "Half the younger set are crazy over her." The buzzer on his door recalled us to the case in hand. One of our visitors was a sandy-haired, red-mustached, stocky man, with everything but the name detective written on him from his face to his mannerisms. He was accompanied by an athletically inclined, fresh-faced young fellow, whose clothes proclaimed him to be practically the last word in imported goods from London. I was not surprised at reading the name of James McBirney on the detective's card, underneath which was the title of the Automobile Underwriters' Association. But I was more than surprised when the younger of the visitors handed us a card with the simple name, Mortimer Warrington. For, Mortimer Warrington, I may say, was at that time one of the celebrities of the city, at least as far as the newspapers were concerned. He was one of the richest young men in the country, and good for a "story" almost every day. Warrington was not exactly a wild youth, in spite of the fact that his name appeared so frequently in the headlines. As a matter of fact, the worst that could be said of him with any degree of truth was that he was gifted with a large inheritance of good, red, restless blood, as well as considerable holdings of real estate in various active sections of the metropolis. More than that, it was scarcely his fault if the society columns had been busy in a concerted effort to marry him off--no doubt with a cynical eye on possible black-type headlines of future domestic discord. Among those mentioned by the enterprising society reporters of the papers had been the same Miss Violet Winslow whose picture I had admired. Evidently Garrick had recognized the coincidence. Miss Winslow, by the way, was rather closely guarded by a duenna-like aunt, Mrs. Beekman de Lancey, who at that time had achieved a certain amount of notoriety by a crusade which she had organized against gambling in society. She had reached that age when some women naturally turn toward righting the wrongs of humanity, and, in this instance, as in many others, humanity did not exactly appreciate it. "How are you, McBirney?" greeted Garrick, as he met his old friend, then, turning to young Warrington, added: "Have you had a car stolen?" "Have I?" chimed in the youth eagerly, and with just a trace of nervousness. "Worse than that. I can stand losing a big nine-thousand-dollar Mercedes, but--but--you tell it, McBirney. You have the facts at your tongue's end." Garrick looked questioningly at the detective. "I'm very much afraid," responded McBirney slowly, "that this theft about caps the climax of motor-car stealing in this city. Of course, you realize that the automobile as a means of committing crime and of escape has rendered detection much more difficult to-day than it ever was before." He paused. "There's been a murder done in or with or by that car of Mr. Warrington's, or I'm ready to resign from the profession!" McBirney had risen in the excitement of his revelation, and had handed Garrick what looked like a discharged shell of a cartridge. Garrick took it without a word, and turned it over and over critically, examining every side of it, and waiting for McBirney to resume. McBirney, however, said nothing. "Where did you find the car?" asked Garrick at length, still examining the cartridge. "We haven't found it," replied the detective with a discouraged sigh. "Haven't found it?" repeated Garrick. "Then how did you get this cartridge--or, at least why do you connect it with the disappearance of the car?" "Well," explained McBirney, getting down to the story, "you understand Mr. Warrington's car was insured against theft in a company which is a member of our association. When it was stolen we immediately put in motion the usual machinery for tracing stolen cars." "How about the police?" I queried. McBirney looked at me a moment--I thought pityingly. "With all deference to the police," he answered indulgently, "it is the insurance companies and not the police who get cars back--usually. I suppose it's natural. The man who loses a car notifies us first, and, as we are likely to lose money by it, we don't waste any time getting after the thief." "You have some clew, then?" persisted Garrick. McBirney nodded. "Late this afternoon word came to me that a man, all alone in a car, which, in some respects tallied with the description of Warrington's, although, of course, the license number and color had been altered, had stopped early this morning at a little garage over in the northern part of New Jersey." Warrington, excited, leaned forward and interrupted. "And, Garrick," he exclaimed, horrified, "the car was all stained with blood!" CHAPTER II THE MURDER CAR Garrick looked from one to the other of his visitors intently. Here was an entirely unexpected development in the case which stamped it as set apart from the ordinary. "How did the driver manage to explain it and get away?" he asked quickly. McBirney shook his head in evident disgust at the affair. "He must be a clever one," he pursued thoughtfully. "When he came into the garage they say he was in a rather jovial mood. He said that he had run into a cow a few miles back on the road, and then began to cuss the farmer, who had stung him a hundred dollars for the animal." "And they believed it?" prompted Garrick. "Yes, the garage keeper's assistant swallowed the story and cleaned the car. There was some blood on the radiator and hood, but the strange part was that it was spattered even over the rear seat--in fact, was mostly in the rear." "How did he explain that?" "Said that he guessed the farmer who stung him wouldn't get much for the carcass, for it had been pretty well cut up and a part of it flung right back into the tonneau." "And the man believed that, too?" "Yes; but afterward the garage keeper himself was told. He met the farmer in town later, and the farmer denied that he had lost a cow. That set the garage keeper thinking. And then, while they were cleaning up the garage later in the day, they found that cartridge where the car had been washed down and swept out. We had already advertised a reward for information about the stolen car, and, when he heard of the reward, for there are plenty of people about looking for money in that way, he telephoned in, thinking the story might interest us. It did, for I am convinced that his description of the machine tallies closely with that of Mr. Warrington's." "How about the man who drove it?" cut in Garrick. "That's the unfortunate part of it," replied McBirney, chagrined. "These amateur detectives about the country rarely seem to have any foresight. Of course they could describe how the fellow was dressed, even the make of goggles he wore. But, when it came to telling one feature of his face accurately, they took refuge behind the fact that he kept his cap pulled down over his eyes, and talked like a 'city fellow.'" "All of which is highly important," agreed Garrick. "I suppose they'd consider a fingerprint, or the portrait parle the height of idiocy beside that." "Disgusting," ejaculated McBirney, who, whatever his own limitations might be, had a wholesome respect for Garrick's new methods. "Where did you leave the car?" asked Garrick of Warrington. "How did you lose it?" The young man seemed to hesitate. "I suppose," he said at length, with a sort of resigned smile, "I'll have to make a clean breast of it." "You can hardly expect us to do much, otherwise," encouraged Garrick dryly. "Besides, you can depend on us to keep anything you say confidential." "Why," he began, "the fact is that I had started out for a mild little sort of celebration, apropos of nothing at all in particular, beginning with dinner at the Mephistopheles Restaurant, with a friend of mine. You know the place, perhaps--just on the edge of the automobile district and the white lights." "Yes," encouraged Garrick, "near what ought to be named 'Crime Square.' Whom were you with?" "Well, Angus Forbes and I were going to dine together, and then later we were to meet several fellows who used to belong to the same upperclass club with us at Princeton. We were going to do a little slumming. No ladies, you understand," he added hastily. Garrick smiled. "It may not have been pure sociology," pursued Warrington, good-humouredly noticing the smile, "but it wasn't as bad as some of the newspapers might make it out if they got hold of it, anyhow. I may as well admit, I suppose, that Angus has been going the pace pretty lively since we graduated. I don't object to a little flyer now and then, myself, but I guess I'm not up to his class yet. But that doesn't make any difference. The slumming party never came off." "How?" prompted Garrick again. "Angus and I had a very good dinner at the Mephistopheles--they have a great cabaret there--and by and by the fellows began to drop in to join us. When I went out to look for the car, which I was going to drive myself, it was gone." "Where did you leave it?" asked McBirney, as if bringing out the evidence. "In the parking space half a block below the restaurant. A chauffeur standing near the curb told me that a man in a cap and goggles--" "Another amateur detective," cut in McBirney parenthetically. "--had come out of the restaurant, or seemed to do so, had spun the engine, climbed in, and rode off--just like that!" "What did you do then?" asked Garrick. "Did you fellows go anywhere?" "Oh, Forbes wanted to play the wheel, and went around to a place on Forty-eighth Street. I was all upset about the loss of the car, got in touch with the insurance company, who turned me over to McBirney here, and the rest of the fellows went down to the Club." "There was no trace of the car in the city?" asked Garrick, of the detective. "I was coming to that," replied McBirney. "There was at least a rumour. You see, I happen to know several of the police on fixed posts up there, and one of them has told me that he noticed a car, which might or might not have been Mr. Warrington's, pull up, about the time his car must have disappeared, at a place in Forty-seventh Street which is reputed to be a sort of poolroom for women." Garrick raised his eyebrows the fraction of an inch. "At any rate," pursued McBirney, "someone must have been having a wild time there, for they carried a girl out to the car. She seemed to be pretty far gone and even the air didn't revive her--that is, assuming that she had been celebrating not wisely but too well. Of course, the whole thing is pure speculation yet, as far as Warrington's car is concerned. Maybe it wasn't his car, after all. But I am repeating it only for what it may be worth." "Do you know the place?" asked Garrick, watching Warrington narrowly. "I've heard of it," he admitted, I thought a little evasively. Then it flashed over me that Mrs. de Lancey was leading the crusade against society gambling and that that perhaps accounted for Warrington's fears and evident desire for concealment. "I know that some of the faster ones in the smart set go there once in a while for a little poker, bridge, and even to play the races," went on Warrington carefully. "I've never been there myself, but I wouldn't be surprised if Angus could tell you all about it. He goes in for all that sort of thing." "After all," interrupted McBirney, "that's only rumour. Here's the point of the whole thing. For a long time my Association has been thinking that merely in working for the recovery of the cars we have been making a mistake. It hasn't put a stop to the stealing, and the stealing has gone quite far enough. We have got to do something about it. It struck me that here was a case on which to begin and that you, Garrick, are the one to begin it for us, while I carry on the regular work I am doing. The gang is growing bolder and more clever every day. And then, here's a murder, too, in all likelihood. If we don't round them up, there is no limit to what they may do in terrorizing the city." "How does this gang, as you call it, operate?" asked Garrick. "Most of the cars that are stolen," explained McBirney, "are taken from the automobile district, which embraces also not a small portion of the new Tenderloin and the theatre district. Actually, Garrick, more than nine out of ten cars have disappeared between Forty-second and Seventy-second Streets." Garrick was listening, without comment. "Some of the thefts, like this one of Warrington's car," continued McBirney, warming up to the subject, "have been so bold that you would be astonished. And it is those stolen cars, I believe, that are used in the wave of taxicab and motor car robberies, hold-ups, and other crimes that is sweeping over the city. The cars are taken to some obscure garage, without doubt, and their identity is destroyed by men who are expert in the practice." "And you have no confidence in the police?" I inquired cautiously, mindful of his former manner. "We have frequently had occasion to call on the police for assistance," he answered, "but somehow or other it has seldom worked. They don't seem to be able to help us much. If anything is done, we must do it. If you will take the case, Garrick, I can promise you that the Association will pay you well for it." "I will add whatever is necessary, too," put in Warrington, eagerly. "I can stand the loss of the car--in fact, I don't care whether I ever get it back. I have others. But I can't stand the thought that my car is going about the country as the property of a gunman, perhaps--an engine of murder and destruction." Garrick had been thoughtfully balancing the exploded shell between his fingers during most of the interview. As Warrington concluded, he looked up. "I'll take the case," he said simply. "I think you'll find that there is more to it than even you suspect. Before we get through, I shall get a conviction on that empty shell, too. If there is a gunman back of it all, he is no ordinary fellow, but a scientific gunman, far ahead of anything of which you dream. No, don't thank me for taking the case. My thanks are to you for putting it in my way." CHAPTER III THE MYSTERY OF THE THICKET "You know my ideas on modern detective work," Garrick remarked to me, reflectively, when they had gone. I nodded assent, for we had often discussed the subject. "There must be something new in order to catch criminals, nowadays," he pursued. "The old methods are all right--as far as they go. But while we have been using them, criminals have kept pace with modern science." I had met Garrick several months before on the return trip from abroad, and had found in him a companion spirit. For some years I had been editing a paper which I called "The Scientific World," and it had taxed my health to the point where my physician had told me that I must rest, or at least combine pleasure with business. Thus I had taken the voyage across the ocean to attend the International Electrical Congress in London, and had unexpectedly been thrown in with Guy Garrick, who later seemed destined to play such an important part in my life. Garrick was a detective, young, university bred, of good family, alert, and an interesting personality to me. He had travelled much, especially in London, Paris, Berlin, and Vienna, where he had studied the amazing growth abroad of the new criminal science. Already I knew something, by hearsay, of the men he had seen, Gross, Lacassagne, Reiss, and the now immortal Bertillon. Our acquaintance, therefore, had rapidly ripened into friendship, and on our return, I had formed a habit of dropping in frequently on him of an evening, as I had this night, to smoke a pipe or two and talk over matters of common interest in his profession. He had paused a moment in what he was saying, but now resumed, less reflectively, "Fortunately, Marshall, the crime-hunters have gone ahead faster than the criminals. Now, it's my job to catch criminals. Yours, it seems to me, is to show people how they can never hope to beat the modern scientific detective. Let's strike a bargain." I was flattered by his confidence. More than that, the idea appealed to me, in fact was exactly in line with some plans I had already made for the "World," since our first acquaintance. And so it came about that the case brought to him by McBirney and young Warrington was responsible for clearing our ideas as to our mutual relationship and thus forming this strange partnership that has existed ever since. "Tom," he remarked, as we left the office quite late, after he had arranged affairs as if he expected to have no time to devote to his other work for several days, "come along and stay with me at my apartment to-night. It's too late to do anything now until to-morrow." I accepted his invitation without demur, for I knew that he meant it, but I doubt whether he slept much during the night. Certainly he was up and about early enough the following morning. "That's curious," I heard him remark, as he ran his eye hastily over the first page of the morning paper, "but I rather expected something of the sort. Read that in the first column, Tom." The story that he indicated had all the marks of having been dropped into place at the last moment as the city edition went to press in the small hours of the night. It was headed: GIRL'S BODY FOUND IN THICKET The despatch was from a little town in New Jersey, and, when I saw the date line, it at once suggested to me, as it had to Guy, that this was in the vicinity that must have been traversed in order to reach the point from which had come the report of the bloody car that had seemed to tally with the description of that which Warrington had lost. It read: "Hidden in the underbrush, not ten feet from one of the most travelled automobile roads in this section of the state, the body of a murdered girl was discovered late yesterday afternoon by a gang of Italian labourers employed on an estate nearby. "Suspicion was at first directed by the local authorities at the labourers, but the manner of the finding of the body renders it improbable. Most of them are housed in some rough shacks up the road toward Tuxedo and were able to prove themselves of good character. Indeed, the trampled condition of the thicket plainly indicates, according to the local coroner, that the girl was brought there, probably already dead, in an automobile which drew up off the road as far as possible. The body then must have been thrown where it would be screened from sight by the thick growth of trees and shrubbery. "There was only one wound, in the chest. It is, however, a most peculiar wound, and shows that a terrific force must have been exerted in order to make it. A blow could hardly have accomplished it, so jagged were its edges, and if the girl had been struck by a passing high-speed car, as was at first suggested, there is no way to account for the entire lack of other wounds which must naturally have been inflicted by such an accident. "Neither is the wound exactly like a pistol or gunshot wound, for, curiously enough, there was no mark showing the exit of a bullet, nor was any bullet found in the body after the most careful examination. The local authorities are completely mystified at the possible problems that may arise out of the case, especially as to the manner in which the unfortunate girl met her death. "Until a late hour the body, which is of a girl perhaps twenty-three or four, of medium height, fair, good looking, and stylishly dressed, was still unidentified. She was unknown in this part of the country." Almost before I had finished reading, Garrick had his hat and coat on and had shoved into his pocket a little detective camera. "Strange about the bullet," I ruminated. "I wonder who she can be?" "Very strange," agreed Garrick, urging me on. "I think we ought to investigate the case." As we hurried along to a restaurant for a bite of breakfast, he remarked, "The circumstances of the thing, coming so closely after the report about Warrington's car, are very suspicious--very. I feel sure that we shall find some connection between the two affairs." Accordingly, we caught an early train and at the nearest railroad station to the town mentioned in the despatch engaged a hackman who knew the coroner, a local doctor. The coroner was glad to assist us, though we were careful not to tell him too much of our own connection with the case. On the way over to the village undertaker's where the body had been moved, he volunteered the information that the New York police, whom he had notified immediately, had already sent a man up there, who had taken a description of the girl and finger prints, but had not, so far at least, succeeded in identifying the girl, at any rate on any of the lists of those reported missing. "You see," remarked Garrick to me, "that is where the police have us at a disadvantage. They have organization on their side. A good many detectives make the mistake of antagonizing the police. But if you want results, that's fatal." "Yes," I agreed, "it's impossible, just as it is to antagonize the newspapers." "Exactly," returned Garrick. "My idea of the thing, Marshall, is that I should work with, not against, the regular detectives. They are all right, in fact indispensable. Half the secret of success nowadays is efficiency and organization. What I do believe is that organization plus science is what is necessary." The local undertaking establishment was rather poorly equipped to take the place of a morgue and the authorities were making preparations to move the body to the nearest large city pending the disposal of the case. Local detectives had set to work, but so far had turned up nothing, not even the report which we had already received from McBirney regarding the blood-stained car that resembled Warrington's. We arrived with the coroner fortunately just before the removal of the body to the city and by his courtesy were able to see it without any trouble. Death, and especially violent death, are at best grewsome subjects, but when to that are added the sordid surroundings of a country undertaker's and the fact that the victim is a woman, it all becomes doubly tragic. She was a rather flashily dressed girl, but remarkably good looking, in spite of the rouge and powder which had long since spoiled what might otherwise have been a clear and fine complexion. The roots of her hair showed plainly that it had been bleached. Garrick examined the body closely, and more especially the jagged wound in the breast. I bent over also. It seemed utterly inexplicable. There was, he soon discovered, a sort of greasy, oleaginous deposit in the clotted blood of the huge cavity in the flesh. It interested him, and he studied it carefully for a long time, without saying a word. "Some have said she was wounded by some kind of blunt instrument," put in the coroner. "Others that she was struck by a car. But it's my opinion that she was killed by a rifle bullet of some kind, although what could have become of the bullet is beyond me. I've probed for it, but it isn't there." Garrick finished his minute examination of the wound without passing any comment on it of his own. "Now, if you will be kind enough to take us around to the place where the body was discovered," he concluded, "I think we shall not trespass on your time further." In his own car, the coroner drove us up the road in the direction of the New York state boundary to the spot where the body had been found. It was a fine, well-oiled road and I noticed the number and high quality of the cars which passed us. When we arrived at the spot where the body of the unfortunate girl had been discovered, Garrick began a minute search. I do not think for a moment that he expected to find any weapon, or even the trace of one. It seemed hopeless also to attempt to pick out any of the footprints. The earth was soft and even muddy, but so many feet had trodden it down since the first alarm had been given that it would have been impossible to extricate one set of footprints from another, much less to tell whether any of them had been made by the perpetrators of the crime. Still, there seemed to be something in the mud, just off the side of the road, that did interest Garrick. Very carefully, so as not to destroy anything himself which more careless searchers might have left, he began a minute study of the ground. Apparently he was rewarded, for, although he said nothing, he took a hasty glance at the direction of the sun, up-ended the camera he had brought, and began to photograph the ground itself, or rather some curious marks on it which I could barely distinguish. The coroner and I looked on without saying a word. He, at least, I am sure, thought that Garrick had suddenly taken leave of his senses. That concluded Garrick's investigation, and, after thanking the coroner, who had gone out of his way to accommodate us, we started back to town. "Well," I remarked, as we settled ourselves for the tedious ride into the city in the suburban train, "we don't seem to have added much to the sum of human knowledge by this trip." "Oh, yes, we have," he returned, almost cheerfully, patting the black camera which he had folded and slipped into his pocket. "We'll just preserve the records which I have here. Did you notice what it was that I photographed?" "I saw something," I replied, "but I couldn't tell you what it was." "Well," he explained slowly as I opened my eyes wide in amazement at the minuteness of his researches, "those were the marks of the tire of an automobile that had been run up into the bushes from the road. You know every automobile tire leaves its own distinctive mark, its thumb print, as it were. When I have developed my films, you will see that the marks that have been left there are precisely like those left by the make of tires used on Warrington's car, according to the advertisement sent out by McBirney. Of course, that mere fact alone doesn't prove anything. Many cars may use that make of tires. Still, it is an interesting coincidence, and if the make had been different I should not feel half so encouraged about going ahead with this clew. We can't say anything definite, however, until I can compare the actual marks made by the tires on the stolen car with these marks which I have photographed and preserved." If any one other than Garrick had conceived such a notion as the "thumb print" of an automobile tire, I might possibly have ventured to doubt it. As it was it gave food enough for thought to last the remainder of the journey back to town. CHAPTER IV THE LIQUID BULLET On our return to the city, I was not surprised after our conversation over in New Jersey to find that Garrick had decided on visiting police headquarters. It was, of course, Commissioner Dillon, one of the deputies, whom he wanted to see. I had met Dillon myself some time before in connection with my study of the finger print system, and consequently needed no second introduction. In his office on the second floor, the Commissioner greeted us cordially in his bluff and honest voice which both of us came to know and like so well later. Garrick had met him often and the cordiality of their relations was well testified to by Dillon's greeting. "I thought you'd be here before long," he beamed on Garrick, as he led us into an inner sanctum. "Did you read in the papers this morning about that murder of a girl whose body was found up in New Jersey in the underbrush?" "Not only that, but I've picked up a few things that your man overlooked," confided Garrick. Dillon looked at him sharply for a moment. "Say," he said frankly, "that's one of the things I like about you, Garrick. You're on the job. Also, you're on the square. You don't go gumshoeing it around behind a fellow's back, and talking the same way. You play fair. Now, look here. Haven't I always played fair with you, Garrick?" "Yes, Dillon," agreed Garrick, "you have always played fair. But what's the idea?" "You came up here for information, didn't you?" persisted the commissioner. Garrick nodded. "Well do you know who that girl was who was murdered?" he asked leaning forward. "No," admitted Garrick. "Of course not," asserted Dillon triumphantly. "We haven't given it out yet--and I don't know as we shall." "No," pursued Garrick, "I don't know and I'll admit that I'd like to know. My position is, as it always has been, that we shouldn't work at cross purposes. I have drawn my own conclusions on the case and, to put it bluntly, it seemed to me clear that she was of the demi-monde." "She was--in a sense," vouchsafed the commissioner. "Now," he added, leaning forward impressively, "I'm going to tell you something. That girl--was one of the best stool pigeons we have ever had." Both Garrick and I were listening intently at, the surprising revelation of the commissioner. He was pacing up and down, now, evidently much excited. "As for me," he continued, "I hate the stool pigeon method as much as anyone can. I don't like it. I don't relish the idea of being in partnership with crooks in any degree. I hate an informer who worms himself or herself into a person's friendship for the purpose of betraying it. But the system is here. I didn't start it and I can't change it. As long as it's here I must accept it and do business under it. And, that being the case, I can't afford to let matters like this killing pass without getting revenge, swift and sure. You understand? Someone's going to suffer for the killing of that girl, not only because it was a brutal murder, but because the department has got to make an example or no one whom we employ is safe." Dillon was shouldering his burly form up and down the office in his excitement. He paused in front of us, to proceed. "I've got one of my best men on the case now--Inspector Herman. I'll introduce you to him, if he happens to be around. Herman's all right. But here you come in, Garrick, and tell me you picked up something that my man missed up there in Jersey. I know it's the truth, too. I've worked with you and seen enough of you to know that you wouldn't say a thing like that as a bluff to me." Dillon was evidently debating something in his mind. "Herman'll have to stand it," he went on, half to himself. "I don't care whether he gets jealous or not." He paused and looked Garrick squarely in the eye, as he led up to his proposal. "Garrick," he said slowly, "I'd like to have you take up the case for us, too. I've heard already that you are working on the automobile cases. You see, I have ways of getting information myself. We're not so helpless as your friend McBirney, maybe, thinks." He faced us and it was almost as if he read our minds. "For instance," he proceeded, "it may interest you to know that we have just planned a new method to recover stolen automobiles and apprehend the thieves. A census of all cars in the questionable garages of the city has been taken, and each day every policeman is furnished with descriptions of cars stolen in the past twenty-four hours. The policeman then is supposed to inspect the garages in his district and if he finds a machine that shouldn't be there, according to the census, he sees to it that it isn't removed from the place until it is identified. The description of this Warrington car has gone out with extra special orders, and if it's in New York I think we'll find it." "I think you'll find," remarked Garrick quietly, "that this machine of Warrington's isn't in the city, at all." "I hardly think it is, myself," agreed Dillon. "Whoever it was who took it is probably posted about our new scheme. That's not the point I was driving at. You see, Garrick, our trails cross in these cases in a number of ways. Now, I have a little secret fund at my disposal. In so far as the affair involved the murder of that girl--and I'm convinced that it does--will you consider that you are working for the city, too? The whole thing dovetails. You don't have to neglect one client to serve another. I'll do anything I can to help you with the auto cases. In fact, you'll do better by both clients by joining the cases." "Dillon," answered Garrick quickly, "you've always been on the level with me. I can trust you. Consider that it is a bargain. We'll work together. Now, who was the girl?" "Her name was Rena Taylor," replied Dillon, apparently much gratified at the success of his proposal. "I had her at work getting evidence against a ladies' poolroom in Forty-seventh Street--an elusive place that we've never been able to 'get right.'" Garrick shot a quick glance at me. Evidently we were on the right trail, anyhow. "I don't know yet just what happened," continued Dillon, "but I do know that she had the goods on it. As nearly as I can find out, a stranger came to the place well introduced, a man, accompanied by a woman. They got into some of the games. The man seems to have excused himself. Apparently he found Rena Taylor alone in a room in some part of the house. No one heard a pistol shot, but then I think they would lie about that, all right." Dillon paused. "The strange thing is, however," he resumed, "that we haven't been able to find in the house a particle of evidence that a murder or violence of any kind has been done. One fact is established, though, incontrovertibly. Rena Taylor disappeared from that gambling house the same night and about the same time that Warrington's car disappeared. Then we find her dead over in New Jersey." "And I find reports and traces that the car has been in the vicinity," added Garrick. "You see," beamed Dillon, "that's how we work together. Say you MUST meet Herman." He rang a bell and a blue-coated man opened the door. "Call Herman, Jim," he said, then, as the man disappeared, he went on to us, "I have given Herman carte-blanche instructions to conduct a thorough investigation. He has been getting the goods on another swell joint on the next street, in Forty-eighth, a joint that is just feeding on young millionaires in this town, and is or will be the cause of more crime and broken hearts if I don't land it and break it up than any such place has been for years." The door opened, and Dillon said, "Herman, shake hands with Mr. Garrick and Mr. Marshall." The detective was a quiet, gentlemanly sort of fellow who looked rugged and strong, a fighter to be respected. In fact I would much rather have had a man like him with us than against us. I knew Garrick's aversion to the regular detective and was not surprised that he did not overwhelm Mr. Herman by the cordiality of his greeting. Garrick always played a lone hand, preferred it and had taken Dillon into his confidence only because of his official position and authority. "These gentlemen are going to work independently on that Rena Taylor case," explained Dillon. "I want you to give Mr. Garrick every assistance, Herman." Garrick nodded with a show of cordiality and Herman replied in about the same spirit. I could not fancy our getting very much assistance from the regular detective force, with the exception of Dillon. And I noticed, also, that Garrick was not volunteering any information except what was necessary in good faith. Already I began to wonder how this peculiar bargain would turn out. "Just who and what was Rena Taylor?" asked Garrick finally. Inspector Herman shot a covert glance at Dillon before replying and the commissioner hastened to reassure him, "I have told Mr. Garrick that she was one of our best stool pigeons and had been working on the gambling cases." Like all detectives on a case, Herman was averse to parting with any information, and I felt that it was natural, for if he succeeded in working it out human nature was not such as to willingly share the glory. "Oh," he replied airily, "she was a girl who had knocked about considerably in the Tenderloin. I don't know just what her story was, but I suppose there was some fellow who got her to come to New York and then left her in the lurch. She wasn't a New Yorker. She seems to have drifted from one thing to another--until finally in order to get money she came down and offered her services to the police, in this gambling war." Herman had answered the question, but when I examined the answer I found it contained precious little. Perhaps it was indeed all he knew, for, although Garrick put several other questions to him and he answered quite readily and with apparent openness, there was very little more that we learned. "Yes," concluded Herman, "someone cooked her, all right. They don't take long to square things with anyone who raps to the 'bulls.'" "That's right," agreed Garrick. "And the underworld isn't alone in that feeling. No one likes a 'snitch.'" "Bet your life," emphasized Herman heartily, then edging toward the door, he said, "Well, gentlemen, I'm glad to meet you and I'll work with you. I wish you success, all right. It's a hard case. Why, there wasn't any trace of a murder or violence in that place in which Rena Taylor must have been murdered. I suppose you have heard that there wasn't any bullet found in the body, either?" "Yes," answered Garrick, "so far it does look inexplicable." Inspector Herman withdrew. One could see that he had little faith in these "amateur" detectives. A telephone message for Dillon about another departmental matter terminated our interview and we went our several ways. "Much help I've ever got from a regular detective like Herman," remarked Garrick, phrasing my own idea of the matter, as we paid the fare of our cab a few minutes later and entered his office. "Yes," I agreed. "Why, he's even stumped at the start by the mystery of there being no bullet. I'm glad you said nothing about the cartridge, although I can't see for the life of me what good it is to us." I had ventured the remark, hoping to entice Garrick into talking. It worked, at least as far as Garrick wanted to talk yet. "You'll see about the cartridge soon enough, Tom," he rejoined. "As for there being no bullet, there was a bullet--only it was of a kind you never dreamed of before." He regarded me contemplatively for a moment, then leaned over and in a voice full of meaning, concluded, "That bullet was composed of something soft or liquid, probably confined in some kind of thin capsule. It mushroomed out like a dumdum bullet. It was deadly. But the chief advantage was that the heat that remained in Rena Taylor's body melted all evidence of the bullet. That was what caused that greasy, oleaginous appearance of the wound. The murderer thought he left no trail in the bullet in the corpse. In other words, it was practically a liquid bullet." CHAPTER V THE BLACKMAILER It was late in the afternoon, while Garrick was still busy with a high-powered microscope, making innumerable micro-photographs, when the door of the office opened softly and a young lady entered. As she advanced timidly to us, we could see that she was tall and gave promise of developing with years into a stately woman--a pronounced brunette, with sparkling black eyes. I had not met her before, yet somehow I could not escape the feeling that she was familiar to me. It was not until she spoke that I realized that it was the eyes, not the face, which I recognized. "You are Mr. Garrick?" she asked of Guy in a soft, purring voice which, I felt, masked a woman who would fight to the end for anyone or anything she really loved. Then, before Guy could answer, she explained, "I am Miss Violet Winslow. A friend of mine, Mr. Warrington, has told me that you are investigating a peculiar case for him--the strange loss of his car." Garrick hastened to place a chair for her in the least cluttered and dusty part of the room. There she sat, looking up at him earnestly, a dainty contrast to the den in which Garrick was working out the capture of criminals, violent and vicious. "I have the honor to be able to say, 'Yes' to all that you have asked, Miss Winslow," he replied. "Is there any way in which I can be of service to you?" I thought a smile played over his face at the thought that perhaps she might have come to ask him to work for three clients instead of two. At any rate, the girl was very much excited and very much in earnest, as she opened her handbag and drew from it a letter which she handed to Garrick. "I received that letter," she explained, speaking rapidly, "in the noon mail to-day. I don't know what to make of it. It worries me to get such a thing. What do you suppose it was sent to me for? Who could have sent it?" She was leaning forward artlessly on her crossed knee looking expectantly up into Garrick's face, oblivious to everything else, even her own enticing beauty. There was something so simple and sincere about Violet Winslow that one felt instinctively that nothing was too great a price to shield her from the sordid and the evil in the world. Yet something had happened that had brought her already into the office of a detective. Garrick had glanced quickly at the outside of the slit envelope. The postmark showed that it had been mailed early that morning at the general post office and that there was slight chance of tracing anything in that direction. Then he opened it and read. The writing was in a bold scrawl and hastily executed: You have heard, no doubt, of the alleged loss of an automobile by Mr. Mortimer Warrington. I have seen your name mentioned in the society columns of the newspapers in connection with him several times lately. Let a disinterested person whom you do not know warn you in time. There is more back of it than he will care to tell. I can say nothing of the nefarious uses to which that car has been put, but you will learn more shortly. Meanwhile, let me inform you that he and some of the wilder of his set had that night planned a visit to a gambling house on Forty-eighth Street. I myself saw the car standing before another gambling den on Forty-seventh Street about the same time. This place, I may as well inform you, bears an unsavory reputation as a gambling joint to which young ladies of the fastest character are admitted. If you will ask someone in whom you have confidence and whom you can ask to work secretly for you to look up the records, you will find that much of the property on these two blocks, and these two places in particular, belongs to the Warrington estate. Need I say more? The letter was without superscription or date and was signed merely with the words, "A Well-Wisher." The innuendo of the thing was apparent. "Of course," she remarked, as Garrick finished reading, and before he could speak, "I know there is something back of it. Some person is trying to injure Mortimer. Still---" She did not finish the sentence. It was evident that the "well-wisher" need not have said more in order to sow the seeds of doubt. As I watched her narrowly, I fancied also that from her tone the newspapers had not been wholly wrong in mentioning their names together recently. "I hadn't intended to say anything more than to explain how I got the letter," she went on wistfully. "I thought that perhaps you might be interested in it." She paused and studied the toe of her dainty boot. "And, of course," she murmured, "I know that Mr. Warrington isn't dependent for his income on the rent that comes in from such places. But--but I wish just the same that it wasn't true. I tried to call him up about the letter, but he wasn't at the office of the Warrington estate, and no one seemed to know just where he was." She kept her eyes downcast as though afraid to betray just what she felt. "You will leave this with me?" asked Garrick, still scrutinizing the letter. "Certainly," she replied. "That is what I brought it for. I thought it was only fair that he should know about it." Garrick regarded her keenly for a moment. "I am sure, Miss Winslow," he said, "that Mr. Warrington will thank you for your frankness. More than that, I feel sure that you need have no cause to worry about the insinuations of this letter. Don't judge harshly until you have heard his side. There's a good deal of graft and vice talk flying around loose these days. Miss Winslow, you may depend on me to dig the truth out and not deceive you." "Thank you so much," she said, as she rose to go; then, in a burst of confidence, added, "Of course, after all, I don't care so much about it myself--but, you know, my aunt--is so dreadfully prim and proper that she couldn't forgive a thing like this. She'd never let Mr. Warrington call on me again." Violet stopped and bit her lip. She had evidently not intended to say as much as that. But having once said it, she did not seem to wish to recall the words, either. "There, now," she smiled, "don't you even hint to him that that was one of the reasons I called." Garrick had risen and was standing beside her, looking down earnestly into her upturned face. "I think I understand, Miss Winslow," he said in a low voice, rapidly. "I cannot tell you all--yet. But I can promise you that even if all were told--the truth, I mean--your faith in Warrington would be justified." He leaned over. "Trust me," he said simply. As she placed her small hand in Garrick's, she looked up into his face, and with suppressed emotion, answered, "Thank you--I--I will." Then, with a quick gathering of her skirts, she turned and almost fled from the room. She had scarcely closed the door before Garrick was telephoning anxiously all over the city in order to get in touch with Warrington himself. "I'm not going to tell him too much about her visit," he remarked, with a pleased smile at the outcome of the interview, though his face clouded as his eye fell again on the blackmailing letter, lying before him. "It might make him think too highly of himself. Besides, I want to see, too, whether he has told us the whole truth about the affair that night." Somehow or other it seemed impossible to find Warrington in any of his usual haunts, either at his office or at his club. Garrick had given it up, almost, as a bad job, when, half an hour later, Warrington himself burst in on us, apparently expecting more news about his car. Instead, Garrick handed him the letter. "Say," he demanded as he ran through it with puckered face, then slapped it down on the table before Guy, in a high state of excitement, "what do you make of that?" He looked from one to the other of us blankly. "Isn't it bad enough to lose a car without being slandered about it into the bargain?" he asked heatedly, then adding in disgust, "And to do it in such an underhand way, writing to a girl like Violet, and never giving me a chance to square myself. If I could get my hands on that fellow," he added viciously, "I'd qualify him for the coroner!" Warrington had flown into a towering and quite justifiable rage. Garrick, however, ignored his anger as natural under the circumstances, and was about to ask him a question. "Just a moment, Garrick," forestalled Warrington. "I know just what you are going to say. You are going to ask me about those gambling places. Now, Garrick, I give you my word of honor that I did not know until to-day that the property in that neighborhood was owned by our estate. I have been in that joint on Forty-eighth Street--I'll admit that. But, you know, I'm no gambler. I've gone simply to see the life, and--well, it has no attraction for me. Racing cars and motorboats don't go with poker chips and the red and black--not with me. As for the other place, I don't know any more about it than--than you do," he concluded vehemently. Warrington faced Garrick, his steel-blue eye unwavering. "You see, it's like this," he resumed passionately, "since this vice investigation began, I have read a lot about landlords. Then, too," he interjected with a mock wry face, "I knew that Violet's Aunt Emma had been a crusader or something of the sort. You see, virtue is NOT its own reward. I don't get credit even for what I intended to do--quite the contrary." "How's that?" asked Garrick, respecting the young man's temper. "Why, it just occurred to me lately to go scouting around the city, looking at the Warrington holdings, making some personal inquiries as to the conditions of the leases, the character of the tenants, and the uses to which they put the properties. The police have compiled a list of all the questionable places in the city and I have compared it with the list of our properties. I hadn't come to this one yet. But I shall call up our agent, make him admit it, and cancel that lease. I'll close 'em up. I'll fight until every---" "No," interrupted Garrick, quickly, "no--not yet. Don't make any move yet. I want to find out what the game is. It may be that it is someone who has tried and failed to get your tenant to come across with graft money. If we act without finding out first, we might be playing into the hands of this blackmailer." Garrick had been holding the letter in his hand, examining it critically. While he was speaking, he had taken a toothpick and was running it hastily over the words, carefully studying them. His face was wrinkled, as if he were in deep thought. Without saying anything more, Garrick walked over to the windows and pulled down the dark shades. Then he unrolled a huge white sheet at one end of the office. From a corner he drew out what looked like a flat-topped stand, about the height of his waist, with a curious box-like arrangement on it, in which was a powerful light. For several minutes, he occupied himself with the adjustment of this machine, switching the light off and on and focussing the lenses. Then he took the letter to Miss Winslow, laid it flat on the machine, switched on the light and immediately on the sheet appeared a very enlarged copy of the writing. "This is what has been called a rayograph by a detective of my acquaintance," explained Garrick. "In some ways it is much superior to using a microscope." He was tracing over the words with a pointer, much as he had already done with the toothpick. "Now, you must know," he continued, "or you may not know, but it is a well-proved fact, that those who suffer from various affections of the nerves or heart often betray the fact in their handwriting. Of course, in cases where the disease has progressed very far it may be evident to the naked eye even in the ordinary handwriting. But, it is there, to the eye of the expert, even in incipient cases. "In short," he continued, engrossed in his subject, "what really happens is that the pen acts as a sort of sphygmograph, registering the pulsations. I think you can readily see that when the writing is thrown on a screen, enlarged by the rayograph, the tremors of the pen are quite apparent." I studied the writing, following his pointer as it went over the lines and I began to understand vaguely what he was driving at. "The writer of that blackmailing letter," continued Garrick, "as I have discovered both by hastily running over it with a tooth-pick and, more accurately, by enlarging and studying it with the rayograph, is suffering from a peculiar conjunction of nervous trouble and disease of the heart which is latent and has not yet manifested itself, even to him." Garrick studied the writing, then added, thoughtfully, "if I knew him, I might warn him in time." "A fellow like that needs only the warning of a club or of a good pair of fists," growled Warrington, impatiently. "How are you going to work to find him?" "Well," reasoned Garrick, rolling up the sheet and restoring the room to its usual condition, "for one thing, the letter makes it pretty evident that he knows something about the gambling joint, perhaps is one of the regular habitues of the place. That was why I didn't want you to take any steps to close up the place immediately. I want to go there and look it over while it is in operation. Now, you admit that you have been in the place, don't you?" "Oh, yes," he replied, "I've been there with Forbes and the other fellows, but as I told you, I don't go in for that sort of thing." "Well," persisted Garrick, "you are sufficiently known, any way, to get in again." "Certainly. I can get in again. The man at the door will let me in--and a couple of friends, too, if that's what you mean." "That is exactly what I mean," returned Garrick. "It's no use to go early. I want to see the place in full blast, just as the after-theatre crowd is coming in. Suppose you meet us, Warrington, about half past ten or so. We can get in. They don't know anything yet about your intention to cancel the lease and close up the place, although apparently someone suspects it, or he wouldn't have been so anxious to get that letter off to Miss Winslow." "Very well," agreed Warrington, "I will meet you at the north end of 'Crime Square,' as you call it, at that time. Good luck until then." "Not a bad fellow, at all," commented Garrick when Warrington had disappeared down the hall from the office. "I believe he means to do the square thing by every one. It's a shame he has been dragged into a mess like this, that may affect him in ways that he doesn't suspect. Oh, well, there is nothing we can do for the present. I'll just add this clew of the handwriting to the clew of the automobile tires against the day when we get--pshaw!--he has taken the letter with him. I suppose it is safe enough in his possession, though. He can't wait until he has proved to Violet that he is honest. I don't blame him much. I told you, you know, that the younger set are just crazy over Violet Winslow." CHAPTER VI THE GAMBLING DEN In spite of the agitation that was going on at the time in the city against gambling, we had no trouble in being admitted to the place in Forty-eighth Street. They seemed to recognise Warrington, for no sooner had the lookout at the door peered through a little grating and seen him than the light woodwork affair was opened. To me, with even my slender knowledge of such matters, it had seemed rather remarkable that only such a door should guard a place that was so notorious. Once inside, however, the reason was apparent. It didn't. On the outside there was merely such a door as not to distinguish the house, a three-story and basement dwelling, of old brownstone, from the others in the street. As the outside door shut quickly, we found ourselves in a sort of vestibule confronted by another door. Between the two the lookout had his station. The second door was of the "ice-box" variety, as it was popularly called at the time, of heavy oak, studded with ax-defying bolts, swung on delicately balanced and oiled hinges, carefully concealed, about as impregnable as a door of steel might be. There were, as we found later, some steel doors inside, leading to the roof and cellar, though not so thick. The windows were carefully guarded inside by immense steel bars. The approaches from the back were covered with a steel network and every staircase was guarded by a collapsible door. There seemed to be no point of attack that had been left unguarded. Yet, unless one had been like ourselves looking for these fortifications, they would not have appeared much in evidence in the face of the wealth of artistic furnishings that was lavished on every hand. Inside the great entrance door was a sort of marble reception hall, richly furnished, and giving anything but the impression of a gambling house. As a matter of fact, the first floor was pretty much of a blind. The gambling was all upstairs. We turned to a beautiful staircase of carved wood, and ascended. Everywhere were thick rugs into which the feet sank almost ankle deep. On the walls were pictures that must have cost a small fortune. The furniture was of the costliest; there were splendid bronzes and objects of art on every hand. Gambling was going on in several rooms that we passed, but the main room was on the second floor, a large room reconstructed in the old house, with a lofty ceiling and exquisitely carved trim. Concealed in huge vases were the lights, a new system, then, which shed its rays in every direction without seeming to cast a shadow anywhere. The room was apparently windowless, and yet, though everyone was smoking furiously, the ventilation must have been perfect. There was, apparently, a full-fledged poolroom in one part of the house, closed now, of course, as the races for the day were run. But I could imagine it doing a fine business in the afternoon. There were many other games now in progress, games of every description, from poker to faro, keno, klondike, and roulette. There was nothing of either high or low degree with which the venturesome might not be accommodated. As Warrington conducted us from one room to another, Garrick noted each carefully. Along the middle of the large room stretched a roulette table. We stopped to watch it. "Crooked as it can be," was Garrick's comment after watching it for five minutes or so. He had not said it aloud, naturally, for even the crowd in evening clothes about it, who had lost or would lose, would have resented such an imputation. For the most part there was a solemn quiet about the board, broken only by the rattle of the ball and the click of chips. There was an absence of the clink of gold pieces that one hears as the croupier rakes them in at the casinos on the continent. Nor did there seem to be the tense faces that one might expect. Often there was the glint of an eye, or a quick and muffled curse, but for the most part everyone, no matter how great a loser, seemed respectable and prosperous. The tragedies, as we came to know, were elsewhere. We sauntered into another room where they were playing keno. Keno was, we soon found, a development or an outgrowth of lotto, in which cards were sold to the players, bearing numbers which were covered with buttons, as in lotto. The game was won when a row was full after drawing forth the numbers on little balls from a "goose." "Like the roulette wheel," said Garrick grimly, "the 'goose' is crooked, and if I had time I could show you how it is done." We passed by the hazard boards as too complicated for the limited time at our disposal. It was, however, the roulette table which seemed to interest Garrick most, partly for the reason that most of the players flocked about it. The crowd around the table on the second floor was several deep, now. Among those who were playing I noticed a new face. It was of a tall, young man much the worse, apparently, for the supposed good time he had had already. The game seemed to have sobered him up a bit, for he was keen as to mind, now, although a trifle shaky as to legs. He glanced up momentarily from his close following of the play as we approached. "Hello, W.," he remarked, as he caught sight of our young companion. A moment later he had gone back to the game as keen as ever. "Hello, F.," greeted Warrington. Then, aside to us, he added, "You know they don't use names now in gambling places if they can help it. Initials do just as well. That is Forbes, of whom I told you. He's a young fellow of good family--but I am afraid he is going pretty much to the bad, or will go, if he doesn't quit soon. I wish I could stop him. He's a nice chap. I knew him well at college and we have chummed about a great deal. He's here too much of the time for his own good." The thing was fascinating, I must admit, no matter what the morals of it were. I became so engrossed that I did not notice a man standing opposite us. I was surprised when he edged over towards us slowly, then whispered to Garrick, "Meet me downstairs in the grill in five minutes, and have a bite to eat. I have something important to say. Only, be careful and don't get me 'in Dutch' here." The man had a sort of familiar look and his slang certainly reminded me of someone we had met. "Who was it?" I inquired under my breath, as he disappeared among the players. "Didn't you recognize him?" queried Garrick. "Why, that was Herman, Dillon's man,--the fellow, you know, who is investigating this place." I had not recognized the detective in evening clothes. Indeed, I felt that unless he were known here already his disguise was perfect. Garrick managed to leave Warrington for a time under the pretext that he wanted him to keep an eye on Forbes while we explored the place further. We walked leisurely down the handsome staircase into the grill and luncheon room downstairs. "Well, have you found out anything?" asked a voice behind us. We turned. It was Herman who had joined us. Without pausing for an answer he added, "I suppose you are aware of the character of this place? It looks fine, but the games are all crooked, and I guess there are some pretty desperate characters here, from all accounts. I shouldn't like to fall afoul of any of them, if I were you." "Oh, no," replied Garrick, "it wouldn't be pleasant. But we came in well introduced, and I don't believe anyone suspects." Several others, talking and laughing loudly to cover their chagrin over losses, perhaps, entered the buffet. With the gratuitous promise to stand by us in trouble of any kind, Herman excused himself, and returned to watch the play about the roulette table. Garrick and I leisurely finished the little bite of salad we had ordered, then strolled upstairs again. The play was becoming more and more furious. Forbes was losing again, but was sticking to it with a grim determination that was worthy of a better cause. Warrington had already made one attempt to get him away but had not succeeded. "Well," remarked Garrick, as we three made our way slowly to the coatroom downstairs, "I think we have seen enough of this for to-night. It isn't so very late, after all. I wonder if it would be possible to get into that ladies' poolroom on the next street? I should like to see that place." "Angus could get us in, if anyone could," replied Warrington thoughtfully. "Wait here a minute. I'll see if I can get him away from the wheel long enough." Five minutes later he came back, with Forbes in tow. He shook hands with us cordially, in fact a little effusively. Perhaps I might have liked the young fellow if I could have taken him in hand for a month or two, and knocked some of the silly ideas he had out of his head. Forbes called a taxicab, a taxicab apparently being the open sesame. One might have gone afoot and have looked ever so much like a "good thing" and he would not have been admitted. But such is the simplicity of the sophistication of the keepers of such places that a motor car opens all locks and bolts. It seemed to be a peculiar place and as nearly as I could make out was in a house almost in the rear of the one we had just come from. We were politely admitted by a negro maid, who offered to take our coats. "No," answered Forbes, apparently with an eye to getting out as quickly as possible, "we won't stay long tonight. I just came around to introduce my friends to Miss Lottie. I must get back right away." For some reason or other he seemed very anxious to leave us. I surmised that the gambling fever was running high and that he had hopes of a change of luck. At any rate, he was gone, and we had obtained admittance to the ladies' pool room. We strolled into one of the rooms in which the play was on. The game was at its height, with huge stacks of chips upon the tables and the players chatting gayly. There was no large crowd there, however. Indeed, as we found afterward, it was really in the afternoon that it was most crowded, for it was rather a poolroom than a gambling joint, although we gathered from the gossip that some stiff games of bridge were played there. Both men and women were seated at the poker game that was in progress before the little green table. The women were richly attired and looked as if they had come from good families. We were introduced to several, but as it was evident that they were passing under assumed names, whatever the proprietor of the place might know of them, I made little effort to remember the names, although I did study the faces carefully. It was not many minutes before we met Miss Lottie, as everyone called the woman who presided over this feminine realm of chance. Miss Lottie was a finely gowned woman, past middle age, but remarkably well preserved, and with a figure that must have occasioned much thought to fashion along the lines of the present slim styles. There seemed to be a man who assisted in the conduct of the place, a heavy-set fellow with a closely curling mustache. But as he kept discreetly in the offing, we did not see much of him. Miss Lottie was frankly glad to see us, coming so well introduced, and outspokenly disappointed that we would not take a seat in the game that was in progress. However, Garrick passed that over by promising to come around soon. Excise laws were apparently held in puny respect in this luxurious atmosphere, and while the hospitable Miss Lottie went to summon a servant to bring refreshments--at our expense--we had ample opportunity to glance about at the large room in which we were seated. Garrick gazed long and curiously at an arc-light enclosed in a soft glass globe in the center of the ceiling, as though it had suggested an idea of some sort to him. Miss Lottie, who had left us for a few moments, returned unexpectedly to find him still gazing at it. "We keep that light burning all the time," she remarked, noticing his gaze. "You see, in the daytime we never use the windows. It is always just like it is now, night or day. It makes no difference with us. You know, if we ever should be disturbed by the police," she rattled on, "this is my house and I am giving a little private party to a number of my friends." I had heard of such places but had never seen one before. I knew that well-dressed women, once having been caught in the toils of gambling, and perhaps afraid to admit their losses to their husbands, or, often having been introduced through gambling to far worse evils, were sent out from these poker rendezvous to the Broadway cafes, there to flirt with men, and rope them into the game. I could not help feeling that perhaps some of the richly gowned women in the house were in reality "cappers" for the game. As I studied the faces, I wondered what tragedies lay back of these rouged and painted faces. I saw broken homes, ruined lives, even lost honor written on them. Surely, I felt, this was a case worth taking up if by any chance we could put a stop or even set a limitation to this nefarious traffic. "Have you ever had any trouble?" Garrick asked as we sipped at the refreshments. "Very little," replied Miss Lottie, then as if the very manner of our introduction had stamped us all as "good fellows" to whom she could afford to be a little confidential in capturing our patronage, she added nonchalantly, "We had a sort of wild time a couple of nights ago." "How was that?" asked Garrick in a voice of studied politeness that carefully concealed the aching curiosity he had for her to talk. "Well," she answered slowly, "several ladies and gentlemen were here, playing a little high. They--well, they had a little too much to drink, I guess. There was one girl, who was the worst of all. She was pretty far gone. Why, we had to put her out--carry her out to the car that she had come in with her friend. You know we can't stand for any rough stuff like that--no sir. This house is perfectly respectable and proper and our patrons understand it." The story, or rather, the version of it, seemed to interest Garrick, as I knew it would. "Who was the girl?" he asked casually. "Did you know her? Was she one of your regular patrons?" "Knew her only by sight," returned Miss Lottie hastily, now a little vexed, I imagined, at Guy's persistence, "like lots of people who are introduced here--and come again several times." The woman was evidently sorry that she had mentioned the incident, and was trying to turn the conversation to the advantages of her establishment, not the least of which were her facilities for private games in little rooms in various parts of the house. It seemed all very risque to me, although I tried to appear to think it quite the usual thing, though I was careful to say that hers was the finest of such places I had ever seen. Still, the memory of Garrick's questioning seemed to linger. She had not expected, I knew, that we would take any further interest in her story than to accept it as proof of how careful she was of her clientele. Garrick was quick to take the cue. He did not arouse any further suspicion by pursuing the subject. Apparently he was convinced that it had been Rena Taylor of whom Miss Lottie spoke. What really happened we knew no more now than before. Perhaps Miss Lottie herself knew--or she might not know. Garrick quite evidently was willing to let future developments in the case show what had really happened. There was nothing to be gained by forcing things at this stage of the game, either in the gambling den around the corner or here. We chatted along for several minutes longer on inconsequential subjects, treating as important those trivialities which Bohemia considers important and scoffing at the really good and true things of life that the demi-monde despises. It was all banality now, for we had touched upon the real question in our minds and had bounded as lightly off it as a toy balloon bounds off an opposing surface. Warrington had kept silent during the visit, I noticed, and seemed relieved when it was over. I could not imagine that he was known here inasmuch as they treated him quite as they treated us. Apparently, though, he had no relish for a possible report of the excursion to get to Miss Winslow's ears. He was the first to leave, as Garrick, after paying for our refreshments and making a neat remark or two about the tasteful way in which the gambling room was furnished, rescued our hats and coats from the negro servant, and said good-night with a promise to drop in again. "What would Mrs. de Lancey think of THAT?" Garrick could not help saying, as we reached the street. Warrington gave a nervous little forced laugh, not at all such as he might have given had Mrs. de Lancey not been the aunt of the girl who had entered his life. Then he caught himself and said hastily, "I don't care what she thinks. It's none of her---" He cut the words short, as if fearing to be misinterpreted either way. For several squares he plodded along silently, then, as we had accomplished the object of the evening, excused himself, with the request that we keep him fully informed of every incident in the case. "Warrington doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve," commented Garrick as we bent our steps to our own, or rather his, apartment, "but it is evident enough that he is thinking all the time of Violet Winslow." CHAPTER VII THE MOTOR BANDIT Early the next morning, the telephone bell began to ring violently. The message must have been short, for I could not gather from Garrick's reply what it was about, although I could tell by the startled look on his face that something unexpected had happened. "Hurry and finish dressing, Tom," he called, as he hung up the receiver. "What's the matter?" I asked, from my room, still struggling with my tie. "Warrington was severely injured in a motor-car accident late last night, or rather early this morning, near Tuxedo." "Near Tuxedo?" I repeated incredulously. "How could he have got up there? It was midnight when we left him in New York." "I know it. Apparently he must have wanted to see Miss Winslow. She is up there, you know. I suppose that in order to be there this morning, early, he decided to start after he left us. I thought he seemed anxious to get away. Besides, you remember he took that letter yesterday afternoon, and I totally forgot to ask him for it last night. I'll wager it was on account of that slanderous letter that he wanted to go, that he wanted to explain it to her as soon as he could." There had been no details in the hasty message over the wire, except that Warrington was now at the home of a Doctor Mead, a local physician in a little town across the border of New York and New Jersey. The more I thought about it, the more I felt that it was extremely unlikely that it could have been an accident, after all. Might it not have been the result of an attack or a trap laid by some strong-arm man who had set out to get him and had almost succeeded in accomplishing his purpose of "getting him right," to use the vernacular of the class? We made the trip by railroad, passing the town where the report had come to us before of the finding of the body of Rena Taylor. There was, of course, no one at the station to meet us, and, after wasting some time in learning the direction, we at last walked to Dr. Mead's cottage, a quaint home, facing the state road that led from Suffern up to the Park, and northward. Dr. Mead, who had telephoned, admitted us himself. We found Warrington swathed in bandages, and only half conscious. He had been under the influence of some drug, but, before that, the doctor told us, he had been unconscious and had only one or two intervals in which he was sufficiently lucid to talk. "How did it happen?" asked Garrick, almost as soon as we had entered the doctor's little office. "I had had a bad case up the road," replied the doctor slowly, "and it had kept me out late. I was driving my car along at a cautious pace homeward, some time near two o'clock, when I came to a point in the road where there are hills on one side and the river on the other. As I neared the curve, a rather sharp curve, too, I remember the lights on my own car were shining on the white fence that edged the river side of the road. I was keeping carefully on my own side, which was toward the hill. "As I was about to turn, I heard the loud purring of an engine coming in my direction, and a moment later I saw a car with glaring headlights, driven at a furious pace, coming right at me. It slowed up a little, and I hugged the hill as close as I could, for I know some of these reckless young drivers up that way, and this curve was in the direction where the temptation is for one going north to get on the wrong side of the road--that is, my side--in order to take advantage of the natural slope of the macadam in turning the curve at high speed. Still, this fellow didn't prove so bad, after all. He gave me a wide berth. "Just then there came a blinding flash right out of the darkness. Back of his car a huge, dark object had loomed up almost like a ghost. It was another car, back of the first one, without a single light, travelling apparently by the light shed by the forward car. It had overtaken the first and had cut in between us with not half a foot to spare on either side. It was the veriest piece of sheer luck I ever saw that we did not all go down together. "With the flash I heard what sounded like a bullet zip out of the darkness. The driver of the forward car stiffened out for a moment. Then he pitched forward, helpless, over the steering wheel. His car dashed ahead, straight into the fence instead of taking the curve, and threw the unconscious driver. Then the car wrecked itself." "And the car in the rear?" inquired Garrick eagerly. "Dashed ahead between us safely around the curve--and was gone. I caught just one glimpse of its driver--a man all huddled up, his collar up over his neck and chin, his cap pulled forward over his eyes, goggles covering the rest of his face, and shrouded in what seemed to be a black coat, absolutely as unrecognizable as if he had been a phantom bandit, or death itself. He was steering with one hand, and in the other he held what must have been a revolver." "And then?" prompted Garrick. "I had stopped with my heart in my mouth at the narrowness of my own escape from the rushing black death. Pursuit was impossible. My car was capable of no such burst of speed as his. And then, too, there was a groaning man down in the ravine below. I got out, clambered over the fence, and down in the shrubbery into the pitch darkness. "Fortunately, the man had been catapulted out before his car turned over. I found him, and with all the strength I could muster and as gently as I was able carried him up to the road. When I held him under the light of my lamps, I saw at once that there was not a moment to lose. I fixed him in the rear of my car as comfortably as I could and then began a race to get him home here where I have almost a private hospital of my own, as quickly as possible." Cards in his pocket had identified Warrington and Dr. Mead remembered having heard the name. The prompt attention of the doctor had undoubtedly saved the young man's life. Over and over again, Dr. Mead said, in his delirium Warrington had repeated the name, "Violet--Violet!" It was as Garrick had surmised, his desire to stand well in her eyes that had prompted the midnight journey. Yet who the assailant might be, neither Dr. Mead nor the broken raving of Warrington seemed to afford even the slightest clew. That he was a desperate character, without doubt in desperate straits over something, required no great acumen to deduce. Toward morning in a fleeting moment of lucidity, Warrington had mentioned Garrick's name in such a way that Dr. Mead had looked it up in the telephone directory and then at the earliest moment had called up. "Exactly the right thing," reassured Garrick. "Can't you think of anything else that would identify the driver of that other car?" "Only that he was a wonderful driver, that fellow," pursued the doctor, admiration getting the better of his horror now that the thing was over. "I couldn't describe the car, except that it was a big one and seemed to be of a foreign make. He was crowding Warrington as much as he dared with safety to himself--and not a light on his own car, too, remember." Garrick's face was puckered in thought. "And the most remarkable thing of all about it," added the doctor, rising and going over to a white enameled cabinet in the corner of his office, "was that wound from the pistol." The doctor paused to emphasize the point he was about to make. "Apparently it put Warrington out," he resumed. "And yet, after all, I find that it is only a very superficial flesh wound of the shoulder. Warrington's condition is really due to the contusions he received owing to his being thrown from the car. His car wasn't going very fast at the time, for it had slowed down for me. In one way that was fortunate--although one might say it was the cause of everything, since his slowing down gave the car behind a chance to creep up on him the few feet necessary. "Really I am sure that even the shock of such a wound wasn't enough to make an experienced driver like Warrington lose control of the machine. It is a fairly wide curve, after all, and--well, my contention is proved by the fact that I examined the wreck of the car this morning and found that he had had time to shut off the gas and cut out the engine. He had time to think of and do that before he lost absolute control of the car." Dr. Mead had been standing by the cabinet as he talked. Now he opened it and took from it the bullet which he had probed out of the wound. He looked at it a minute himself, then handed it to Garrick. I bent over also and examined it as it lay in Guy's hand. At first I thought it was an ordinary bullet. But the more I examined it the more I was convinced that there was something peculiar about it. In the nose, which was steel-jacketed, were several little round depressions, just the least fraction of an inch in depth. "It is no wonder Warrington was put out, even by that superficial wound," remarked Garrick at last. "His assailant's aim may have been bad, as it must necessarily have been from one rapidly approaching car at a person in another rapidly moving car, also. But the motor bandit, whoever he is, provided against that. That bullet is what is known as an anesthetic bullet." "An anesthetic bullet?" repeated both Dr. Mead and myself. "What is that?" "A narcotic bullet," Garrick explained, "a sleep-producing bullet, if you please, a sedative bullet that lulls its victim into almost instant slumber. It was invented quite recently by a Pittsburgh scientist. The anesthetic bullet provides the poor marksman with all the advantages of the expert gunman of unerring aim." I marvelled at the ingenuity of the man who could figure out how to overcome the seeming impossibility of accurate shooting from a car racing at high speed. Surely, he must be a desperate fellow. While we were talking, the doctor's wife who had been attending Warrington until a nurse arrived, came to inform him that the effect of the sedative, which he had administered while Warrington was restless and groaning, was wearing off. We waited a little while, and then Dr. Mead himself informed us that we might see our friend for a minute. Even in his half-drowsy state of pain Warrington appeared to recognise Garrick and assume that he had come in response to his own summons. Garrick bent down, and I could just distinguish what Warrington was trying to say to him. "Wh--where's Violet?" he whispered huskily, "Does she know? Don't let her get--frightened--I'll be--all right." Garrick laid his hand on Warrington's unbandaged shoulder, but said nothing. "The--the letter," he murmured ramblingly. "I have it--in my apartment--in the little safe. I was going to Tuxedo--to see Violet--explain slander--tell her closing place--didn't know it was mine before. Good thing to close it--Forbes is a heavy loser. She doesn't know that." Warrington lapsed back on his pillow and Dr. Mead beckoned to us to withdraw without exciting him any further. "What difference does it make whether she knows about Forbes or not?" I queried as we tiptoed down the hall. Garrick shook his head doubtfully. "Can't say," he replied succinctly. "It may be that Forbes, too, has aspirations." The idea sent me off into a maze of speculations, but it did not enlighten me much. At any rate, I felt, Warrington had said enough to explain his presence in that part of the country. On one thing, as I have said, Garrick had guessed right. The blackmailing letter and what we had seen the night before at the crooked gambling joint had been too much for him. He had not been able to rest as long as he was under a cloud with Miss Winslow until he had had a chance to set himself right in her eyes. There seemed to be nothing that we could do for him just then. He was in excellent hands, and now that the doctor knew who he was, a trained nurse had even been sent for from the city and arrived on the train following our own, thus relieving Mrs. Mead of her faithful care of him. Garrick gave the nurse strict instructions to make exact notes of anything that Warrington might say, and then requested the doctor to take us to the scene of the tragedy. We were about to start, when Garrick excused himself and hurried back into the house, reappearing in a few minutes. "I thought perhaps, after all, it would be best to let Miss Winslow know of the accident, as long as it isn't likely to turn out seriously in the end for Warrington," he explained, joining us again in Dr. Mead's car which was waiting in front of the house. "So I called up her aunt's at Tuxedo and when Miss Winslow answered the telephone I broke the news to her as gently as I could. Warrington need have no fear about that girl," he added. The wrecked car, we found, had not yet been moved, nor had the broken fence been repaired. It was, in fact, an accident worth studying topographically. That part of the road itself near the fence seemed to interest Garrick greatly. Two or three cars passed while we waited and he noted how carefully each of them seemed to avoid that side toward the broken fence, as though it were haunted. "I hope they've all done that," Garrick remarked, as he continued to examine the road, which was a trifle damp under the high trees that shaded it. As he worked, I could not believe that it was wholly fancy that caused me to think of him as searching with dilated nostrils, like a scientific human bloodhound. For, it was not long before I began to realize what he was looking for in the marks of cars left on the oiled roadway. During perhaps half an hour he continued studying the road, above and below the exact point of the accident. At length a low exclamation from him brought me to his side. He had dropped down in the grease, regardless of his knees and was peering at some rather deep imprints in the surface dressing. There, for a few feet, were plainly the marks of the outside tires of a car, still unobliterated. Garrick had pulled out copies of the photographs he had made of the tire marks that had been left at the scene of the finding of the unfortunate Rena Taylor's body, and was busy comparing them with the marks that were before him. "Of course," Garrick muttered to me, "if the anti-skid marks of the tires were different, it would have proved nothing, just as in the other case where we looked for the tire prints. But here, too, a glance shows that at least it is the same make of tires." He continued his comparison. It did not take me long to surmise what he was doing. He was taking the two sets of marks and, inch by inch, going over them, checking up the little round metal insertions that were placed in this style of tire to give it a firmer grip. "Here's one missing, there's another," he cried excitedly. "By Jove, it can't be mere coincidence. There's one that is worn--another broken. They correspond. Yes, that MUST be the same car, in each case. And if it was the stolen car, then it was Warrington's own car that was used in pursuing him and in almost making away with him!" CHAPTER VIII THE EXPLANATION We had not noticed a car which had stopped just past us and Garrick was surprised at hearing his own name called. We looked up from contemplating the discovery he had made in the road, to see Miss Winslow waving to us. She had motored down from Tuxedo immediately after receiving the message over the telephone, and with her keen eye had picked out both the place of the accident and ourselves studying it. As we approached, I could see that she was much more pale than usual. Evidently her anxiety for Warrington was thoroughly genuine. The slanderous letter had not shaken her faith in him, yet. She had left her car and was walking back along the road with us toward the broken fence. Garrick had been talking to her earnestly and now, having introduced her to Dr. Mead, the doctor and he decided to climb down to inspect the wrecked car itself in the ravine below. Miss Winslow cast a quick look from the broken fence down at the torn and twisted wreckage of the car and gave a suppressed little cry and shudder. "How is Mortimer?" she asked of me eagerly, for I had agreed to stay with her while the others went down the slope. "I mean how is he really? Is he likely to be better soon, as Mr. Garrick said over the telephone?" she appealed. "Surely--absolutely," I assured her, knowing that if Garrick had said that he had meant it. "Miss Winslow, believe me, neither Mr. Garrick nor Dr. Mead is concealing anything. It is pretty bad, of course. Such things are always bad. But it might be far worse. And besides, the worst now has passed." Garrick had already promised to accompany her over to Dr. Mead's after he had made his examination of the wrecked car to confirm what the doctor had already observed. It took several minutes for them to satisfy themselves and meanwhile Violet Winslow, already highly unstrung by the news from Garrick, waited more and more nervously. In spite of his careful examination of the wrecked car, Garrick found practically nothing more than Dr. Mead had already told him. It was with considerable relief that Miss Winslow saw the two again climbing up the slope in the direction of the road. A few minutes later we were on our way back, Dr. Mead and Garrick leading the way in the doctor's car, while I accompanied Miss Winslow in her own car. She said little, and it was plain to see that she was consumed by anxiety. Now and then she would ask a question about the accident, and although I tried in every way to divert her mind to other subjects she unfailingly came back to that. Tempering the details as much as I could I repeated for her just what had happened to the best of our knowledge. "And you have no idea who it could have been?" she asked turning those liquid eyes of hers on my face. If there were any secret about it, it was perhaps fortunate that I did not know. I don't think I am more than ordinarily susceptible and I know I did not delude myself that Miss Winslow ever could be anything except a friend to either Garrick or myself. But I felt I could not resist the appeal in those eyes. I wondered if even they, by some magic intuition, might not pierce the very soul of man and uncover a lying heart. I felt that Warrington could not have been other than he said he was and still have been hastening to meet those eyes. "Miss Winslow," I answered, "I have no more idea than you have who it could be." I was telling the truth and I felt that I could meet her gaze. There must have been something about how I had phrased my answer that caused her to look at me more searchingly than before. Suddenly she turned her face away and gazed at the passing landscape from the car. She said nothing, but as I continued to watch her finely moulded features, I saw that she was making an effort to control herself. It flashed over me, somehow, that perhaps, after all, she herself suspected someone. It was not that she said anything. It was merely an indefinable impression I received. Had Warrington any enemies, not in the underworld, but among those of his own set, rivals, perhaps, who might even stoop to secure the aid of those of the underworld who could be bought to commit any crime in the calendar for a price? I did not pause to examine the plausibility or the impossibility of such a theory. What interested me was whether in her mind there was such a thought. Had she, perhaps, really more of an idea than I who it could be? She betrayed nothing of what her intuition told her, but I felt sure that, even though she knew nothing, there was at least something she feared. At last we arrived at Dr. Mead's and I handed her out of the car and into the tastefully furnished little house. There was an air of quietness about it that often indefinably pervades a house in which there is illness or a tragedy. "May I--see him?" pleaded Miss Winslow, as Dr. Mead placed a chair for her. I wondered what he would have done if there had been some good reason why he should resist the pleading of her deep eyes. "Why--er--for a minute--yes," he answered. "Later, soon, he may see visitors longer, but just now I think for a few hours the less he is disturbed the better." The doctor excused himself for a moment to look at his patient and prepare him for the visit. Meanwhile Miss Winslow waited in the reception room downstairs, still very pale and nervous. Warrington was in much less pain now than he had been when we left and Dr. Mead decided that, since the nurse had made him so much more comfortable, no further drug was necessary. In fact as his natural vitality due to his athletic habits and clean living asserted itself, it seemed as if his injuries which at first had looked so serious were not likely to prove as bad as the doctor had anticipated. Still, he was badly enough as it was. The new nurse smoothed out his pillows and deftly tried to conceal as much as she could that would suggest how badly he was injured and at last Violet Winslow was allowed to enter the room where the poor boy lay. Miss Winslow never for a moment let her wonderful self-control fail her. Quickly and noiselessly, like a ministering angel, she seemed to float rather than walk over the space from the door to the bed. As she bent over him and whispered, "Mortimer!" the simple tone seemed to have an almost magic effect on him. He opened his eyes which before had been languidly closed and gazed up at her face as if he saw a vision. Slowly the expression on his face changed as he realized that it was indeed Violet herself. In spite of the pain of his hurts which must have been intense a smile played over his features, as if he realized that it would never do to let her know how serious had been his condition. As she bent over her hand had rested on the white covers of the bed. Feebly, in spite of the bandages that swathed the arm nearest her, he put out his own brawny hand and rested it on hers. She did not withdraw it, but passed the other hand gently over his throbbing forehead. Never have I seen a greater transformation in an invalid than was evident in Mortimer Warrington. No tonic in all the pharmacopoeia of Dr. Mead could have worked a more wonderful change. Not a word was said by either Warrington or Violet for several seconds. They seemed content just to gaze into each other's faces, oblivious to us. Warrington was the first to break the silence, in answer to what he knew must be her unspoken question. "Your aunt--gambling," he murmured feebly, trying hard to connect his words so as to appear not so badly off as he had when he had spoken before. "I didn't know--till they told me--that the estate owned it--was coming to tell you--going to cancel the lease--close it up--no one ever lose money there again--" The words, jerky though they were, cost him a great physical effort to say. She seemed to realize it, but there was a look of triumph on her face as she understood. She had not been mistaken. Warrington was all that she had thought him to be. He was looking eagerly into her face and as he looked he read in it the answer to the questionings that had sent him off in the early hours of the morning on his fateful ride to Tuxedo. Dr. Mead cleared his throat. Miss Winslow recognised it as a signal that the time was growing short for the interview. Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand from his, their eyes met another instant, and with a hasty word of sympathy and encouragement she left the room, conscious now that other eyes were watching. "Oh, to think it was to tell me that that he got into it all," she cried, as she sank into a deep chair in the reception room, endeavouring not to give way to her feelings, now that the strain was off and she had no longer to keep a brave face. "I--I feel guilty!" "I wouldn't say that," soothed Garrick. "Who knows? Perhaps if he had stayed in the city--they might have succeeded,--whoever it was back of this thing." She looked up at Garrick, startled, I thought, with the same expression I had seen when she turned her face away in the car and I got the impression that she felt more than she knew of the case. "I may--see--Mr. Warrington again soon?" she asked, now again mistress of her feelings after Garrick's interruption that had served to take her mind off a morbid aspect of the affair. "Surely," agreed Dr. Mead. "I expect his progress to be rapid after this." "Thank you," she murmured, as she slowly rose and prepared to make the return trip to her aunt's home. "Oh, Mr. Garrick," she confided, as he helped her on with the wraps she had thrown carelessly on a chair when she entered, "I can't help it--I do feel guilty. Perhaps he thinks I am--like Aunt Emma---" "Perhaps it was quite as much to convince your aunt as you that he took the trip," suggested Garrick. Miss Winslow understood. "Why is it," she murmured, "that sometimes people with the best intentions manage to bring about things that are--more terrible?" Garrick smiled. Quite evidently she and her aunt were not exactly in tune. He said nothing. As for Dr. Mead he seemed really pleased, for the patient had brightened up considerably after even the momentary glimpse he had had of Violet. Altogether I felt that although they had seen each other only for a moment, it had done both good. Miss Winslow's fears had been quieted and Warrington had been encouraged by the realisation that, in spite of its disastrous ending, his journey had accomplished its purpose anyway. There was, as Dr. Mead assured us, every prospect now that Warrington would pull through after the murderous assault that had been made on him. We saw Miss Winslow safely off on her return trip, much relieved by the promise of the doctor that she might call once a day to see how the patient was getting along. Warrington was now resting more easily than he had since the accident and Garrick, having exhausted the possibilities of investigation at the scene of the accident, announced that he would return to the city. At the railroad terminus he called up both the apartment and the office in order to find out whether we had had any visitors during our absence. No one had called at the apartment, but the office boy downtown said that there was a man who had called and was coming back again. A half hour or so later when we arrived at the office we found McBirney seated there, patiently determined to find Garrick. Evidently the news of the assault on Warrington had travelled fast, for the first thing McBirney wanted to know was how it happened and how his client was. In a few words Garrick told him as much about it as was necessary. McBirney listened attentively, but we could see that he was bursting with his own budget of news. "And, McBirney," concluded Garrick, without going into the question of the marks of the tires, "most remarkable of all, I am convinced that the car in which his assailant rode was no other than the Mercedes that was stolen from Warrington in the first place." "Say," exclaimed McBirney in surprise, "that car must be all over at once!" "Why--what do you mean?" "You know I have my own underground sources of information," explained the detective with pardonable pride at adding even a rumour to the budget of news. "Of course you can't be certain of such things, but one of my men, who is scouting around the Tenderloin looking for what he can find, tells me that he saw a car near that gambling joint on Forty-eighth Street and that it may have been the repainted and renumbered Warrington car--at least it tallies with the description that we got from the garage keeper in north Jersey. "Did he see who drove it?" asked Garrick eagerly. "Not very well. It was a short, undersized man, as nearly as he could make out. Someone whom he did not recognize jumped in it from the gambling house and they disappeared. Even though my man, his suspicions aroused, tried to follow them in a taxicab they managed to leave him behind." "In what direction did they go?" asked Garrick. "Toward the West Side--where those fly-by-night garages are all located." "Or, perhaps, the Jersey ferries," suggested Garrick. "Well, I thought you might like to know about this undersized driver," said McBirney a little sulkily because Garrick had not displayed as much enthusiasm as he expected. "I do," hastened Garrick. "Of course I do. And it may prove to be a very important clew. But I was just running ahead of your story. The undersized man couldn't have figured in the case afterward, assuming that it was the car. He must have left it, probably in the city. Have you any idea who it could be?" "Not unless he might be an employee or a keeper of one of those night-hawk garages," persisted McBirney. "That is possible." "Quite," agreed Garrick. McBirney had delivered his own news and in turn had received ours, or at least such of it as Garrick chose to tell at present. He was apparently satisfied and rose to go. "Keep after that undersized fellow, will you?" asked Garrick. "If you could find out who he is and he should happen to be connected with one of those garages we might get on the right trail at last." "I will," promised McBirney. "He's evidently an expert driver of motor cars himself; my man could see that." McBirney had gone. Garrick sat for several minutes gazing squarely at me. Then he leaned back in his chair, with his hands behind his head. "Mark my words, Marshall," he observed slowly, "someone connected with that gambling joint in some way has got wind of the fact that Warrington is going to revoke the lease and close it up. We've got to beat them to it--that's all." CHAPTER IX THE RAID Garrick was evidently turning over and over in his mind some plan of action. "This thing has gone just about far enough," he remarked meditatively, looking at his watch. It was now well along in the afternoon. "But what do you intend doing?" I asked, regarding the whole affair so far as a hopeless mystery from which I could not see that we had extracted so much as a promising clew. "Doing?" he echoed. "Why, there is only one thing to do, and that is to take the bull by the horns, to play the game without any further attempt at finessing. I shall see Dillon, get a warrant, and raid that gambling place--that's all." I had no counter suggestion to offer. In fact the plan rather appealed to me. If any blow were to be struck it must be just a little bit ahead of any that the gamblers anticipated, and this was a blow they would not expect if they already had wind of Warrington's intention to cancel the lease. Garrick called up Dillon and made an appointment to meet him early in the evening, without telling him what was afoot. "Meet me down at police headquarters, Tom," was all that Garrick said to me. "I want to work here at the office for a little while, first, testing a new contrivance, or, rather, an old one that I think may be put to a new use." Meanwhile I decided to employ my time by visiting some newspaper friends that I had known a long time on the Star, one of the most enterprising papers in the city. Fortunately I found my friend, Davenport, the managing editor, at his desk and ready to talk in the infrequent lulls that came in his work. "What's on your mind, Marshall?" he asked as I sat down and began to wonder how he ever conducted his work in the chaotic clutter of stuff on the top of his desk. "I can't tell you--yet, Davenport," I explained carefully, "but it's a big story and when it breaks I'll promise that the Star has the first chance at it. I'm on the inside--working with that young detective, Garrick, you know." "Garrick--Garrick," he repeated. "Oh, yes, that fellow who came back from abroad with a lot of queer ideas. I remember. We had an interview with him when he left the steamer. Good stuff, too,--but what do you think of him? Is he--on the level?" "On the level and making good," I answered confidently. "I'm not at liberty to tell much about it now, but--well, the reason I came in was to find out what you could tell me about a Miss Winslow,--Violet Winslow and her aunt, Mrs. Beekman de Lancey." "The Miss Winslow who is reported engaged to young Warrington?" he repeated. "The gossip is that he has cut out Angus Forbes, entirely." I had hesitated to mention all the names at once, but I need not have done so, for on such things, particularly the fortunes in finance and love of such a person as Warrington, the eyes of the press were all-seeing. "Yes," I answered carefully, "that's the Miss Winslow. What do you know of her?" "Well," he replied, fumbling among the papers on his desk, "all I know is that in the social set to which she belongs our society reporters say that of all the young fellows who have set out to capture her--and she's a deuced pretty girl, even in the pictures we have published--it seems to have come down to Mortimer Warrington and Angus Forbes. Of course, as far as we newspapermen are concerned, the big story for us would be in the engagement of young Warrington. The eyes of people are fixed on him just now--the richest young man in the country, and all that sort of thing, you know. Seems to be a pretty decent sort of fellow, too, I believe--democratic and keen on other things besides tango and tennis. Oh, there's the thing I was hunting for. Mrs. de Lancey's a nut on gambling, I believe. Read that. It's a letter that came to us from her this morning." It was written in the stilted handwriting of a generation ago and read: "To the Editor of the Star, Dear Sir:--I believe that your paper prides itself on standing for reform and against the grafters. If that is so, why do you not join in the crusade to suppress gambling in New York? For the love that you must still bear towards your own mother, listen to the stories of other mothers torn by anxiety for their sons and daughters, and if there is any justice or righteousness in this great city close up those gambling hells that are sending to ruin scores of our finest young men--and women. You have taken up other fights against gambling and vice. Take up this one that appeals to women of wealth and social position. I know them and they are as human as mothers in any other station in life. Oh, if there is any way, close up these gilded society resorts that are dissipating the fortunes of many parents, ruining young men and women, and, in one case I know of, slowly bringing to the grave a grey-haired widow as worthy of protection as any mother of the poor whose plea has closed up a little poolroom or policy shop. One place I have in mind is at ---- West Forty-eighth Street. Investigate it, but keep this confidential. "Sincerely, "(MRS.) EMMA DE LANCEY." "Do you know anything about it?" I asked casually handing the letter back. "Only by hearsay. I understand it is the crookedest gambling joint in the city, at least judging by the stories they tell of the losses there. And so beastly aristocratic, too. They tell me young Forbes has lost a small fortune there--but I don't know how true it is. We get hundreds of these daintily perfumed and monogramed little missives in the course of a year." "You mean Angus Forbes?" I asked. "Yes," replied the managing editor, "the fellow that they say has been trying to capture your friend Miss Winslow." I did not reply for the moment. Forbes, I had already learned, was deeply in debt. Was it part of his plan to get control of the little fortune of Violet to recoup his losses? "Do you know Mrs. de Lancey?" pursued the editor. "No--not yet," I answered. "I was just wondering what sort of person she is." "Oh I suppose she's all right," he answered, "but they say she's pretty straight-laced--that cards and all sorts of dissipation are an obsession with her." "Well," I argued, "there might be worse things than that." "That's right," he agreed. "But I don't believe that such a puritanical atmosphere is--er--just the place to bring up a young woman like Violet Winslow." I said nothing. It did not seem to me that Mrs. de Lancey had succeeded in killing the natural human impulses in Violet, though perhaps the girl was not as well versed in some of the ways of the world as others of her set. Still, I felt that her own natural common sense would protect her, even though she had been kept from a knowledge of much that in others of her set was part of their "education." My friend's telephone had been tinkling constantly during the conversation and I saw that as the time advanced he was getting more and more busy. I thanked Davenport and excused myself. At least I had learned something about those who were concerned in the case. As I rode uptown I could not help thinking of Violet Winslow and her apparently intuitive fear concerning Warrington. I wondered how much she really knew about Angus Forbes. Undoubtedly he had not hesitated to express his own feelings toward her. Had she penetrated beneath the honeyed words he must have spoken to her? Was it that she feared that all things are fair in war and love and that the favour she must have bestowed on Warrington might have roused the jealousy of some of his rivals for her affections? I found no answer to my speculations, but a glance at my watch told me that it was nearing the time of my appointment with Guy. A few minutes later I jumped off the car at Headquarters and met Garrick, waiting for me in the lower hall. As we ascended the broad staircase to the second floor, where Dillon's office was, I told him briefly of what I had discovered. "The old lady will have her wish," he replied grimly as I related the incident of the letter to the editor. "I wonder just how much she really does know of that place. I hope it isn't enough to set her against Warrington. You know people like that are often likely to conceive violent prejudices--and then refuse to believe something that's all but proved about someone else." There was no time to pursue the subject further for we had reached Dillon's office and were admitted immediately. "What's the news?" asked Dillon greeting us cordially. "Plenty of it," returned Garrick, hastily sketching over what had transpired since we had seen him last. Garrick had scarcely begun to outline what he intended to do when I could see from the commissioner's face that he was very sceptical of success. "Herman tells me," he objected, "that the place is mighty well barricaded. We haven't tried raiding it yet, because you know the new plan is not only to raid those places, but first to watch them, trace out some of the regular habitues, and then to be able to rope them in in case we need them as evidence. Herman has been getting that all in shape so that when the case comes to trial, there'll be no slip-up." "If that's all you want, I can put my finger on some of the wildest scions of wealth that you will ever need for witnesses," Garrick replied confidently. "Well," pursued Dillon diffidently, "how are you going to pull it off, down through the sky-light, or up through the cellar?" "Oh, Dillon," returned Garrick reproachfully, "that's unworthy of you." "But, Garrick," persisted Dillon, "don't you know that it is a veritable National City Bank for protection. It isn't one of those common gambling joints. It's proof against all the old methods. Axes and sledgehammers would make no impression there. Why, that place has been proved bomb-proof--bomb-proof, sir. You remember recently the so-call 'gamblers' war' in which some rivals exploded a bomb on the steps because the proprietor of this place resented their intrusion uptown from the lower East Side, with their gunmen and lobbygows? It did more damage to the house next door than to the gambling joint." Dillon paused a moment to enumerate the difficulties. "You can get past the outside door all right. But inside is the famous ice-box door. It's no use to try it at all unless you can pass that door with reasonable quickness. All the evidence you will get will be of an innocent social club room downstairs. And you can't get on the other side of that door by strategy, either. It is strategy-proof. The system of lookouts is perfect. Herman---" "Can't help it," interrupted Garrick, "we've got to go over Herman's head this time. I'll guarantee you all the evidence you'll ever need." Dillon and Garrick faced each other for a moment. It was a supreme test of Dillon's sincerity. Finally he spoke slowly. "All right," he said, as if at last the die were cast and Garrick had carried his point, "but how are you going to do it? Won't you need some men with axes and crowbars?" "No, indeed," almost shouted Garrick as Dillon made a motion as if to find out who were available. "I've been preparing a little surprise in my office this afternoon for just such a case. It's a rather cumbersome arrangement and I've brought it along stowed away in a taxicab outside. I don't want anyone else to know about the raid until the last moment. Just before we begin the rough stuff, you can call up and have the reserves started around. That is all I shall want." "Very well," agreed Dillon, after a moment. He did not seem to relish the scheme, but he had promised at the outset to play fair and he had no disposition to go back on his word now in favor even of his judgment. "First of all," he planned, "we'll have to drop in on a judge and get a warrant to protect us." Garrick hastily gave me instructions what to do and I started uptown immediately, while they went to secure the secret warrant. I had been stationed on the corner which was not far from the Forty-eighth Street gambling joint that we were to raid. I had a keen sense of wickedness as I stood there with other loiterers watching the passing throng under the yellow flare of the flaming arc light. It was not difficult now to loiter about unnoticed because the streets were full of people, all bent on their own pleasure and not likely to notice one person more or less who stopped to watch the passing throng. From time to time I cast a quick glance at the house down the street, in order to note who was going in. It must have been over an hour that I waited. It was after ten, and it became more difficult to watch who was going into the gambling joint. In fact, several times the street was so blocked that I could not see very well. But I did happen to catch a glimpse of one familiar figure across the street from me. It was Angus Forbes. Where he kept himself in the daytime I did not know, but he seemed to emerge at night, like a rat, seeking what to him was now food and drink. I watched him narrowly as he turned the corner, but there was no use in being too inquisitive. He was bound as certainly for the gambling joint as a moth would have headed toward one of the arc lights. Evidently Forbes was making a vocation of gambling. Just then a taxicab pulled up hurriedly at the curb near where I was standing and a hand beckoned me, on the side away from the gambling house. I sauntered over and looked in through the open window. It was Garrick with Dillon sunk back into the dark corner of the cab, so as not to be seen. "Jump in!" whispered Garrick, opening the door. "We have the warrant all right. Has anything happened? No suspicion yet?" I did so and reassured Garrick while the cab started on a blind cruise around the block. On the floor was a curiously heavy instrument, on which I had stubbed my toe as I entered. I surmised that it must have been the thing which Garrick had brought from his office, but in the darkness I could not see what it was, nor was there a chance to ask a question. "Stop here," ordered Garrick, as we passed a drug store with a telephone booth. Dillon jumped out and disappeared into the booth. "He is calling the reserves from the nearest station," fretted Garrick. "Of course, we have to do that to cover the place, but we'll have to work quickly now, for I don't know how fast a tip may travel in this subterranean region. Here, I'll pay the taxi charges now and save some time." A moment later Dillon rejoined us, his face perspiring from the closeness of the air in the booth. "Now to that place on Forty-eighth Street, and we're square," ordered Garrick to the driver, mentioning the address. "Quick!" There had been, we could see, no chance for a tip to be given that a raid was about to be pulled off. We could see that, as Garrick and I jumped out of the cab and mounted the steps. The door was closed to us, however. Only someone like Warrington who was known there could have got us in peacefully, until we had become known in the place. Yet though there had been no tip, the lookout on the other side of the door, with his keen nose, had seemed to scent trouble. He had retreated and, we knew, had shut the inside, heavy door--perhaps even had had time already to give the alarm inside. The sharp rap of a small axe which Garrick had brought sounded on the flimsy outside door, in quick staccato. There was a noise and scurry of feet inside and we could hear the locks and bolts being drawn. Banging, ripping, tearing, the thin outer door was easily forced. Disregarding the melee I leaped through the wreckage with Garrick. The "ice-box" door barred all further progress. How was Garrick to surmount this last and most formidable barrier? "A raid! A raid!" cried a passer-by. Another instant, and the cry, taken up by others, brought a crowd swarming around from Broadway, as if it were noon instead of midnight. CHAPTER X THE GAMBLING DEBT There was no time to be lost now. Down the steps again dashed Garrick, after our expected failure both to get in peaceably and to pass the ice-box door by force. This time Dillon emerged from the cab with him. Together they were carrying the heavy apparatus up the steps. They set it down close to the door and I scrutinized it carefully. It looked, at first sight, like a short stubby piece of iron, about eighteen inches high. It must have weighed fifty or sixty pounds. Along one side was a handle, and on the opposite side an adjustable hook with a sharp, wide prong. Garrick bent down and managed to wedge the hook into the little space between the sill and the bottom of the ice-box door. Then he began pumping on the handle, up and down, up and down, as hard as he could. Meanwhile the crowd that had begun to collect was getting larger. Dillon went through the form of calling on them for aid, but the call was met with laughter. A Tenderloin crowd has no use for raids, except as a spectacle. Between us we held them back, while Garrick worked. The crowd jeered. It was the work of only a few seconds, however, before Garrick changed the jeers to a hearty round of exclamations of surprise. The door seemed to be lifted up, literally, until some of its bolts and hinges actually bulged and cracked. It was being crushed, like the flimsy outside door, before the unwonted attack. Upwards, by fractions of an inch, by millimeters, the door was being forced. There was such straining and stress of materials that I really began to wonder whether the building itself would stand it. "Scientific jimmying," gasped Garrick, as the door bulged more and more and seemed almost to threaten to topple in at any moment. I looked at the stubby little cylinder with its short stump of a lever. Garrick had taken it out now and had wedged it horizontally between the ice-box door and the outer stonework of the building itself. Then he jammed some pieces of wood in to wedge it tighter and again began to pump at the handle vigorously. "What is it?" I asked, almost in awe at the titanic power of the apparently insignificant little thing. "My scientific sledgehammer," he panted, still working the lever more vigorously than ever backward and forward. "In other words, a hydraulic ram. There is no swinging of axes or wielding of crow-bars necessary any more, Dillon, in breaking down a door like this. Such things are obsolete. This little jimmy, if you want to call it that, has a power of ten tons. I think that's about enough." It seemed as if the door were buckling and being literally wrenched off its hinges by the irresistible ten-ton punch of the hydraulic ram. Garrick sprang back, grasping me by the arm and pulling me too. But there was no need of caution. What was left of the door swung back on its loosened hinges, seemed to tremble a moment, and then, with a dull thud crashed down on the beautiful green marble of the reception hall, reverberating. We peered beyond. Inside all was darkness. At the very first sign of trouble the lights had been switched out downstairs. It was deserted. There was no answer to our shouts. It was as silent as a tomb. The clang of bells woke the rapid echoes. The crowd parted. It was the patrol wagons, come just in time, full of reserves, at Dillon's order. They swarmed up the steps, for there was nothing to do now, in the limelight of the public eye, except their duty. Besides Dillon was there, too. "Here," he ordered huskily, "four of you fellows jump into each of the next door houses and run up to the roof. Four more men go through to the rear of this house. The rest stay here and await orders," he directed, detailing them off quickly, as he endeavoured to grasp the strange situation. On both sides of the street heads were out of windows. On other houses the steps were full of spectators. Thousands of people must have swarmed in the street. It was pandemonium. Yet inside the house into which we had just broken it was all darkness and silence. The door had yielded to the scientific sledge-hammering where it would have shattered, otherwise, all the axes in the department. What was next? Garrick jumped briskly over the wreckage into the building. Instead of the lights and gayety which we had seen on the previous night, all was black mystery. The robbers' cave yawned before us. I think we were all prepared for some sort of gunplay, for we knew the crooks to be desperate characters. As we followed Garrick closely we were surprised to encounter not even physical force. Someone struck a light. Garrick, groping about in the shadows, found the switch, and one after another the lights in the various rooms winked up. I have seldom seen such confusion as greeted us as, with Dillon waiving his "John Doe" warrant over his head, we hurried upstairs to the main hall on the second floor, where the greater part of the gambling was done. Furniture was overturned and broken, and there had been no time to remove the heavier gambling apparatus. Playing cards, however, chips, racing sheets from the afternoon, dice, everything portable and tangible and small enough to be carried had disappeared. But the greatest surprise of all was in store. Though we had seen no one leave by any of the doors, nor by the doors of any of the houses on the block, nor by the roofs, or even by the back yard, according to the report of the police who had been sent in that direction, there was not a living soul in the house from roof to cellar. Search as we did, we could find not one of the scores of people whom I had seen enter in the course of the evening while I was watching on the corner. Dillon, ever mindful of some of the absurd rules of evidence in such cases laid down by the courts, had had an official photographer summoned and he was proceeding from room to room, snapping pictures of apparatus that was left in place and preserving a film record of the condition of things generally. Garrick was standing ruefully beside the roulette wheel at which so many fortunes had been dissipated. "Get me an axe," he asked of one of Dillon's men who was passing. With a well-directed blow he smashed the wheel. "Look," he exclaimed, "this is what they were up against." His forefinger indicated an ingenious but now twisted and tangled series of minute wires and electro-magnets in the delicate mechanism now broken open before us. Delicate brushes led the current into the wheel. With another blow of the axe, Garrick disclosed wires running down through the leg of the table to the floor and under the carpet to buttons operated by the man who ran the game. "What does it mean?" I asked blankly. "It means," he returned, "that they had little enough chance to win at a straight game of roulette. But this wheel wasn't even straight with all the odds in favor of the bank, as they are naturally. This game was electrically controlled. Others are mechanically controlled by what are called the 'mule's ear,' and other devices. You CAN'T win. These wires and magnets can be made to attract the little ball into any pocket the operator desires. Each one of the pockets contains an electro-magnet. One set of electro-magnets in the red pockets is connected with one button under the carpet and a set of batteries. The other series of little magnets in the black pockets is connected with another button and the batteries." He had picked up the little ball. "This ball," he said as he examined it, "is not really of ivory, but of a composition that looks like ivory, coating a hollow, soft-iron ball inside. Soft iron is attracted by an electro-magnet. Whichever set of magnets is energized attracts the ball and by this simple method it is in the power of the operator to let the ball go to red or black as he may wish. Other similar arrangements control the odd or even, and other combinations, also from push buttons. There isn't an honest gambling machine in the whole place. The whole thing is crooked from start to finish,--the men, the machines,----" "Then a fellow never had a chance?" repeated Dillon. "Not a chance," emphasized Garrick. We gathered about and gazed at magnets and wires, the buttons and switches. He did not need to say anything more to expose the character of the place. Amazing as we found everything about us in the palace of crooks, nothing made so deep an impression on me as the fact that it was deserted. It seemed as if the gamblers had disappeared as though in a fairy tale. Search room after room as Dillon's men did they were unable to find a living thing. One of the men had discovered, back of the gambling rooms on the second floor, a little office evidently used by those who ran the joint. It was scantily furnished, as though its purpose might have been merely a place where they could divide up the profits in private. A desk, a cabinet and a safe, besides a couple of chairs, were all that the room contained. Someone, however, had done some quick work in the little office during those minutes while Garrick was opening the great ice-box door with his hydraulic ram, for on every side were scattered papers, the desk had been rifled, and even from the safe practically everything of any value had been removed. It was all part of the general scheme of things in the gambling joint. Practically nothing that was evidential that could be readily removed had been left. Whoever had planned the place must have been a genius as far as laying out precautions against a raid were concerned. Garrick, Dillon and I ran hastily through some scattered correspondence and other documents that spilled out from some letter files on the floor, but as far as I could make out there was nothing of any great importance that had been overlooked. Dillon ordered the whole mass to be bundled up and taken off when the other paraphernalia was removed so that it could be gone through at our leisure, and the search continued. From the "office" a staircase led down by a back way and we followed it, looking carefully to see where it led. A low exclamation from Garrick arrested our attention. In a curve between landings he had kicked something and had bent down to pick it up. An electric pocket flashlight which one of the men had picked up disclosed under its rays a package of papers evidently dropped by someone who was carrying away in haste an armful of stuff. "Markers with the house," exclaimed Garrick as he ran over the contents of the package hurriedly. "I. O. U.'s for various amounts and all initialed--for several hundred thousands. Hello, here's a bunch with an 'F.' That must mean Forbes--thousands of dollars worth." The markers were fastened together with a slip in order to separate them from the others, evidently. Garrick was hastily totalling them up and they seemed to amount to a tidy sum. "How can he ever pay?" I asked, amazed as the sum crept on upward in the direction of six figures. "Don't you see that they're cancelled?" interjected Garrick, still adding. I had not examined them closely, but as I now bent over to do so I saw that each bore the words, "Paid by W." Warrington himself had settled the gambling debts of his friend! In still greater amazement I continued to look and found that they all bore dates from several weeks before, down to within a few days. The tale they told was eloquent. Forbes, his own fortune gone, had gambled until rescued by his friend. Even that had not been sufficient to curb his mania. He had kept right on, hoping insanely to recoup. And the gamblers had been willing to take a chance with him, knowing that they already had so much of his money that they could not possibly lose. A horrid thought flashed over me. What if he had really planned to pay his losses by marrying a girl with a fortune? Forbes was the sort who would have gambled on even that slender prospect. As we stood on the landing while Garrick went over the markers, I found myself wondering, even, where Forbes had been that night after he hurried away from us at the ladies' poolroom and Warrington had taken the journey that had ended so disastrously for him. The more I learned of what had been taking place, the more I saw that Warrington stood out as a gentleman. Undoubtedly Violet Winslow had heard, had been informed by some kind unknown of the slight lapses of Warrington. I felt sure that the gross delinquencies of Forbes were concealed from her and from her aunt, at least as far as Warrington had it in his power to shield the man who was his friend--and rival. The voice of Dillon recalled me from a train of pure speculation to the more practical work in hand before us. "Well, at any rate, we've got evidence enough to protect ourselves and close the place, even if we didn't make any captures," congratulated Dillon, as he rejoined us, after a momentary excursion from which he returned still blinking from the effects of the flashlight powders which his photographer had been using freely. "After we get all the pictures of the place, I'll have the stuff here removed to headquarters--and it won't be handed back on any order of the courts, either, if I can help it!" Garrick had shoved the markers into his pocket and now was leading the way downstairs. "Still, Dillon," he remarked, as we followed, "that doesn't shed any light on the one remaining problem. How did they all manage to get out so quickly?" We had reached the basement which contained the kitchens for the buffet and quarters for the servants. A hasty excursion into the littered back yard under the guidance of Dillon's men who had been sent around that way netted us nothing in the way of information. They had not made their escape over the back fences. Such a number of people would certainly have left some trail, and there was none. We looked at Garrick, perplexed, and he remarked, with sudden energy, "Let's take a look at the cellar." As we groped down the final stairway into the cellar, it was only too evident that at last he had guessed right. Down in the subterranean depths we quickly discovered, at the rear, a sheet-iron door. Battering it down was the work of but a moment for the little ram. Beyond it, where we expected to see a yawning tunnel, we found nothing but a pile of bricks and earth and timbers that had been used for shoring. There had been a tunnel, but the last man who had gone through had evidently exploded a small dynamite cartridge, and the walls had been caved in. It was impossible to follow it until its course could be carefully excavated with proper tools in the daylight. We had captured the stronghold of gambling in New York, but the gamblers had managed to slip out of our grasp, at least for the present. CHAPTER XI THE GANGSTER'S GARAGE "I have it," exclaimed Garrick, as we were retracing our steps upstairs from the dank darkness of the cellar. "I would be willing to wager that that tunnel runs back from this house to that pool-room for women which we visited on Forty-seventh Street, Marshall. That must be the secret exit. Don't you see, it could be used in either direction." We climbed the stairs and stood again in the wreck of things, taking a hasty inventory of what was left, in hope of uncovering some new clew, even by chance. Garrick shook his head mournfully. "They had just time enough," he remarked, "to destroy about everything they wanted to and carry off the rest." "All except the markers," I corrected. "That was just a lucky chance," he returned. "Still, it throws an interesting sidelight on the case." "It doesn't add much in my estimation to the character of Forbes," I ventured, voicing my own suspicions. The telephone bell rang before Garrick had a chance to reply. Evidently in their haste they had not had time to cut the wires or to spread the news, yet, of the raid. Someone who knew nothing of what had happened was calling up. Garrick quickly unhooked the receiver, with a hasty motion to us to remain silent. "Hello," we heard him answer. "Yes, this is it. Who is this?" He had disguised his voice. We waited anxiously and watched his face to gather what response he received. "The deuce!" he exclaimed, with his hand over the transmitter so that his voice would not be heard at the other end. "What's the matter?" I asked eagerly. "Whoever he was," replied Garrick, "he was too keen for me. He caught on. There must have been some password or form that they used which we don't know, for he hung up the receiver almost as soon as he heard me." Garrick waited a minute or two. Then he whistled into, the transmitter. It was done apparently to see whether there was anyone listening. But there was no answer. The man was gone. "Operator, operator!" Guy was calling, insistently moving the hook up and down rapidly. "Yes--I want Central. Central, can you tell me what number that was which just called up?" We all waited anxiously to learn whether the girl could find out or not. "Bleecker seven--one--eight--o? Thank you very much. Give me information, please." Again we waited as Garrick tried to trace the call out. "Hello! What is the street address of Bleecker seven--one--eight--o? Three hundred West Sixth. Thank you. A garage? Good-bye." "A garage?" echoed Dillon, his ears almost going up as he realized the importance of the news. "Yes," cried Garrick, himself excited. "Tom, call a cab. Let us hustle down there as quickly as we can." "One of those garages on the lower West Side," I heard Dillon say as I left. "Perhaps they did work for the gambling joint--sent drunks home, got rid of tough customers and all that. You know already that there are some pretty tough places down there. This is bully. I shouldn't be surprised if it gave us a line on the stealing of Warrington's car at last." I found a cab and Dillon and Garrick joined me in it. "I tried to get McBirney," said Garrick as we prepared to start on our new quest, "but he was out, and the night operator at his place didn't seem to know where he was. But if they can locate him, I imagine he'll be around at least shortly after we get there. I left the address." Dillon had issued his final orders to his raiders about guarding the raided gambling joint and stationing a man at the door. A moment later we were off, threading our way through the crowd which in spite of the late hour still lingered to gape at the place. On the way down we speculated much on the possibility that we might be going on a wild goose chase. But the very circumstances of the call and the promptness with which the man who had called had seemed to sense when something was wrong and to ring off seemed to point to the fact that we had uncovered a good lead of some kind. After a quick run downtown through the deserted avenues, we entered a series of narrow and sinuous streets that wound through some pretty tough looking neighborhoods. On the street corners were saloons that deserved no better name than common groggeries. They were all vicious looking joints and uniformly seemed to violate the law about closing. The fact was that they impressed one as though it would be as much as one's life was worth even to enter them with respectable looking clothes on. The further we proceeded into the tortuous twists of streets that stamp the old Greenwich village with a character all its own, the worse it seemed to get. Decrepit relics of every style of architecture from almost the earliest times in the city stood out in the darkness, like so many ghosts. "Anyone who would run a garage down here," remarked Garrick, "deserves to be arrested on sight." "Except possibly for commercial vehicles," I ventured, looking at the warehouses here and there. "There are no commercial vehicles out at this hour," added Garrick dryly. At last our cab turned down a street that was particularly dark. "This is it," announced Garrick, tapping on the glass for the driver to stop at the corner. "We had better get out and walk the rest of the way." The garage which we sought proved to be nothing but an old brick stable. It was of such a character that even charity could not have said that it had seen much better days for generations. It was dark, evil looking. Except for a slinking figure here and there in the distance the street about us was deserted. Even our footfalls echoed and Garrick warned us to tread softly. I longed for the big stick, that went with the other half of the phrase. He paused a moment to observe the place. It was near the corner and a dim-lighted Raines law saloon on the next cross street ran back almost squarely to the stable walls, leaving a narrow yard. Apparently the garage itself had been closed for the night, if, indeed, it was ever regularly open. Anyone who wanted to use it must have carried a key, I surmised. We crossed over stealthily. Garrick put his ear to an ordinary sized door which had been cut out of the big double swinging doors of the stable, and listened. Not a sound. Dillon, with the instinct of the roundsman in him still, tried the handle of the door gently. To our surprise it moved. I could not believe that anyone could have gone away and left it open, trusting that the place would not be looted by the neighbours before he returned. I felt instinctively that there must be somebody there, in spite of the darkness. The commissioner pushed in, however, followed closely by both of us, prepared for an on-rush or a hand-to-hand struggle with anything, man or beast. A quick succession of shots greeted us. I do not recall feeling the slightest sensation of pain, but with a sickening dizziness in the head I can just vaguely remember that I sank down on the oil and grease of the floor. I did not fall. It seemed as if I had time to catch myself and save, perhaps, a fractured skull. But then it was all blank. It seemed an age, though it could not have been more than ten minutes later when I came to. I felt an awful, choking sensation in my throat which was dry and parched. My lungs seemed to rasp my very ribs, as I struggled for breath. Garrick was bending anxiously over me, himself pale and gasping yet. The air was reeking with a smell that I did not understand. "Thank heaven, you're all right," he exclaimed, with much relief, as he helped me struggle up on my feet. My head was still in a whirl as he assisted me over to a cushioned seat in one of the automobiles standing there. "Now I'll go back to Dillon," he added, out of breath from the superhuman efforts he was putting forth both for us and to keep himself together. "Wh--what's the matter? What happened?" I gasped, gripping the back of the cushion to steady myself. "Am I wounded? Where was I hit? I--I don't feel anything--but, oh, my head and throat!" I glanced over at Dillon. He was pale and white as a ghost, but I could see that he was breathing, though with difficulty. In the glare of the headlight of a car which Garrick had turned on him, he looked ghastly. I looked again to discover traces of blood. But there was none anywhere. "We were all put out of business," muttered Garrick, as he worked over Dillon. Dillon opened his eyes blankly at last, then struggled up to his feet. "You got it worst, commissioner," remarked Garrick to him. "You were closest." "Got what?" he sputtered, "Was closest to what?" We were all still choking over the peculiar odor in the fetid air about us. "The bulletless gun," replied Garrick. Dillon looked at him a moment incredulously, in spite even of his trying physical condition. "It is a German invention," Garrick went on to explain, clearing his throat, "and shoots, instead of bullets, a stupefying gas which temporarily blinds and chokes its victims. The fellow who was in here didn't shoot bullets at us. He evidently didn't care about adding any more crimes to his list just now. Perhaps he thought that if he killed any of us there would be too much of a row. I'm glad it was as it was, anyway. He got us all, this way, before we knew it. Perhaps that was the reason he used the gun, for if he had shot one of us with a pistol I had my own automatic ready myself to blaze away. This way he got me, too. "A stupefying gun!" repeated Dillon. "I should say so. I don't know what happened--yet," he added, blinking. "I came to first," went on Garrick, now busily looking about, as we were all recovered. "I found that none of us was wounded, and so I guessed what had happened. However, while we were unconscious the villain, whoever he was, succeeded in running his car out of the garage and getting away. He locked the door after him, but I have managed to work it open again." Garrick was now examining the floor of the garage, turning the headlight of the machine as much as he could on successive parts of the floor. "By George, Tom," he exclaimed to me suddenly, "see those marks in the grease? Do you recognize them by this time? It is the same tire-mark again--Warrington's car--without a doubt!" Dillon had taken the photographs which Garrick had made several days before from the prints left by the side of the road in New Jersey, and was comparing them himself with the marks on the floor of the garage, while Garrick explained them to him hurriedly, as he had already done to me. "We are getting closer to him, every time,'" remarked Garrick. "Even if he did get away, we are on the trail and know that it is the right one. He could not have been at the gambling joint, or he would never have called up. Yet he must have known all about it. This has turned out better than I expected. I suppose you don't feel so, but you must think so." It was difficult not to catch the contagion of Garrick's enthusiasm. Dillon grunted assent. "This garage," he put in, looking it over critically, "must act as a fence for stolen cars and parts of cars. See, there over in the corner is the stuff for painting new license numbers. Here's enough material to rebuild a half dozen cars. Yes, this is one of the places that ought to interest you and McBirney, Garrick. I'll bet the fellow who owns this place is one of those who'd engage to sell you a second-hand car of any make you wanted to name. Then he'd go out on the street and hunt around until he got one. Of course, we'll find out his name, but I'll wager that when we get the nominal owner we won't be able to extract a thing from him in the way of actual facts." Garrick had continued his examination of the floor. In a corner, near the back, he had picked up an empty shell of a cartridge. He held it down in the light of the car, and examined it long and carefully. As he turned it over and over he seemed to be carefully considering it. Finally, he dropped it carefully into his inside vest pocket, as though it were a rare treasure. "As I said at the start," quoted Garrick, turning to me, "we might get a conviction merely on these cartridges. Anyhow, our man has escaped from here. You can be sure that he won't come back--perhaps never--certainly not at least for a long time, until he figures that this thing has completely blown over." "I'm going to keep my eye on the place, just the same," stoutly insisted Dillon. "Of course, by all means," reiterated Garrick. "The fact is, I expect our next important clew will come from this place. The only thing I want you to be careful of, Dillon, is not to be hasty and make an arrest." "Not make an arrest?" queried Dillon, who still felt the fumes in his throat, and evidently longed to make someone pay the price--at least by giving him the satisfaction of conducting a "third degree" down at headquarters. "No. You won't get the right man, and you may lose one who points straight at him. Take my advice. Watch the place. There's more to be gained by going at it cautiously. These people understand the old hammer-and-tongs game." Just then the smaller outside door grated on its rusty hinges. We sprang to our feet, startled. Dillon leaped forward. Stupefying guns had no taming effect on his nationality. "Well, commish, is that the way you greet an old friend?" laughed McBirney, as a threatened strangle-hold was narrowly averted and turned into a handshake. "How are you fellows? I got your message, Garrick, and thought I'd drop around. What's the matter? You all look as if you'd been drawn through a wringer." Briefly, to the accompaniment of many expressions of astonishment from the insurance detective, Garrick related what had happened, from the raid to the gas-gun. "Well," gasped McBirney, sniffing the remains of the gas in the air, "this is some place, isn't it? Neat, cozy, well-located--for a murder--hello!--that's that ninety horsepower Despard that was stolen from Murdock the other day, or I'll eat my hat." He had raised the hood and was straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of the maker's number on the engine, which had been all but obliterated by a few judicious blows of a hammer. Garrick was busy telling McBirney also about the marks of the tire on the floor, as the detective looked over one car after another, as if he had unearthed a veritable treasure-trove. "No, your man could not have been at either of the gambling joints," agreed McBirney, as Garrick finished, "or he wouldn't have called up. But he must have known them intimately. Perhaps he was in the pay of someone there." McBirney was much interested in what had been discovered, and was trying to piece it together with what we had known before. "I wonder whether he's the short fellow who drove the car when it was seen up there, or the big fellow who was in the car when Warrington was shot, up-state?" The question was, as yet, unanswerable. None of us had been able to catch a glimpse of his figure, muffled, in the darkness when he shot us. All we knew was that even this man was unidentified and at large. The murderer, desperate as he was, was still free and unknown, too. Were they one and the same? What might not either one do next? We sat down in one of the stolen cars and held a midnight council of war. There were four of us, and that meant four different plans. Dillon was for immediate and wholesale arrests. McBirney was certain of one thing. He would claim the cars he could identify. The garage people could not help knowing now that we had been there, and we conceded the point to him with little argument, though it took great tact on Garrick's part to swing over Dillon. "I'm for arresting the garage-keeper, whoever he proves to be," persisted Dillon, however. "It won't do any good," objected Garrick. "Don't you see that it will be better to accept his story, or rather seem to, and then watch him?" "Watch him?" I asked, eager to propose my own plan of waiting there and seizing each person who presented himself. "How can you watch one of these fellows? They are as slippery as eels,--and as silent as a muffler," I added, taking good-humouredly the general laugh that greeted my mixed metaphor. "You've suggested the precise idea, Marshall, by your very objection," broke in Garrick, who up to this time had been silent as to his own plan. "I've a brand-new system of espionage. Trust it to me, and you can all have your way." CHAPTER XII THE DETECTAPHONE I found it difficult to share Garrick's optimism, however. It seemed to me that again the best laid plans of one that I had come to consider among the cleverest of men had been defeated, and it is not pleasant to be defeated, even temporarily. But Garrick was certainly not discouraged. As he had said at the start, it was no ordinary criminal with whom we had to deal. That was clear. There had been gunmen and gangmen in New York for years, we knew, but this fellow seemed to be the last word, with his liquid bullets, his anesthetic shells and his stupefying gun. We had agreed that the garage keeper would, of course, shed little light on the mystery. He was a crook. But he would find no difficulty, doubtless, in showing that there was nothing on which to hold him. Still, Garrick had evidently figured out a way to go ahead while we had all been floundering around, helpless. His silence had merely masked his consideration of a plan. "You three stay here," he ordered. "If anyone should come in, hold him. Don't let anyone get away. But I don't think there will be anyone. I'll be back within an hour or so." It was far past midnight already, as we sat uncomfortably in the reeking atmosphere of the garage. The hours seemed to drag interminably. Almost I wished that something would happen to break the monotony and the suspense. Our lonely vigil went unrewarded, however. No one came; there was not even a ring at the telephone. As nearly as I could figure it out, McBirney was the only one who seemed to have gained much so far. He had looked over the cars most carefully. There were half a dozen of them, in all. "I don't doubt," he concluded, "that all of them have been stolen. But there are only two here that I can identify. They certainly are clever at fixing them up. Look at all the parts they keep ready for use. They could build a car, here." "Yes," agreed Dillon, looking at the expensive "junk" that was lying about. "There is quite enough to warrant closing the place, only I suppose Garrick is right. That would defeat our own purpose." At last Garrick returned from his hurried trip down to the office. I don't know what it was we expected him to bring, but I think we were more or less disappointed when it proved to be merely a simple oblong oak box with a handle. He opened it and we could see that it contained in reality nothing but a couple of ordinary dry cells, and some other paraphernalia. There were two black discs, attached to a metal headpiece, discs about two and a half inches in diameter, with a circular hole in the centre of each, perhaps an inch across, showing inside what looked like a piece of iron or steel. Garrick carefully tested the batteries with a little ammeter which he carried in a case. "Sixteen amperes," he remarked to himself, "I don't attempt to use the batteries when they fall below five. These are all right." From a case he took a little round black disc, about the same size as the other two. In its face it had a dozen or so small holes perforated and arranged in the shape of a six-pointed star. "I wonder where I can stow this away so that it won't attract attention?" he asked. Garrick looked about for the least used part of the garage and decided that it was the back. Near the barred window lay a pile of worn tires which looked as if it had been seldom disturbed except to be added to. When one got tires as cheaply as the users of this garage did, it was folly to bother much about the repair of old ones. Back of this pile, then, he threw the little black disc carelessly, only making sure that it was concealed. That was not difficult, for it was not much larger than a watch in size. To it, I noticed, he had attached two plugs that were "fool-proof"--that is, one small and the other large, so that they could not be inserted into the wrong holes. A long flexible green silk covered wire, or rather two wires together, led from the disc. By carefully moving the tires so as to preserve the rough appearance they had of being thrown down hastily into the discard, he was able to conceal this wire, also, in such a way as to bring it secretly to the barred window and through it. Next he turned his attention to the telephone itself. Another instrument which he had brought with him was inserted in place of the ordinary transmitter. It looked like it and had evidently been prepared with that in view. I assumed that it must act like the ordinary transmitter also, although it must have other uses as well. It was more of a job to trace out the course of the telephone wires and run in a sort of tap line at a point where it would not be likely to be noted. This was done by Garrick, still working in silence, and the wires from it led behind various things until they, too, reached another window and so went to the outside. As Garrick finished his mysterious tinkering and rose from his dusty job to brush off his clothes, he remarked, "There, now you may have your heart's desire, Dillon, if all you want to do is to watch these fellows." "What is it?" I hastened to ask, looking curiously at the oak box which contained still everything except the tiny black disc and the wires leading out of the window from it and from the new telephone transmitter. "This little instrument," he answered slowly, "is much more sensitive, I think, than any mechanical or electrical eavesdropper that has ever been employed before. It is the detectaphone--a new unseen listener." "The detectaphone?" repeated Dillon. "How does it work?" "Well, for instance," explained Garrick, "that attachment which I placed on the telephone is much more than a sensitive transmitter such as you are accustomed to use. It is a form of that black disc which you saw me hide behind the pile of tires. There are, in both, innumerable of the minutest globules of carbon which are floating around, as it were, making it alive at all times to every sound vibration and extremely sensitive even to the slightest sound waves. In the case of the detectaphone transmitter, it only replaces the regular telephone transmitter and its presence will never be suspected. It operates just as well when the receiver is hung up as when it is off the hook, as far as the purpose I have in mind is concerned, as you shall see soon. I have put both forms in so that even if they find the one back of the tires, even the most suspicious person would not think that anything was contained in the telephone itself. We are dealing with clever people and two anchors to windward are better than one." Dillon nodded approval, but by the look on his face it was evident that he did not understand the whole thing yet. "That other disc, back of the tires," went on Garrick, "is the ordinary detective form. All that we need now is to find a place to install this receiving box--all this stuff that is left over--the two batteries, the earpieces. You see the whole thing is very compact. I can get it down to six inches square and four inches thick, or I can have it arranged with earpieces so that at least six people can 'listen in' at once--forms that can be used in detective work to meet all sorts of conditions. Then there is another form of the thing, in a box about four inches square and, perhaps, nine or ten inches long which I may bring up later for another purpose when we find out what we are going to do with the ends of those wires that are now dangling on the outside of the window. We must pick up the connection in some safe and inconspicuous place outside the garage." The window through which the wires passed seemed to open, as I had already noticed, on a little yard not much larger than a court. Garrick opened the window and stuck his head out as far as the iron bars would permit. He sniffed. The odor was anything but pleasant. It was a combination of "gas" from the garage and stale beer from the saloon. "No doubt about it, that is a saloon," remarked Garrick, "and they must pile empty kegs out there in the yard. Let's take a walk around the corner and see what the front of the place looks like." It was a two and a half story building, with a sloping tin roof, of an archaic architecture, in a state of terrible decay and dilapidation, and quite in keeping with the neighbourhood. Nevertheless a bright gilt sign over a side door read, "Hotel Entrance." "I think we can get in there to-morrow on some pretext," decided Garrick after our inspection of the "Old Tavern," as the crazy letters, all askew, on one of the windows denoted the place. "The Old Tavern looks as if it might let lodgings to respectable gentlemen--if they were roughly enough dressed. We can get ourselves up as a couple of teamsters and when we get in that will give us a chance to pick up the ends of those wires to-morrow. That will be time enough, I'm sure, and it is the best we can do, anyhow." We returned from our walk around the block to the garage where Dillon and McBirney were waiting for us. "I leave you free to do what you please, Dillon," answered Garrick to the commissioner's inquiry, "as long as you don't pinch this place which promises to be a veritable gold-mine. McBirney, I know, will reduce the number of cars here tomorrow by at least two. But don't, for heaven's sake, let out any suspicion about those things I have just hidden here. And now, as for me, I'm going uptown and get a few hours' sleep." Dillon and McBirney followed, leaving us, shortly, to get a couple of men from the nearest police station to see that none of the cars were taken out before morning. We rode up to our apartment, where a message was awaiting us, telling that Warrington had passed a very good day and was making much more rapid progress than even Dr. Mead had dared hope. I could not help wondering how much was due to the mere tonic presence daily of Violet Winslow. I had a sound sleep, although it was a short one. Garrick had me up early, and, by digging back in his closet, unearthed the oldest clothes he had. We improved them by sundry smears of dirt in such a way that when we did start forth, no one would have accused us of being other than we were prepared to represent ourselves--workmen who had been laid off from a job on account of bad business conditions. We decided to say that we were seeking another position. "How do I look?" I asked seriously, for this was serious business to me. "I don't know whether to give you a meal ticket, or to call a cop when I look at you, Marshall," laughed Garrick. "Well, I feel a good deal safer in this rig than I did last night, in this part of the city," I replied as we hopped off a surface car not far from our destination. "I almost begin to feel my part. Did you see the old gink with the gold watch on the car? If he was here I believe I'd hold him up, just to see what it is like. I suppose we are going to apply for lodgings at the famous hostelry, the Old Tavern?" "I had that intention," replied Garrick who could see no humour in the situation, now that we were on the scene of action. "The place looks even more sordid in daylight than at night. Besides, it smells worse." We entered the tavern, and were greeted with a general air of rough curiosity, which was quickly dispelled by our spending ten cents, and getting change for a bill. At least we were good for anything reasonable, and doubts on that score settled by the man behind the bar, he consented to enter into conversation, which ultimately resulted in our hiring a large back room upstairs in the secluded caravansary which supplied "Furnished Rooms for Gentlemen Only." Garrick said that we would bring our things later, and we went upstairs. We were no sooner settled than he was at work. He had brought a rope ladder, and, after fastening it securely to the window ledge, he let himself down carefully into the narrow court below. That was the only part of the operation that seemed to be attended with any risk of discovery and it was accomplished safely. For one thing the dirt on the windows both of the garage and the tavern was so thick that I doubt whether so much caution was really necessary. Nevertheless, it was a relief when he secured the ends of the wires from the detectaphone and brought them up, pulling in the rope ladder after him. It was now the work of but a minute to attach one of the wires that led from the watchcase disc back of the pile of tires to the oak box with its two storage batteries. Garrick held the ear-pieces, one to each ear, then shoved them over his head, in place. "It works--it works," he cried, with as much delight as if he had not been positive all along that it would. "Here, try it yourself," he added, taking the headgear off and handing the receivers to me. I put the black discs at my ears, with the little round holes over the ear openings. It was marvellous. I could hear the men washing down one of the cars, the swash of water, and, best of all, the low-toned, gruff gossip. "Just a couple of the men there, now," explained Garrick. "I gather that they are talking about what happened last night. I heard one of them say that someone they call 'the Chief' was there last night and that another man, 'the Boss,' gave him orders to tell no one outside about it. I suppose the Chief is our friend with the stupefying gun. The Boss must be the fellow who runs the garage. What are they saying now? They were grumbling about their work when I handed the thing over to you." I listened, fascinated by the marvel of the thing. I could hear perfectly, although the men must have been in the front of the garage. "Well, there's two of them yer won't haveter wash no more," one man was saying. "A feller from the perlice come an' copped off two--that sixty tin can and the ninety Despard." "Huh--so the bulls are after him?" "Yeh. One was here all night after the fight." "Did they follow the Chief?" "Follow the Chief? Say, when anyone follows the Chief he's gotter be better than any bull that ever pounded a beat." "What did the Boss say when he heard it?" "Mad as---. We gotter lay low now." "The Chief's gone up-state, I guess." "We can guess all we want. The Boss knows. I don't." "Why didn't they make a pinch? Ain't there nobody watchin' now?" "Naw. They ain't got nothin' on us. Say, the Chief can put them fellers just where he wants 'em. See the paper this morning? That was some raid up at the joint--eh?" "You bet. That Garrick's a pretty smooth chap. But the Chief can put it all over him." "Yep," agreed the other speaker. I handed the receivers back to Garrick with a smile. "You are not without some admirers," I remarked, repeating the conversation substantially to him. "They'd shoot up the neighbourhood, I imagine, if they knew the truth." Hour after hour we took turns listening at the detectaphone. We gathered a choice collection of slang and epithets, but very little real news. However, it was evident that they had a wholesome respect for both the Chief and the Boss. It seemed that the real head of the gang, if it was a gang, had disappeared, as one of the men had already hinted "up-state." Garrick had meanwhile brought out the other detectaphone box, which was longer and larger than the oak box. "This isn't a regular detactaphone," he explained, "but it may vary the monotony of listening in and sometime I may find occasion to use it in another way, too." In one of the long faces were two square holes, from the edges of which the inside walls focussed back on two smaller, circular diaphragms. That made the two openings act somewhat like megaphone horns to still further magnify the sound which was emitted directly from this receiver without using any earpieces, and could be listened to anywhere in the room, if we chose. This was attached to the secret arrangement that had been connected with the telephone by replacing the regular by the prepared transmitter. One of us was in the room listening all the time. I remember once, while Guy had gone uptown for a short time, that I heard the telephone bell ring in the device at my ear. Out of the larger box issued a voice talking to one of the men. It was the man whom they referred to as the Chief. He had nothing to say when he learned that the Boss had not showed up since early morning after he had been quizzed by the police. But he left word that he would call up again. "At least I know that our gunman friend, the Chief, is going to call up to-night," I reported to Garrick on his return. "I think he'll be here, all right," commented Garrick. "I called up Dillon while I was out and he was convinced that the best way was, as I said, to seem to let up on them. They didn't get a word out of the fellow they call the Boss. He lives down here a couple of streets, I believe, in a pretty tough place, even worse than the Old Tavern. I let Dillon get a man in there, but I haven't much hope. He's only a tool of the other whom they call Chief. By the way, Forbes has disappeared. I can't find a trace of him since the raid on the gambling joint." "Any word from Warrington?" I asked. "Yes, he's getting along finely," answered Guy mechanically, as if his thoughts were far away from Warrington. "Queer about Forbes," he murmured, then cut himself short. "And, oh," he added, "I forgot to tell you that speaking about Forbes reminds me that Herman has been running out a clew on the Rena Taylor case. He has been all over the country up there, he reports to Dillon, and he says he thinks the car was seen making for Pennsylvania. "They have a peculiar license law there, you know--at least he says so--that enables one to conceal a car pretty well. Much good that does us." "Yes," I agreed, "you can always depend on a man like Herman to come along with something like that---" Just then the "master station" detectaphone connected with the telephone in the garage began to talk and I cut myself short. We seemed now at last about to learn something really important. It was a new voice that said, "Hello!" "Evidently the Boss has come in without making any noise," remarked Guy. "I certainly heard no one through the other instrument. I fancy he was waiting for it to get dark before coming around. Listen." It was a long distance call from the man they called Chief. Where he was we had no means of finding out, but we soon found out where he was going. "Hello, Boss," we heard come out of the detectaphone box. "Hello, Chief. You surely got us nearly pinched last night. What was the trouble?" "Oh, nothing much. Somehow or other they must have got on to us. I guess it was when I called up the joint on Forty-eighth Street. Three men surprised me, but fortunately I was ready. If they hadn't stopped at the door before they opened it, they might have got me. I put 'em all out with that gun, though. Say, I want you to help me on a little job that I am planning. "Yes? Is it a safe one? Don't you think we'd better keep quiet for a little while?" "But this won't keep quiet. Listen. You know I told you about writing that letter regarding Warrington to Miss Winslow, when I was so sore over the report that he was going to close up the Forty-eighth Street joint, right on top of finding that Rena Taylor had the 'goods' on the Forty-seventh Street place? Well, I was a fool. You said so, and I was." "You were--that's right." "I know it, but I was mad. I hadn't got all I wanted out of those places. Well, anyhow, I want that letter back--that's all. It's bad to have evidence like that lying around. Why, if they ever get a real handwriting expert they might get wise to something from that handwriting, I'm afraid. I must have been crazy to do it that way." "What became of the letter?" "She took it to that fellow Garrick and I happen to know that Warrington that night, after leaving Garrick, went to his apartment and put something into the safe he has there. Oh, Warrington has it, all right. What I want to do is to get that letter back while he is laid up near Tuxedo. It isn't much of a safe, I understand. I think a can opener would do the job. We can make the thing look like a regular robbery by a couple of yeggs. Are you on?" "No, I don't get you, Chief." "Why?" "It's too risky." "Too risky?" "Yes. That fellow Garrick is just as likely as not to be nosing around up there. I'd go but for that." "I know. But suppose we find that he isn't there, that he isn't in the house--has been there and left it. That would be safe enough. You're right. Nothing doing if he's there. We must can him in some way. But, say,--I know how to get in all right without being seen. I'll tell you later. Come on, be a sport. We won't try it if anybody's there. Besides, if we succeed it will help to throw a scare into Warrington." The man on our end of the telephone appeared to hesitate. "I'll tell you what I'll do, Chief," he said at length. "I'll meet you at the same place as we met the other day--you know where I mean--some time after twelve. We'll talk it over. You're sure about the letter?" "As sure as if I'd seen it." "All right. Now, be there. I won't promise about this Warrington business. We'll talk that over. But I have other things I want to tell you--about this situation here at the garage. I want to know how to act." "All right. I'll be there. Good-bye." "So long, Chief." The conversation stopped. I looked anxiously at Garrick to see how he had taken it. "And so," he remarked simply, as after a moment's waiting we made sure that the machine had stopped talking, "it appears that our friends, the enemy, are watching us as closely as we are watching them--with the advantage that they know us and we don't know them, except this garage fellow." Garrick lapsed into silence. I was rapidly turning over in my mind what we had just overheard and trying to plan some way of checkmating their next move. "Here's a plot hatching to rob Warrington's safe," I exclaimed helplessly. "Yes," repeated Garrick slowly, "and if we are going to do anything about it, it must be done immediately, before we arouse suspicion and scare them off. Did you hear those footsteps over the detectaphone? That was the Boss going out of the garage. So, they expect me around there, nosing about Warrington's apartment. Well, if I do go there, and then ostentatiously go away again, that will lure them on." He reached his decision quickly. Grabbing his hat, he led the way out of the Old Tavern and up the street until we came to a drug store with a telephone. I heard him first talking with Warrington, getting from him the combination of the safe, over long distance. Then he called up his office and asked the boy to meet him at the Grand Central subway station with a package, the location of which he described minutely. "We'll beat them to it," he remarked joyously, as we started leisurely uptown to meet the boy. Chapter XIII THE INCENDIARY "The Warrington estate owns another large apartment house, besides the one where Warrington has his quarters, on the next street," remarked Garrick, half an hour later, after we had met the boy from his office. "I have arranged that we can get in there and use one of the empty suites." Garrick had secured two rather good-sized boxes from the boy, and was carrying them rather carefully, as if they contained some very delicate mechanism. Warrington, we found, occupied a suite in a large apartment on Seventy-second Street, and, as we entered, Garrick stopped and whispered a few words to the hall-boy. The boy seemed to be more than usually intelligent and had evidently been told over the telephone by Warrington that we were coming. At least we had no trouble, so far. Warrington's suite was very tastefully furnished for bachelor quarters. In the apartment, Garrick unwrapped one of the packages, and laid it open on the table, while he busied himself opening the safe, using the combination that Warrington had given him. I waited nervously, for we could not be sure that no one had got ahead of us, already. There was no need for anxiety, however. "Here's the letter, just as Warrington left it," reported Garrick in a few minutes, with some satisfaction, as he banged the safe door shut and restored things so that it would not look as though the little strong box had been touched. Meanwhile, I had been looking curiously at the box on the table. It did not seem to be like anything we had ever used before. One end was open, and the lid lifted up on a pair of hinges. I lifted it and looked in. About half way down the box from the open end was a partition which looked almost as if some one had taken the end of the box and had just shoved it in, until it reached the middle. The open half was empty, but in the other half I saw a sort of plate of some substance covering the outside of the shoved-in end. There was also a dry cell and several arrangements for adjustments which I did not understand. Back of the whole thing was a piece of mechanism, a clockwork interrupter, as I learned later. Wires led out from the closed end of the box. Garrick shoved the precious letter into his pocket and then placed the box in a corner, where it was hidden by a pile of books, with the open end facing the room in the direction of the antiquated safe. The wires from the box were quickly disposed of and dropped out of the window to the yard, several stories below, where we could pick them up later as we had done with the detectaphone. "What's that?" I asked curiously, when at last he had finished and I felt at liberty to question him. "Well, you see," he explained, "there is no way of knowing yet just how the apartment will be entered. They apparently have some way, though, which they wouldn't discuss over the telephone. But it is certain that as long as they know that there is anyone up here, they will put off the attempt. They said that." He was busily engaged restoring everything in the room as far as possible to its former position. "My scheme," he went on, "is for us now to leave the apartment ostentatiously. I think that is calculated to insure the burglary, for they must have someone watching by this time. Then we can get back to that empty apartment in the house on the next street, and before they can get around to start anything, we shall be prepared for them." Garrick stopped to speak to the hall-boy again as we left, carrying the other box. What he said I did not hear but the boy nodded intelligently. After a turn down the street, a ride in a surface car for a few blocks and back again, he was satisfied that no one was following us and we made our way into the vacant apartment on Seventy-third Street, without being observed. Picking up the wires from the back yard of Warrington's and running them across the back fence where he attached them to other wires dropped down from the vacant apartment was accomplished easily, but it all took time, and time was precious, just now. In the darkness of the vacant room he uncovered and adjusted the other box, connected one set of wires to those we had led in and another set to an apparatus which looked precisely like the receiver of a wireless telegraph, fitting over the head with an earpiece. He placed the earpiece in position and began regulating the mechanism of the queer looking box. "I didn't want to use the detectaphone again," he explained as he worked, "because we haven't any assurance that they'll talk, or, if they do, that it will be worth while to listen. Besides, there may be only one of them." "Then what is this?" I asked. "Well," he argued, "they certainly can't work without light of some kind, can they?" I acquiesced. "This is an instrument which literally makes light audible," he pursued. "Hear light?" I repeated, in amazement. "Exactly," he reiterated. "You've said it. It was invented to assist the blind, but I think I'll be able to show that it can be used to assist justice--which is blind sometimes, they say. It is the optophone." He paused to adjust the thing more accurately and I looked at it with an added respect. "It was invented," he resumed, "by Professor Fournier d'Albe, a lecturer on physics at the University of Birmingham, England, and has been shown before many learned societies over there." "You mean it enables the blind to see by hearing?" I asked. "That's it," he nodded. "It actually enables the blind to locate many things, purely by the light reflected by them. Its action is based on the peculiar property of selenium, which, you probably know, changes its electrical conductivity under the influence of light. Selenium in the dark is a poor conductor of electricity; in the light it, strange to say, becomes a good conductor. Variations of light can thus be transmuted into variations of sound. That pushed-in end of the box which we hid over in Warrington's had, as you might have noticed, a selenium plate on the inside partition, facing the open end of the box." "I understand," I agreed, vaguely. "Now," he went on, "this property of selenium is used for producing or rather allowing to be transmitted an electric current which is interrupted by a special clockwork interrupter, and so is made audible in this wireless telephone receiver which I have here connected with this second box. The eye is replaced by the ear as the detector of light--that is all." It might have been all, but it was quite wonderful to me, even if he spoke of it so simply. He continued to adjust the thing as he talked. "The clockwork has been wound up by means of a small handle, and I have moved that rod along a slit until I heard a purring sound. Then I moved it until the purring sound became as faint as possible. The instrument is at the present moment in its most sensitive state." "What does it sound like?" I asked. "Well, the passage of a hand or other object across the aperture is indicated by a sort of murmuring sound," he replied, "the loudest sound indicating the passage of the edges where the contrast is greatest. In a fairly bright light, even the swiftest shadow is discoverable. Prolonged exposure, however, blinds the optophone, just as it blinds the eye." "Do you hear anything now?" I asked watching his face curiously. "No. When I turned the current on at first I heard a ticking or rasping sound. I silenced that. But any change in the amount of light in that dark room over there would restore the sound, and its intensity would indicate the power of the light." He continued to listen. "When I first tried this, I found that a glimpse out of the window in daylight sounded like a cinematograph reeling off a film. The ticking sank almost into silence as the receiving apparatus was held in the shadow of the office table, and leaped into a lively rattle again when I brought it near an electric-light bulb. I blindfolded myself and moved a piece of blotting paper between the receiver and the light. I could actually hear the grating of the shadow, yes, I heard the shadow pass. At night, too, I have found that it is even affected by the light of the stars." He glanced out of the window in the direction of Warrington's, which we could not see, however, since it was around an angle of the building. "See," he went on, "the moon is rising, and in a few minutes, I calculate, it will shine right into that room over there on Seventy-second Street. By using this optophone, I could tell you the moment it does. Try the thing, yourself, Tom." I did so. Though my ear was untrained to distinguish between sounds I could hear just the faintest noise. Suddenly there came a weird racket. Hastily I looked up at Garrick in surprise. "What is that?" I asked endeavouring to describe it. "Are they there now?" "No," he laughed. "That was the moon shining in. I wanted you to hear what a difference it makes. When a ray of the sun, for instance, strikes that 'feeler' over there, a harmonious and majestic sound like the echo of a huge orchestra is heard. The light of the moon, on the other hand, produces a different sound--lamenting, almost like the groans of the wounded on a battlefield." "So you can distinguish between various kinds of light?" "Yes. Electric light, you would find if anyone came in and switched it on over there, produces a most unpleasant sound, sometimes like two pieces of glass rubbed against each other, sometimes like the tittering laugh of ghosts, and I have heard it like the piercing cry of an animal. Gaslight is sobbing and whispering, grating and ticking, according to its intensity. By far the most melodious and pleasing sound is produced by an ordinary wax candle. It sounds just like an aeolian harp on which the chords of a solemn tune are struck. I have even tried a glow-worm and it sounded like a bee buzzing. The light from a red-hot piece of iron gives the shrillest and most ear-splitting cry imaginable." He took the receiver back from me and adjusted it to his own ear. "Yes," he confirmed, "that was the moon, as I thought. It's a peculiar sound. Once you have heard it you're not likely to forget it. I must silence the machine to that." We had waited patiently for a long time, and still there was no evidence that anyone had entered the room. "I'm afraid they decided not to attempt it after all," I said, finally. "I don't think so," replied Garrick. "I took particular pains to make it seem that the road was clear. You remember, I spoke to the hall-boy twice, and we lingered about long enough when we left. It isn't much after midnight. I wonder how it was that they expected to get in. Ah--there goes the moon. I can hear it getting fainter all the time." Suddenly Garrick's face was all animation. "What is it?" I asked breathlessly. "Someone has entered the room. There is a light which sounds just like an electric flashlight which is being moved about. They haven't switched on the electric light. Now, if I were sufficiently expert I think I could tell by the varying sounds at just what that fellow is flashing the light. There, something passed directly between the light and the box. Yes, there must be two of them--that was the shadow of a human being, all right. They are over in the corner by the safe, now. The fellow with the flashlight is bending down. I can tell, because the other fellow walked between the light and the box and the light must be held very low, for I heard the shadows of both of his legs." Garrick was apparently waiting only until the intruders, whoever they were, were busily engaged in their search before he gave the alarm and hurried over in an attempt to head off their escape by their secret means of entrance. "Tom," he cried, as he listened attentively, "call up the apartment over there and get that hall-boy. Tell him he must not run that elevator up until we get there. No one must leave or enter the building. Tell him to lock the front door and conceal himself in the door that leads down to the cellar. I will ring the night bell five times to let him know when to let us in." I was telephoning excitedly Garrick's instructions and as he waited for me to finish he was taking a last turn at the optophone before we made our dash on Warrington's. A suppressed exclamation escaped him. I turned toward him quickly from the telephone and hung up the receiver. "What's the matter?" I asked anxiously. For a moment he did not reply, but seemed to be listening with an intensity that I knew betokened something unexpected. "Tom," he cried abruptly, stripping the receiver from his head with a jerk and clapping it over my own ears, "quick!--tell me what you hear. What does it sound like to you? What is it? I can't be mistaken." I listened feverishly. Not having had a former acquaintance with the machine, I did not know just what to make of it. But from the receiver of the little optophone there seemed to issue the most peculiar noise I had ever heard a mechanical instrument make. It was like a hoarse rumbling cry, now soft and almost plaintive, again louder and like a shriek of a damned soul in the fires of the nether world. Then it died down, only to spring up again, worse than before. If I had been listening to real sounds instead of to light I should have been convinced that the thing was recording a murder. I described it as best I could. The fact was that the thing almost frightened me by its weird novelty. "Yes--yes," agreed Garrick, as the sensations I experienced seemed to coincide with his own. "Exactly what I heard myself. I felt sure that I could not be mistaken. Quick, Tom,--get central on that wire!" A moment later he seized the telephone from me. I had expected him to summon the police to assist us in capturing two crooks who had, perhaps, devised some odd and scientific method of blowing up a safe. "Hello, hello!" he shouted frantically over the wire. "The fire department! This is eight hundred Seventy-second--on the corner; yes, yes--northeast. I want to turn in an alarm. Yes--quick! There is a fire--a bad one--incendiary--top floor. No, no--I'm not there. I can see it. Hurry!" CHAPTER XIV THE ESCAPE He had dropped the telephone receiver without waiting to replace it on the hook and was now dashing madly out of the empty apartment and down the street. The hall-boy at Warrington's had done exactly as I had ordered him. There was the elevator waiting as Garrick gave the five short rings at the nightbell and the outside door was unlocked. No one had yet discovered the fire which we knew was now raging on the top floor of the apartment. We were whirled up there swiftly, just as we heard echoing through the hall and the elevator shaft from someone who had an apartment on the same floor the shrill cry of, "Fire, fire!" Tenants all the way up were now beginning to throw open their doors and run breathlessly about in various states of undress. The elevator bell was jangling insistently. In the face of the crisis the elevator boy looked at Garrick appealingly. "Run your car up and down until all are out who want to go," ordered Garrick. "Only tell them all that an alarm has already been turned in and that there is no danger except to the suite that is on fire. You may leave us here." We had reached the top floor and stepped out. I realised fully now what had happened. Either the robbers had found out only too quickly that they had been duped or else they had reasoned that the letter they sought had been hidden in a place in the apartment for which they had no time to hunt. It had probably been the latter idea which they had had and, instead of hunting further, they had taken a quicker and more unscrupulous method than Garrick had imagined and had set the room on fire. Fortunately that had been promptly and faithfully reported to us over the optophone in time to localize the damage. "At least we were able to turn in an alarm only a few seconds after they started the fire," panted Garrick, as he strained to burst in the door. Together we managed to push it in, and rushed into the stifle of Warrington's suite. The whole thing was in flames and it was impossible for us to remain there longer than to take in the situation. Accordingly we retreated slowly before the fierce blaze. One of the other tenants came running with a fire extinguisher in either hand from wall rack down the hall on this floor. As well try to drown a blast furnace. They made no impression whatever. Personally I had expected nothing like this. I had been prepared up to the time the optophone reported the fire to dash over and fight it out at close quarters with two as desperate and resourceful men as underworld conditions in New York at that time had created. Instead we saw no one at all. The robbers had evidently worked in seconds instead of minutes, realizing that they must take no risks in a showdown with Garrick. Rooms that might perhaps have given some clew of their presence, perhaps finger-prints which might have settled their identity at once, were now being destroyed. We had defeated them. We had the precious letter. But they had again slipped away. Firemen were now arriving. A hose had been run up, and a solid stream of water was now hissing on the fire. Smoke and steam were everywhere as the men hacked and cut their way at the very heart of the hungry red monster. "We are only in the way here, Tom," remarked Garrick, retreating finally. "Our friends must have entered and escaped by the roof. There is no other way." He had dashed up ahead of the firemen. I followed. Sure enough, the door out on the roof had been broken into. A rope tied around a chimney showed how they had pulled themselves up and later let themselves down to the roof of the next apartment some fifteen feet lower. We could see an open door leading to the roof there, which must also have been broken open. That had evidently been the secret method of which the Chief had spoken to the Boss, whoever they might be, who bore these epithets. Pursuit was useless, now. All was excitement. From the street we could hear the clang of engines and trucks arriving and taking their positions, almost as if the fire department had laid out the campaign beforehand for this very fire. Anyone who had waited a moment or so in the other apartment down the street might have gone downstairs without attracting any attention. Then he might have disappeared in or mingled with the very crowd on the street which he had caused to gather. Late as it was, the crowd seemed to spring from nowhere, and to grow momentarily as it had done during the raid on the gambling joint. It was one of the many interesting night phenomena of New York. What had been intended to be one of the worst fires and to injure a valuable property of the Warrington estate had, thanks to the prompt action of Garrick, been quickly turned into only a minor affair, at the worst. The fire had eaten its way into two other rooms of Warrington's own suite, but there it had been stopped. The building itself was nearly fireproof, and each suite was a unit so that, to all intents and purposes, it might burn out without injury to others. Still, it was interesting to watch the skill and intuition of the smoke-eaters as they took in the situation and almost instantly seemed to be able to cope with it. Sudden and well-planned though the incendiary assault had been, it was not many minutes before it was completely under control. Men in rubber coats and boots were soon tramping through the water-soaked rooms of Warrington. Windows were cracked open and the air in the rooms was clearing. We followed in cautiously after one of the firemen. Everywhere was the penetrating smell of burnt wood and cloth. In the corner was the safe, still hot and steaming. It had stood the strain. But it showed marks of having been tampered with. "Somebody used a 'can-opener' on it," commented Garrick, looking at it critically and then ruefully at the charred wreck of his optophone that had tumbled in the ashes of the pile of books under which it had been hidden, "Yes, that was the scheme they must have evolved after their midnight conference,--a robbery masked by a fire to cover the trail, and perhaps destroy it altogether." "If we had only known that," I agreed, "we might have saved what little there was in that safe for Warrington. But I guess he didn't keep much there." "No," answered Garrick, "I don't think he did. All I saw was some personal letters and a few things he apparently liked to have around here. I suppose all the really valuable stuff he has was in a safety-deposit vault somewhere. There was a packet of--it's gone! What do you think of that?" he exclaimed looking up from the safe to me in surprise. "Packet of what?" I asked. "What is gone?" "Why," replied Garrick, "I couldn't help noticing it when I opened the safe before, but Warrington had evidently saved every line and scrap of writing that Violet Winslow had ever given him and it was all in one of the compartments of the safe. The compartment is empty!" Neither of us could say a word. What reason might there be why anyone should want Warrington's love letters? Was it to learn something that might be used to embarrass him? Might it be for the purpose of holding him up for money? Did the robber want them for himself or was he employed by another? These and a score of other questions flashed, unanswered, through my mind. "I wonder who this fellow is that they call the Chief?" I ventured at last. "I can't say--yet," admitted Garrick. "But he's the cleverest I have ever met. His pace is rapid, but I think we are getting up with it, at last. There's no use sticking around here any longer, though. The place for us, I think, is downtown, getting an earful at the other end of that detectaphone." The engines and other apparatus were rolling away from the fire when we regained the street and things were settling themselves down to normal again. We rode downtown on the subway, and I was surprised when Garrick, instead of going all the way down to the crosstown line that would take us to the Old Tavern, got off at Forty-second Street. "What's the idea of this?" I asked. "Do you think I'm going to travel around the city with that letter in my pocket?" he asked. "Not much, since they seem to set such a value on getting it back. Of course, they don't know that I have it. But they might suspect it. At any rate I'm not going to run any chances of losing it." He had stopped at a well-known hotel where he knew the night clerk. There he made the letter into a little package, sealed it, and deposited it in the safe. "Why do you leave it here?" I asked. "If I go near the office, they might think I left it there, and I certainly won't leave it in my own apartment. They may or may not suspect that I have it. At any rate, I'd hate to risk meeting them down in their own region. But here we are not followed. I can leave it safely and to-morrow I'll get it and deposit it in a really safe place. Now, just to cover up my tracks, I'm going to call up Dillon, but I'm going up Broadway a bit before I do so, so that even he will not know I've been in this hotel. I think he ought to know what has happened to-day." "What did he say?" I asked as Garrick rejoined me from the telephone booth, his face wearing a scowl of perplexity. "Why, he knew about it already," replied Garrick. "I got him at his home. Herman, it seems, got back from some wild-goose chase over in New Jersey and saw the report in the records filed at police headquarters and telephoned him." "Herman is one of the brightest detectives I ever met," I commented in disgust. "He always manages to get in just after everybody else. Has he any more news?" "About the car?" asked Garrick absently. "Nothing except that he ran down the Pennsylvania report and found there was nothing in it. Now he says that he thinks the car may have returned to New York, perhaps by way of Staten Island, for he doubts whether it could have slipped in by New Jersey." "Clever," I ejaculated. "I suppose that occurred to him as soon as he read about the fire. I have to hand it to him for being a deducer." Garrick smiled. "There's one thing, though, he does know," he added, "and that is the gossip of the underworld right here in New York." "I should hope so," I replied. "That was his business to know. Why, has he found out anything really new?" "Why--er--yes. Dillon tells me that it now appears that Forbes had been intimate with that Rena Taylor." "Yes?" I repeated, not surprised. "At least that's what Herman has told him." "Well," I exclaimed in disgust, "Forbes is a fine one to run around with stool-pigeons and women of the Tenderloin, in addition to his other accomplishments, and then expect to associate with a girl like Violet Winslow." "It is scandalous," he agreed. "Why, according to Dillon and Herman, she must have been getting a good deal of evidence through her intimacy with Forbes. They probably gambled together, drank together, and---" "Do you suppose Forbes ever found out that she was really using him?" Garrick shook his head. "I can't say," he replied. "There isn't much value in this deductive, long distance detective work. You reason a thing out to your satisfaction and then one little fact knocks all your clever reasoning sky-high. The trouble here is that on this aspect of the case the truth seems to have been known by only two persons--and one of them is dead, while the other has disappeared." "Strange what has become of Forbes," I ruminated. "It is indeed," agreed Garrick. "But then he was such a night-hawk that anything might easily have happened and no one be the wiser. Since you saw him enter the gambling joint the night of the raid, I've been unable to get a line on him. He must have gone through the tunnel to the ladies' poolroom, but after he left that, presumably, I can't find a trace of him. Where he went no one seems to know. This bit of gossip that Herman has unearthed is the first thing I've heard of him, definitely, for two days." "If Rena Taylor were alive," I speculated, "I don't think you'd have to look further for Forbes than to find her." "But she isn't alive," concluded Garrick, "and there is nothing to show that there was anyone else at the poolroom for women who interested him--and--well, this isn't getting back to business." He turned toward the street. "Let's go down on a surface car," he said. "I think we ought to learn something down there at the Old Tavern, now. If these people have done nothing more, they'll think they have at least given an example of their resourcefulness and succeeded in throwing another scare into Warrington. But there's one thing I'd like to be able to tell Mr. Chief, however. He can't throw any scare into me, if that's his game." CHAPTER XV THE PLOT We had been able to secure a key to the hotel entrance of the Old Tavern, so that we felt free to come and go at any hour of the day or night. We let ourselves in and mounted the stairs cautiously to our room. "At least they haven't discovered anything, yet," Garrick congratulated himself, looking about, as I struck a light, and finding everything as we had left it. Late as it was, he picked up the detective receiver of the mechanical eavesdropper and held it to his ears, listening intently several moments. "There's someone in the garage, all right," he exclaimed. "I can hear sounds as if he were moving about among the cars. It must be the garage keeper himself--the one they call the Boss. I don't think our clever Chief would have the temerity to show up here yet, even at this hour." We waited some time, but not the sound of a voice came from the instrument. "It would be just like them to discover one of these detectaphones," remarked Garrick at length. "This is a good opportunity. I believe I'll just let myself down there in the yard again and separate those two wires, further. There's no use in risking all the eggs in one basket." While I listened in, Garrick cautiously got out the rope ladder and descended. Through the detectaphone I could hear the noise of the man walking about the garage and was ready at the window to give Garrick the first alarm of danger if he approached the back of the shop, but nothing happened and he succeeded in accomplishing his purpose of further hiding the two wires and returning safely. Then we resumed listening in relays. It was early in the morning when there came a telephone call to the garage and the garage keeper answered it. "Where did you go afterward?" he asked of the man who was calling him. Garrick had quickly shifted to the instrument by which we could overhear what was said over the telephone. A voice which I recognised instantly as that of the man they called the Chief replied, "Oh, I had a little business to attend to--you understand. Say, they got that fire out pretty quickly, didn't they? How do you suppose the alarm could have been turned in so soon?" "I don't know. But they tell me that Garrick and that other fellow with him showed up, double quick. He must have been wise to something." "Yes. Do you know, I've been thinking about that ever since. Ever hear of a little thing called a detectaphone? No? Well, it's a little arrangement that can be concealed almost anywhere. I've been wondering whether there might not be one hidden about your garage. He might have put one in that night, you know. I'm sure he knows more about us than he has any right to know. Hunt around there, will you, and see if you can find anything?" "Hold the wire." We could hear the Boss poking around in corners, back of the piles of accessories, back of the gasoline tank, lifting things up and looking under them, apparently flashing his light everywhere so that nothing could escape him. A hasty exclamation was recorded faithfully over our detectaphone, close to the transmitter, evidently. "What the deuce is this?" growled a voice. Then over the telephone we could hear the Boss talking. "There's a round black thing back of a pile of tires, with a wire connected to it. One side of it is full of little round holes. Is that one of those things?" "Yes," came back the voice, "that's it." Then excitedly, "Smash it! Cut the wires--no, wait--look and see where they run. I thought you'd find something. Curse me for a fool for not thinking of that before." Garrick had quickly himself detached the wire from the receiving instrument in our room and, sticking his head cautiously out of the window, he swung the cut ends as far as he could in the direction of a big iron-shuttered warehouse down the street in the opposite direction from us. Then he closed the window softly and pulled down the switch on the other detectaphone connected with the fake telephone receiver. He smiled quietly at me. The thing worked still. We had one connection left with the garage, anyway. There was a noise of something being shattered to bits. It was the black disc back of the pile of tires. We could hear the Boss muttering to himself. "Say," he reported back over the telephone, "I've smashed the thing, all right, and cut the wires, too. They ran out of the back window to that mercantile warehouse, down the street, I think. I'll look after that in the morning. It's so dark over there now I can't see a thing." "Good!" exclaimed the other voice with satisfaction. "Now we can talk. That fellow Garrick isn't such a wise guy, after all. I tell you, Boss, I'm going to throw a good scare into them this time--one that will stick." "What is it?" "Well, I got Warrington, didn't I?" "Yes." "You know I can't always be following that fellow, Garrick. He's too clever at dodging shadows. Besides, unless we give him something else to think about he may get a line on one of us,--on me. Don't you understand? Warrington's out of it for the present. I saw to that. Now, the thing is to fix up something to call them off, altogether, something that we can use to hold them up." "Yes--go on--what?" "Why--how about Violet Winslow?" My heart actually skipped beating for a second or two as I realised the boldness and desperation of the plan. "What do you mean--a robbery up there in Tuxedo?" "No, no, no. What good would a robbery do? I mean to get her--kidnap her. I guess Warrington would call the whole thing off to release her--eh?" "Say, Chief, that's going it pretty strong. I'd rather break in up there and leave a threat of some kind, something that would frighten them. But, this,--I'm afraid--" "Afraid--nothing. I tell you, we've got to do it. They're getting too close to us. We've either got to get Garrick or do something that'll call him off for good. Why, man, the whole game is up if he keeps on the way he has been going--let alone the risk we have of getting caught." The Boss seemed to be considering. "How will you get a chance to do it?" he asked at length. "Oh, I'll get a chance, all right. I'll make a chance," came back the self-confident reply. It sent a shiver through me merely to contemplate what might happen if Violet Winslow fell into such hands. Mentally I blessed Garrick for his forethought in having the phony 'phone in the garage against possible discovery of the detective instrument. "You know this poisoned needle stuff that's been in the papers?" pursued the Chief. "Bunk--all bunk," came back the Boss promptly. "Is that so?" returned the Chief. "Well, you're right about it as far as what has been in the papers is concerned. I don't know but I doubt about ninety-nine and ninety-nine hundredths per cent of it, too. But, I'll tell you,--it can be done. Take it from me--it can be done. I've got one of the best little sleepmakers you ever saw--right from Paris, too. There, what do you know about that?" I glanced hastily, in alarm, at Garrick. His face was set in hard lines, as he listened. "Sleepmaker--Paris," I heard him mutter under his breath, and just a flicker of a smile crossed the set lines of his fine face. "Yes, sir," pursued the voice of the Chief, "I can pull one of those poisoned needle cases off and I'm going to do it, if I get half a chance." "When would you do it?" asked the Boss, weakening. "As soon as I can. I've a scheme. I'm not going to tell you over the wire, though. Leave it to me. I'm going up to our place, where I left the car. I'll study the situation out, up there. Maybe I'll run over and look over the ground, see how she spends her time and all that sort of thing. I've got to reckon in with that aunt, too. She's a Tartar. I'll let you know. In the meantime, I want you to watch that place on Forty-seventh Street. Tell me if they make any move against it. Don't waste any time, either. I can't be out of touch with things the way I was the last time I went away. You see, they almost put one across on us--in fact they did put one across with that detectaphone thing. Now, we can't let that happen again. Just keep me posted, see?" They had finished talking and that was apparently all we were to get that night, or rather that morning, by way of warning of their plot for the worst move yet. It was enough. If they would murder and burn, what would they stop at in order to strike at us through the innocent figure of Violet Winslow? What might not happen to such a delicate slip of a girl in the power of such men? "At least," rapped out Garrick, himself smothering his alarm, "they can't do anything immediately. It gives us time to prepare and warn. Besides, before that we may have them rounded up. The time has come for something desperate. I won't be trifled with any longer. This last proposal goes just over the limit." As for me, I was speechless. The events of the past two days, the almost sleepless nights had sapped my energy. Even Garrick, though he was a perfect glutton for work, felt the strain. It was very late, or rather very early, and we determined to snatch a few moments of sleep at the Old Tavern before the rest of the world awoke to the new day. It was only a couple of hours that we could spare, but it was absolutely necessary. In spite of our fatigue, we were up again early and after another try at the phony 'phone which told us that only the men were working in the garage, we were on our way up to Garrick's apartment. We had scarcely entered when the telephone boy called up to say that there was a Mr. Warrington on long distance trying to get us. Garrick eagerly asked to have him put on our wire. Warrington, it seemed, had been informed of the fire by one of his agents and was inquiring anxiously for details, especially about the letter. Garrick quickly apologised for not calling up himself, and relieved his anxiety by assuring him that the letter was safe. "And how are you?" he asked of Warrington. "Convalescing rapidly," laughed back the patient, to whom the loss of anything was a mere bagatelle beside the letter. Garrick had not told him yet of the stealing of the other letters. "Getting along fine,--thanks to a new tonic which Dr. Mead has prescribed for me." "I can guess what it is." Warrington laughed again. "Yes--I've been allowed to take short motor trips with Violet," he explained. The natural manner in which "Violet" replaced "Miss Winslow" indicated that the trips had not been without result. "Say, Warrington," burst out Garrick, seeing an opportunity of introducing the latest news, "I hate to butt in, but if you'll take my advice, you'll just cut out those trips a few days. I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily, but after to-day I want Miss Winslow never to be out of sight of friends--friends, I said; not one, but several." "Why--what's the matter?" demanded Warrington in alarm. "I can't explain it all over the telephone," replied Garrick, sketching out hastily something of what we had overheard. "I'll try to see you before long--perhaps to-day. Don't forget. I want you to warn Miss Winslow yourself. You can't put it too strongly. Use your judgment about Mrs. de Lancey. I don't want to get you in wrong with her. But, remember, it's a matter of life or death--or perhaps worse. Try to do it without unnecessarily alarming Miss Winslow, if you can. Just fix it up as quietly as possible. But be positive about it. No, I can't explain more over the wire now. But--no more outings for either of you, and particularly Miss Winslow, until I raise the ban." Warrington had been inclined to argue the matter at first, but Garrick of course quickly prevailed, the more so because Warrington realised that in his condition he was anything but an adequate body-guard for her if something unexpected should happen. "Oh--I had a call the other day," reported Warrington as an afterthought before hanging up the receiver. "It was from McBirney. He says one of his unofficial scouts has told him of seeing a car that might have been mine up this way lately." Garrick acquiesced to the information which, to us, was not new. "Yes," he said, "there have been several such reports. And, by the way, that reminds me of something. You will have to put at our disposal one of your cars down here." "Go as far as you like. What do you want--a racer?" "Why--yes, if it's in perfect condition. You see, we may have to do some unexpected sleuthing in it." "Go as far as you like," repeated Warrington, now thoroughly aroused by the latest development of the case. "Spare nothing, Garrick--nothing. Curse my luck for being laid up! Every dollar I have is at your disposal, Garrick, to protect her from those scoundrels--damn them!" "Trust me, Warrington," called back Garrick. "I give you my word that it's my fight now." "Garrick--you're a brick," came back Warrington as the conversation closed. "Good heavens, Guy," I exclaimed when he hung up the receiver after calling up Warrington's garage and finding out what cars were available, "Are we going to have to extend operations over the whole State, after all?" "We may have to do almost anything," he replied, "if our scientific murderer tries some of his smooth kidnapping tricks. It's possible that McBirney may be right about that car being up there. Certainly we know that it has been up there, whether it is now or not." "And Herman wrong about its being in the city?" I suggested. "Well, one guess is as good as another in a case like this, I suppose." It had been a great relief to get back to our rooms and live even for a few minutes like civilised beings. I suggested that we might have a real breakfast once more. I could tell, however, that Garrick's mind was far away from the thought of eating, and that he realised that a keen, perhaps the keenest, test of his ability lay ahead of him, if he was to come out successfully and protect Violet Winslow in the final battle with the scientific gunman. I did not interrupt him. CHAPTER XVI THE POISONED NEEDLE Over a still untasted grapefruit Garrick was considering what his next move should be. As for me, even this temporary return to a normal life caused me to view things in a different light. There had been, as the Chief and the Boss had hinted at in their conversation, a wave of hysteria which had swept over the city only a short time before regarding what had come to be called the "poisoned needle" cases. Personally I had doubted them and I had known many doctors and scientists as well as vice and graft investigators who had scouted them, too. "Garrick," I said at length, "do you really think that we have to deal with anything in this case but just plain attempted kidnapping of the old style?" He shook his head doubtfully. I knew him to be anything but an alarmist and waited impatiently for him to speak. "I wouldn't think so," he said at length slowly, "except for one thing." "What's that?" I asked eagerly. "His mention of the 'sleepmakers' and Paris," he replied briefly. Garrick had risen and walked over to a cabinet in the corner of his room. When he returned it was with something gleaming in the morning sunshine as he rolled it back and forth on a piece of paper, just a shining particle. He picked it up carefully. I bent over to look at it more closely and there, in Garrick's hand, was a tiny bit of steel, scarcely three-eighths of an inch long, a mere speck. It was like nothing of which I had ever heard or read. Yet Garrick himself seemed to regard the minute thing with a sort of awe. As for me, I knew not what to make of it. I wondered whether it might not be some new peril. "What is it?" I asked at length, seeing that Garrick might be disposed to talk, if I prompted him. "Well," he answered laconically, holding it up to the light so that I could see that it was in reality a very minute, pointed hollow tube, "what would you say if I told you it was the point of a new--er--poisoned needle?" He said it in such a simple tone that I reacted from it toward my own preconceived notions of the hysterical newspaper stories. "I've heard about all the poisoned needle stories," I returned. "I've investigated some of them and written about them for my paper, Guy. And I must say still that I doubt them. Now in the first place, the mere insertion of a hypodermic needle--of course, you've had it done, Guy--is something so painful that anyone in his senses would cry aloud. Then to administer a drug that way requires a great deal of skill and knowledge of anatomy, if it is to be done with full and quick effect." Garrick said nothing, but continued to regard the hollow point which he had obtained somewhere, perhaps on a previous case. "Why, such an injection," I continued, recalling the result of my former careful investigations on the subject, "couldn't act instantaneously anyhow, as it must if they are to get away with it. After the needle is inserted, the plunger has to be pushed down, and the whole thing would take at least thirty seconds. And then, the action of the drug. That would take time, too. It seems to me that in no case could it be done without the person's being instantly aware of it and, before lapsing into unconsciousness, calling for help or--" "On the contrary," interrupted Garrick quietly, "it is absurdly easy. Waiving the question whether they might not be able to get Violet Winslow in such a situation where even the old hypodermic method which you know would serve as well as any other, why, Marshall, just the hint that fellow dropped tells me that he could walk up to her on the street or anywhere else, and--" He did not finish the sentence, but left it to my imagination. It was my turn, now, to remain silent. "You are right, though, Tom, in one respect," he resumed a moment later. "It is not easy by the old methods that everyone now knows. For instance, take the use of chloral-knock-out drops, you know. That is crude, too. Hypodermics and knock-out drops may answer well enough, perhaps, for the criminals whose victims are found in cafes and dives of a low order. But for the operations of an aristocratic criminal of to-day--and our friend the Chief seems to belong to the aristocracy of the underworld--far more subtle methods are required. Let me show you something." Carefully, from the back of a drawer in the cabinet, where it was concealed in a false partition, he pulled out a little case. He opened it, and in it displayed a number of tiny globes and tubes of thin glass, each with a liquid in it, some lozenges, some bonbons, and several cigars and cigarettes. "I'm doing this," he remarked, "to show you, Tom, that I'm not unduly magnifying the danger that surrounds Violet Winslow, after hearing what I did over that detectaphone. Perhaps it didn't impress you, but I think I know something of what we're up against." From another part of the case he drew a peculiar looking affair and handed to me without a word. It consisted of a glass syringe about two inches long, fitted with a glass plunger and an asbestos washer. On the other end of the tube was a hollow point, about three-eighths of an inch long--just a shiny little bit of steel such as he had already showed me. I looked at it curiously and, in spite of my former assurance, began to wonder whether, after all, the possibility of a girl being struck down suddenly, without warning, in a public place and robbed--or worse--might not take on the guise of ghastly reality. "What do you make of it?" asked Garrick, evidently now enjoying the puzzled look on my face. I could merely shrug my shoulders. "Well," he drawled, "that is a weapon they hinted at last night. The possibilities of it are terrifying. Why, it could easily be plunged through a fur coat, without breaking." He took the needle and made an imaginary lunge at me. "When people tell you that the hypodermic needle cannot be employed in a case like this that they are planning," he continued, "they are thinking of ordinary hypodermics. Those things wouldn't be very successful usually, anyhow, under such circumstances. But this is different. The very form of this needle makes it particularly effective for anyone who wishes to use it for crime. For instance--take it on a railroad or steamship or in a hotel. Draw back the plunger--so--one quick jab--then drop it on the floor and grind it under your heel. The glass is splintered into a thousand bits. All evidence of guilt is destroyed, unless someone is looking for it practically with a microscope." "Yes," I persisted, "that is all right--but the pain and the moments before the drug begins to work?" With one hand Garrick reached into the case, selecting a little thin glass tube, and with the other he pulled out his handkerchief. "Smell that!" he exclaimed, bending over me so that I could see every move and be prepared for it. Yet it was done so quickly that I could not protect myself. "Ugh!" I ejaculated in surprise, as Garrick manipulated the thing with a legerdemain swiftness that quite baffled me, even though he had given me warning to expect something. Everyone has seen freak moving picture films where the actor suddenly bobs up in another place, without visibly crossing the intervening space. The next thing I knew, Garrick was standing across the room, in just that way. The handkerchief was folded up and in his pocket. It couldn't have been done possibly in less than a minute. What had happened? Where had that minute or so gone? I felt a sickening sensation. "Smell it again?" Garrick laughed, taking a step toward me. I put up my hand and shook my head negatively, slowly comprehending. "You mean to tell me," I gasped, "that I was--out?" "I could have jabbed a dozen needles into you and you would never have known it," asserted Garrick with a quiet smile playing over his face. "What is the stuff?" I asked, quite taken aback. "Kelene--ethyl chloride. Whiff!--and you are off almost in a second. It is an anaesthetic of nearly unbelievable volatility. It comes in little hermetically sealed tubes, with a tiny capillary orifice, to prevent its too rapid vaporising, even when opened for use. Such a tube may be held in the palm of the hand and the end crushed off. The warmth of the hand alone is sufficient to start a veritable spray. It acts violently on the senses, too. But kelene anaesthesia lasts only a minute or so. The fraction of time is long enough. Then comes the jab with the real needle--perhaps another whiff of kelene to give the injection a chance. In two or three minutes the injection itself is working and the victim is unconscious, without a murmur--perhaps, as in your case, without any clear idea of how it all happened--even without recollection of a handkerchief, unable to recall any sharp pain of a needle or anything else." He was holding up a little bottle in which was a thick, colorless syrup. "And what is that?" I asked, properly tamed and no longer disposed to be disputatious. "Hyoscine." "Is it powerful?" "One one-hundredth of a grain of this strength, perhaps less, will render a person unconscious," replied Garrick. "The first symptom is faintness; the pupils of the eyes dilate; speech is lost; vitality seems to be floating away, and the victim lapses into unconsciousness. It is derived from henbane, among ether things, and is a rapid, energetic alkaloid, more rapid than chloral and morphine. And, preceded by a whiff of kelene, not even the sensations I have described are remembered." I could only stare at the outfit before me, speechless. "In Paris, where I got this," continued Garrick, "they call these people who use it, 'endormeurs'--sleepmakers. That must have been what the Chief meant when he used that word. I knew it." "Sleepmakers," I repeated in horror at the very idea of such a thing being attempted on a young girl like Violet Winslow. "Yes. The standard equipment of such a criminal consists of these little thin glass globes, a tiny glass hypodermic syringe with a sharp steel point, doped cigars and cigarettes. They use various derivatives of opium, like morphine and heroin, also codeine, dionin, narcein, ethyl chloride and bromide, nitrite of amyl, amylin,--and the skill that they have acquired in the manipulation of these powerful drugs stamps them as the most dangerous coterie of criminals in existence. Now," he concluded, "doubt it or not, we have to deal with a man who is a proficient student of these sleepmakers. Who is he, where is he, and when will he strike?" Garrick was now pacing excitedly up and down the room. "You see," he added, "the police of Europe by their new scientific methods are driving such criminals out of the various countries. Thank heaven, I am now prepared to meet them if they come to America." "Then you think this is a foreigner?" I asked meekly. "I didn't say so," Garrick replied. "No. I think this is a criminal exceptionally wide awake, one who studies and adopts what he sees whenever he wants it. If you recall, I warned you to have a wholesome respect for this man at the very start, when we were looking at that empty cartridge." I could restrain my admiration of him no longer. "Guy," I exclaimed, heartily, astounded by what I had seen, "you--you are a wonder!" "No," he laughed, "not wonderful, Tom,--only very ordinary. I've had a chance to learn some things abroad, fortunately. I've taken the time to show you all this because I want you to appreciate what it is we are up against in this case of Violet Winslow. You can understand now why I was so particular about instructing Warrington not to let her go anywhere unattended by friends. There's nothing inherently impossible in these poisoned needle stories--given the right conjunction of circumstances. What we have to guard against principally is letting her get into any situation where the circumstances make such a thing possible. I've almost a notion to let the New York end of this case go altogether for a while and take a run up to Tuxedo to warn her and Mrs. de Lancey personally. Still, I think I put it strongly enough with Warrington so that--" Our telephone tinkled insistently. "Hello," answered Garrick. "Yes, this is Garrick. Who is this? Warrington? In Tuxedo? Why, my dear boy, you needn't have gone personally. Are you sure you're strong enough for such exertion? What--what's that? Warrington--it--it isn't--not to New York?" Garrick's face was actually pale as he fairly started back from the telephone and caught my eye. "Tom," he exclaimed huskily to me, "Violet Winslow left for New York on the early train this morning!" I felt my heart skip a beat, then pound away like a sledge-hammer at my ribs as the terrible possibilities of the situation were seared into my brain. "Yes, Warrington--a letter to her? Read it--quick," I heard Garrick's tense voice repeating. "I see. Her maid Lucille was taken very ill a few days ago and she allowed her to go to her brother who lives on Ninth Street. I understand. Now--the letter." I could not hear what was said over the telephone, but later Garrick repeated it to me and I afterwards saw the letter itself which I may as well reproduce here. It said: "Since I left you, mademoiselle, I am very ill here at the home of my brother. I have a nice room in the back of the house on the first floor and now that I am getting better I can sit up and look out of the window. "I am very ill yet, but the worst is past and some time when you are in New York I wish I could see you. You have always been so good to me, mademoiselle, that I hope I may soon be back again, if you have not a maid better than your poor Lucille. "Your faithful servant, "LUCILLE DE VEAU." "And she's already in the city?" asked Garrick of Warrington as he finished reading the letter. "Mrs. de Lancey has gone with her--to do some shopping. I see. That will take all day, she said? She is going to call on Lucille--to-night--that's what she told her new maid there? To-night? That's all right, my boy. I just wanted to be sure. Don't worry. We'll look out for her here, all right. Now, Warrington, you just keep perfectly quiet. No relapses, you know, old fellow. We can take care of everything. I'm glad you told me. Good-bye." Garrick had finished up his conversation with Warrington in a confident and reassuring tone, quite the opposite to that with which he had started and even more in contrast with the expression on his face as he talked. "I didn't want to alarm the boy unnecessarily," he explained to me, as he hung up the receiver. "I could tell that he was very weak yet and that the trip up to Tuxedo had almost done him up. It seems that she thought a good deal of Lucille--there's the address--99 Ninth. You can never tell about these maids, though. Lucille may be all right--or the other maid may be all bad, or vice versa. There's no telling. The worst of it is that she and her aunt are somewhere in the city, perhaps shopping. It only needs that they become separated for something, anything, to happen. There's been no time to warn her, either, and she's just as likely to visit that Lucille to-night alone as not. Gad--I'm glad I didn't fly off up there to Tuxedo, after all. She'll need someone here to protect her." Garrick was considering hastily what was to be done. Quickly he mapped out his course of action. "Come, Tom," he said hurriedly to me, as he wrapped up a little cedar box which he took from the cabinet where he kept the endormeur outfit. "Come--let's investigate that Ninth Street address while we have time." CHAPTER XVII THE NEWSPAPER FAKE Within a few minutes we were sauntering with enforced leisure along Ninth Street, in a rather sordid part, inhabited largely, I made out, by a slightly better class of foreigners than some other sections of the West Side. As we walked along, I felt Garrick tugging at my arm. "Slow up a bit," he whispered under his breath. "There's the house which was mentioned in the maid's note." It was an old three-story brownstone building with an entrance two or three steps up from the sidewalk level. Once, no doubt, it had housed people of some means, but the change in the character of the neighbourhood with shifting population had evidently brought it to the low estate where it now sheltered one family on each floor, if not more. At least that was the general impression one got from a glance at the cheapened air of the block. Garrick passed the house so as not to attract any attention, and a little further on paused before an apartment house, not of the modern elevator construction, but still of quiet and decent appearance. At least there were no children spilling out from its steps into the street, in imminent danger of their young lives from every passing automobile, as there were in the tenements of the block below. He entered the front door which happened to be unlatched and we had no trouble in mounting the stairs to the roof. What he intended doing I had no idea yet, but he went ahead with assurance and I followed, equally confident, for he must have had adventures something like this before. On the roof, a clothesline, which he commandeered and tied about a chimney, served to let him down the few feet from the higher apartment roof to that of the dwelling house next to it, one of the row in which number 99 was situated. Quickly he tiptoed over to the chimney of the brownstone house a few doors down and, as he did so, I saw him take from his pocket the cedar box. A string tied to a weight told him which of the flues reached down to the room on the first floor, back. That determined, he let the little cedar box fastened to an entwined pair of wires down the flue. He then ran the wires back across the roof to the apartment, up, and into a little storm shed at the top of the last flight of stairs which led from the upper hall to the roof. "There is nothing more that we can do here just yet," he remarked after he had hauled himself back to me on the higher roof. "We are lucky not to have been disturbed, but if we stay here we are likely to be observed." Cautiously we retraced our steps and were again on the street without having alarmed any of the tenants of the flat through which we had gained access to the roofs. It was now the forenoon and, although Garrick instituted a search in every place that he could think of where Mrs. de Laacey and Violet Winslow might go, including the homes of those of their friends whose names we could learn, it was without result. I don't think there can be many searches more hopeless than to try to find someone in New York when one has no idea where to look. Only chance could possibly have thrown them in our way and chance did not favour us. There was nothing to do but wait for the time when Miss Winslow might, of her own accord, turn up to visit her former maid for whom she apparently had a high regard. Inquiries as to the antecedents of Lucille De Veau were decidedly unsatisfactory, not that they gave her a bad character, but because there simply seemed to be nothing that we could find out. The maid seemed to be absolutely unknown. Her brother was a waiter, though where he worked we could not find out, for he seemed to be one of those who are constantly shifting their positions. Garrick had notified Dillon of what he had discovered, in a general way, and had asked him to detail some men to conduct the search secretly for Miss Winslow and her aunt, but without any better results than we had obtained. Apparently the department stores had swallowed them up for the time being and we could only wait impatiently, trusting that all would turn out right in the end. Still, I could not help having some forebodings in the matter. It was in the middle of the afternoon that we had gone downtown to Garrick's office, after stopping to secure the letter from the safe in the uptown hotel where it had been deposited for security during the night and placing it in a safety deposit vault where Garrick kept some of his own valuables. Garrick had selected his office as a vantage point to which any news of Miss Winslow and her aunt might be sent by those whom we had out searching. No word came, however, and the hours of suspense seemed to drag interminably. "You're pretty well acquainted on the STAR?" Garrick asked me at last, after we had been sitting in a sort of mournful silence wondering whether those on the other side might not be stealing a march on us. "Why, yes, I know several people there," I replied. "Why do you ask?" "I was just thinking of a possible plan of campaign that might be mapped out to bring these people from under cover," he remarked thoughtfully. "Do you think you could carry part of it through?" I said I would try and Garrick proceeded to unfold a scheme which he had been revolving all day. It consisted of as ingenious a "plant" as I could well imagine. "You see," he outlined, "if you could go over to the Star office and get them to run off a few copies of the paper, after they are through with the regular editions, I believe we can get the Chief started and then all we should have to do would be to follow him up--or someone who would lead us to him." The "plant," in short, consisted in writing a long and circumstantial story of the discovery of new evidence against the ladies' poolroom, which so far had been scarcely mentioned in the case. As Garrick laid it out, the story was to tell of a young gambler who was said to be in touch with the district attorney, in preference to saying the police. In fact, his idea was to write up the whole gambling situation as we knew it on lines that he suggested. Then a "fake" edition of the paper was to be run off, bearing our story on the front page. Only a few copies were to be printed, and they were to be delivered to us. The thing had been done before by detectives, I knew, and in this case Warrington was to foot the bill, which might prove to be considerable. At least it offered me some outlet for my energies during the rest of the afternoon when the failure to receive any reports about the two women whom we were seeking began to wear on my nerves. It took some time to arrange the thing with those in authority on the Star, but at last that was done and I hastened back to Garrick at his office to tell him that all that remained to do was the actual writing of the story. Garrick had just finished testing an arrangement in a large case, almost the size of a suitcase, and had stood it in a corner, ready to be picked up and carried off the instant there was any need for it. There was still no word of Miss Winslow and Mrs. de Lancey and it began to look as if we should not hear from them until Violet Winslow turned up on her visit to her former maid. Together we plunged into the preparation of the story, the writing of which fell to me while Garrick now and then threw in a suggestion or a word of criticism to make it sound stronger for his purpose. Thus the rest of the afternoon passed in getting the thing down "pat." I flatter myself that it was not such a bad piece of work when we got through with it. By dint of using such expressions as "It is said," "It is rumoured," "The report about the Criminal Courts Building is," "An informant high in the police department," and crediting much to a mythical "gambler who is operating quietly uptown," we managed to tell some amazing facts. The fake story began: "Since the raid by the police on the luxurious gambling house in Forty-eighth Street, a remarkable new phase of sporting life has been unfolded to the District Attorney, who is quietly gathering evidence against another place situated in the same district. "A former gambler who frequented the raided place has put many incriminating facts about the second place in the hands of the authorities who are contemplating an exposure that will stir even New York, accustomed as it is to such startling revelations. It involves one of the cleverest and most astute criminals who ever operated in this city. "This place, which is under observation, is one which has brought tragedy to many. Young women attracted by the treacherous lure of the spinning roulette wheel or the fascination of the shuffle of cards have squandered away their own and their husband's money with often tragic results, and many of them have gone even further into the moral quagmire in the hope of earning enough money to pay their losses and keep from their families the knowledge of their gambling. "This situation, one of the high lights in the city of lights and shadows, has been evolved, according to the official informant, through the countless number of gambling resorts that have gained existence in the most fashionable parts of the city. "The record of crime of the clever and astute individual already mentioned is being minutely investigated, and, it is said, shows some of the most astounding facts. It runs even to murder, which was accomplished in getting rid of an informer recently in the pay of the police. "Against those conducting the crusade every engine of the underworld has been used. The fight has been carried on bitterly, and within less than twenty-four hours arrests are promised as a result of confessions already in the hands of the authorities and being secretly and widely investigated by them before the final blow is delivered simultaneously, both in the city and in a town up-state where the criminal believes himself unknown and secure." There was more of the stuff, which I do not quote, describing the situation in detail and in general terms which could all have only one meaning to a person acquainted with the particular case with which we were dealing. It threw a scare, in type, as hard as could be done. I fancied that when it was read by the proper person he would be amazed that so much had, apparently, become known to the newspapers, and would begin to wonder how much more was known that was not printed. "That ought to make someone sit up and take notice," remarked Garrick with some satisfaction, as he corrected the typewritten copy late in the afternoon. "The printing of that will take some time and I don't suppose we shall get copies until pretty late. You can take it over to the Star, Tom, and complete the arrangements. I have a little more work to do before we go up there on Ninth Street. Suppose you meet me at eight in Washington Square, near the Arch?" CHAPTER XVIII THE VOCAPHONE Promptly to the dot I met Garrick at the appointed place. Not a word so far had been heard, either from Violet Winslow or Mrs. de Lancey. There was one thing encouraging about it, however. If they had become separated while shopping, as sometimes happens, we should have been likely to hear of it, at least from her aunt. Garrick was tugging the heavy suitcase which I had seen standing ready down in his office during the afternoon, as well as a small package wrapped up in paper. "Let me carry that suitcase," I volunteered. We trudged along across the park, my load getting heavier at every step. "I'm not surprised at your being winded," I panted, soon finding myself in the same condition. "What's in this--lead?" "Something that we may need or may not," Garrick answered enigmatically, as we stopped in the shadow to rest. He carefully took an automatic revolver from an inside pocket and stowed it where it would be handy, in his coat. We resumed our walk and at last had come nearly up to the house on the first floor of which the maid Lucille was. The suitcase was engaging all my attention, as I shifted it from one hand to the other. Not so Garrick, however. He was looking keenly about us. "Gad, I must be seeing things to-night!" he exclaimed, his eyes fixed on a figure slouching along, his hat pulled down over his eyes, passing just about opposite us on the other side of the street. I looked also in the gathering dusk. The figure had something indefinably familiar about it, but a moment later it was gone, having turned the corner. Garrick shook his head. "No," he said half to himself, "it couldn't have been. Don't stop, Tom. We mustn't do anything to rouse suspicion, now." We came a moment later to the flat-house through the hall of which we had reached the roof that morning and in the excitement of the adventure I forgot, for the time, the mysterious figure across the street, which had attracted Garrick's attention. Again, we managed to elude the tenants, though it was harder in the early evening than it had been in the daytime. However, we reached the roof apparently unobserved. There at least, now that it was dark, we felt comparatively safe. No one was likely to disturb us there, provided we made no noise. Unwrapping the smaller, paper-covered package, Garrick quickly attached the wires, as he had left them, to another cedar box, like that which he had already let down the chimney up the street. I now had a chance to examine it more closely under the light of Garrick's little electric bull's-eye. I was surprised to find that it resembled one of the instruments we had used down in the room in the Old Tavern. It was oblong, with a sort of black disc fixed to the top. In the face of the box, just as in the other we had used, were two little square holes, with sides also of cedar, converging inward, making a pair of little quadrangular pyramidal holes which seemed to end in a small round black circle in the interior, small end. I said nothing, but I could see that it was a new form, to all intents and purposes, of the detectaphone which we had already used. The minutes that followed seemed like hours, as we waited, not daring to talk lest we should attract attention. I wondered whether Miss Winslow would come after all, or, if she did, whether she would come alone. "You're early," said a voice, softly, near us, of a sudden. I leaped to my feet, prepared to meet anything, man or devil. Garrick seized me and pulled me down, a strong hint to be quiet. Too surprised to remonstrate, since nothing happened, I waited, breathless. "Yes, but that is better than to be too late. Besides, we've got to watch that Garrick," said another voice. "He might be around." Garrick chuckled. I had noticed a peculiar metallic ring in the voices. "Where are they?" I whispered, "On the landing below?" Garrick laughed outright, not boisterously, but still in a way which to me was amazing in its bravado, if the tenants were really so near. "What's this?" I asked. "Don't you recognize it?" he answered. "Yes," I said doubtfully. "I suppose it's like that thing we used down at the Old Tavern." "Only more so," nodded Garrick, aloud, yet careful not to raise his voice, as before, so as not to disturb the flat dwellers below us. "A vocaphone." "A vocaphone?" I repeated. "Yes, the little box that hears and talks," he explained. "It does more than the detectaphone. It talks right out, you know, and it works both ways." I began to understand his scheme. "Those square holes in the face of it are just like the other instrument we used," Garrick went on. "They act like little megaphones to that receiver inside, you know,--magnify the sound and throw it out so that we can listen up here just as well, perhaps better than if we were down there in the room with them." They were down there in the back room, Lucille and a man. "Have you heard from her?" asked the man's voice, one that I did not recognise. "Non,--but she will come. Voila, but she thought the world of her Lucille, she did. She will come." "How do you know?" "Because--I know." "Oh, you women!" "Oh, you men!" It was evident that the two had a certain regard for each other, a sort of wild, animal affection, above, below, beyond, without the law. They seemed at least to understand each other. Who the man was I could not guess. It was a voice that sounded familiar, yet I could not place it. "She will come to see her Lucille," repeated the woman. "But you must not be seen." "No--by no means." The voice of the man was not that of a foreigner. "Here, Lucille, take this. Only get her interested--I will do the rest--and the money is yours. See--you crush it in the handkerchief--so. Be careful--you WILL crush it before you want to use it. There. Under her nose, you know. I shall be there in a moment and finish the work. That is all you need do--with the handkerchief." Garrick made a motion, as if to turn a switch in the little vocaphone, and rested his finger on it. "I could make those two jump out of the window with fright and surprise," he said to me, still fingering the switch impatiently. "You see, it works the other way, too, as I told you, if I choose to throw this switch. Suppose I should shout out, and they should hear, apparently coming from the fireplace, 'You are discovered. Thank you for telling me all your plans, but I am prepared for them already.' What do you suppose they would--" Garrick stopped short. From the vocaphone had come a sound like the ringing of a bell. "Sh!" whispered Lucille hoarsely. "Here she comes now. Didn't I tell you? Into the next room!" A moment later came a knock at a door and Lucille's silken rustle as she hurried to open it. "How do you do, Lucille?" we heard a sweetly tremulous voice repeated by the faithful little vocaphone. "Comment vous portez-vous, Mademoiselle?" "Tres bien." "Mademoiselle honours her poor Lucille beyond her dreams. Will you not be seated here in this easy chair?" "My God!" exclaimed Garrick, starting back from the vocaphone. "She is there alone. Mrs. de Lancey is not with her. Oh, if we could only have prevented this!" I had recognized, too, even in the mechanical reproduction, the voice of Violet Winslow. It came as a shock. Even though I had been expecting some such thing for hours, still the reality meant just as much, perhaps more. Independent, self-reliant, Violet Winslow had gone alone on an act of mercy and charity, and it had taken her into a situation full of danger with her faithless maid. At once I was alive to the situation. All the stories of kidnappings and white slavery that I had ever read rioted through my head. I felt like calling out a warning. Garrick had his finger on the switch. "Since I have been ill, Mademoiselle, I have been doing some embroidery--handkerchiefs--are they not pretty?" It was coming. There was not time for an instant's delay now. Garrick quickly depressed the switch. Clear as a bell his voice rang out. "Miss Winslow--this is Garrick. Don't let her get that handkerchief under your nose. Out of the door--quick. Run! Call for help! I shall be with you in a minute!" A little cry came out of the machine. There was a moment of startled surprise in the room below. Then followed a mocking laugh. "Ha! Ha! I thought you'd pull something like that, Garrick. I don't know where you are, but it makes no difference. There are many ways of getting out of this place and at one of them I hare a high-powered car. Violet--will go--quietly--" there were sounds of a struggle--"after the needle--" A scream had followed immediately after a sound of shivering glass through the vocaphone. It was not Violet Winslow's scream, either. "Like hell, she'll go," shouted a wildly familiar voice. There was a gruff oath. We stayed to hear no more. Garrick had already picked up the heavy suitcase and was running down the steps two at a time, with myself hard after him. Without waiting to ring the bell at 99, he dashed the suitcase through the plate glass of the front door, reached in and turned the lock. We hurried into the back room. Violet was lying across a divan and bending over her was Warrington. "She--she's unconscious," he gasped, weak with the exertion of his forcible entrance into the place and carrying from the floor to the divan the lovely burden which he had found in the room. "They--they fled--two of them--the maid, Lucille--and a man I could not see." Down the street we heard a car dashing away to the sound of its changing gears. "She's--not--dying--is she, Garrick?" he panted bending closer over her. Garrick bent over, too, felt the fluttering pulse, looked into her dilated eyes. I saw him drop quickly on his knees beside the unconscious girl. He tore open the heavy suitcase and a moment later he had taken from it a sort of cap, at the end of a rubber tube, and had fastened it carefully over her beautiful, but now pale, face. "Pump!" Garrick muttered to me, quickly showing me what to do. I did, furiously. "Where did you come from?" he asked of Warrington. "I thought I saw someone across the street who looked like you as we came along, but you didn't recognise us and in a moment you were gone. Keep on with that pulmotor, Tom. Thank heaven I came prepared with it!" Eagerly I continued to supply oxygen to the girl on the divan before us. Garrick had stooped down and picked up both the handkerchief with its crushed bits of the kelene tube and near it a shattered glass hypodermic. "Oh, I got thinking about things, up there at Mead's," blurted out Warrington, "and I couldn't stand it. I should have gone crazy. While the doctor was out I managed to slip away and take a train to the city. I knew this address from the letter. I determined to stay around all night, if necessary. She got in before I could get to her, but I rang the bell and managed to get my foot in the door a minute later. I heard the struggle. Where were you? I heard your voice in here but you came through the front door." Garrick did not take time to explain. He was too busy over Violet Winslow. A feeble moan and a flutter of the eyelids told that she was coming out from the effects of the anaesthetic and the drug. "Mortimer--Mortimer!" she moaned, half conscious. "Don't let them take me. Oh where is--" Warrington leaned over, as Garrick removed the cap of the pulmotor, and gently raised her head on his arm. "It's all right--Violet," he whispered, his face close to hers as his warm breath fanned her now flushed and fevered cheek. She opened her eyes and vaguely understood as the mist cleared from her brain. Instinctively she clung to him as he pressed his lips lightly on her forehead, in a long passionate caress. "Get a cab, Tom," said Garrick turning his back suddenly on them and placing his hand on my shoulder as he edged me toward the hall. "It's too late to pursue that fellow, now. He's slipped through our fingers again--confound him!" CHAPTER XIX THE EAVESDROPPER AGAIN It took our combined efforts now to take care not only of Violet Winslow but Warrington himself, who was on the verge of collapse after his heroic rescue of her. I found the cab and in perhaps half an hour Miss Winslow was so far recovered that she could be taken to the hotel where she and her aunt had engaged rooms for the night. We drew up at an unfrequented side carriage entrance of the hotel in order to avoid the eyes of the curious and Warrington jumped out to assist Violet. The strain had told on him and in spite of his desire to take care of her, he was glad to let Garrick guide him to the elevator, while I took Miss Winslow's arm to assist her. Our first object had been to get our two invalids where they could have quiet and so regain their strength and we rode up in the elevator, unannounced, to the suite of Violet and her aunt. "For heaven's sake--Violet--what's all this?" exclaimed Mrs. de Lancey as we four entered the room. It was the first time we had seen the redoubtable Aunt Emma. She was a large woman, well past middle age, and must have been handsome, rather than pretty, when she was younger. Everything about Mrs. de Lancey was correct, absolutely correct. Her dress looked like a form into which she had been poured, every line and curve being just as it should be, having "set" as if she had been made of reinforced concrete. In short, she was a woman of "force." An incursion such as we made seemed to pain her correct soul acutely. And yet, I fancied that underneath the marble exterior there was a heart and that secretly she was both proud and jealous of her dainty niece. Violet sank into a chair and Garrick deposited Warrington, thoroughly exhausted, on a couch. Mrs. de Lancey looked sternly at Warrington, as though in some way he might be responsible. I could not help feeling that she had a peculiar sense of conscientiousness about him, that she was just a bit more strict in gauging him than she would have been if he had not been the wealthy young Mr. Warrington whom scores and hundreds of mothers and guardians in society would have welcomed for the sake of marriageable daughters no matter how black and glaring his faults. I was glad to see the way Warrington took it. He seemed to want to rest not on the merits of the Warrington blood nor the Warrington gold, but on plain Mortimer Warrington himself. "What HAS happened, Violet?" repeated Mrs. de Lancey. Violet had, woman-like, in spite of her condition caught the stern look that her aunt had shot at Warrington. "Nothing, now," she replied with a note of defiance. "Lucille--seems to have been a--a bad woman--friendly with bad men. Mr. Garrick overheard a plot to carry me off and telephoned Mortimer. Fortunately when Mortimer went up home to warn us, he found the letter and knew where I was going to-night. Ill as he was, he came all the way to the city, followed me into that house, saved me--even before Mr. Garrick could get there." Violet's duenna was considerably mollified, though she tried hard not to admit it. Garrick seized the opportunity and poured forth a brief but connected story of what had happened. "Well," exclaimed Mrs. de Lancey as he finished, "you children ought to be very thankful it isn't worse. Violet, I think I'll call up the house physician. You certainly need a doctor. And as for you, Mortimer,--you can't go to your apartment. Violet tells me it is all burned out. There's an empty suite across the hall. I'll telephone the room clerk and engage it for you. And you need a doctor, too. Now--there's going to be no more foolishness. You're both going to stay right here in this hotel until you're all right. Your mother and I were great friends, Mortimer, when we were girls. I--you must let me PLAY mother--for her sake." I had been right about Mrs. de Lancey. Her voice softened and I saw a catch in Warrington's throat, too, at the mention of the mother he remembered only hazily as a small boy. Violet and Warrington exchanged glances. I fancied the wireless said, "We've won the old lady over, at last," for Warrington continued to look at her, while she blushed a bit, then dropped her eyes to hide a happy tear. Mrs. de Lancey was bustling about and I felt sure that in another minute every available bellhop in the hotel would be at work. As Warrington might have said in his slang, "Action is her middle name." Garrick rose and bade our two patients a hasty good-night, tactfully forgetting to be offended by their lack of interest now in anything except each other. "I doubt if they get much chance to be alone--not with that woman mothering them," he smiled to me, drawing me toward the door. "Don't let's spoil this chance." Mrs. de Lancey was busy in the next room, as we stopped to say good-bye to her. "I--I can't talk to you--now, Mr. Garrick," she cried, with a sudden, unwonted show of emotion, taking both his hands in hers. "You--you've saved my girl--there--there's nothing in this world you could have done for me--greater." "Mrs. de Lancey," replied Garrick, deftly changing the subject, "there's just one thing. I'm afraid you are--have been, I mean,--a little hard on Mr. Warrington. He isn't what you think--" "Mr. Garrick," she returned, in a sudden burst of confidence, "I'm afraid you, too, misunderstand me. I am not hard on the boy. But, remember. I knew his mother and father--intimately. Think of it, sir--the responsibilities that rest on that young man. Do you wonder that I--I want him better than others? Don't you see--that is why I want to hold him up to the highest standard. If Violet--marries him," she seemed to choke over the word,--"they must meet tests that ordinary people never know. Don't you understand? I've seen other young men and other young women in our circle--they were our babies once--I've seen them--go down. But I--I am proud. The Winslows, yes, and the Warringtons, they,--they SHAN'T go down--not while I have an ounce of strength or a grain of sanity. Nothing--nothing but the best that is in us--counts." I think Mrs. de Lancey and Garrick understood each other perfectly after that. He said nothing, in fact did not need to say anything, for he looked it. "I feel that I can safely resign my job as guardian," was all he remarked, finally. "Neither of them could be in better hands. Only, keep that boy quiet a few days. You can do it better than I can--you and Miss Winslow. Trust me to do the rest." A moment later we were passing out through the hotel lobby, as Garrick glanced at his watch. "A wonderful woman, after all," he mused, in the manner of one who revises an estimate formed hastily on someone else's hearsay. "Well, it's too late to do anything more to-night. I suppose those papers are printed down at the Star. We'll stop and get them in the morning. Did you recognise the voice over the vocaphone?" "I can't say I did," I confessed. "Perhaps you aren't used to it and things sound too metallic to you. But I did. It was the Chief." "I suspected as much," I replied. "Where do you suppose he went?" Garrick shrugged his shoulders. "I doubt whether we could find him in New York to-night," he answered, slowly. "I think he must feel by this time that the town is getting too hot for him." There was nothing that I could say, and I played the part admirably. "Come," he decided, as he turned from the hotel in the direction, now, of our apartment. "Let's snatch a little rest. We'll need it to-morrow for the final spurt." Tired and exhausted though I was I cannot say that I slept. At least, it may have been physical rest that I got. Certainly my mind never stopped in its dream play, as the kaleidoscopic stream of events passed before me, now in their true form, now in the fantastic shapes that constitute one of the most interesting studies of the modern psychology. I was glad when I heard Garrick stirring in his room in the early daylight and heard him call out, "Are you awake, Tom? There are some things I want to attend to, while you drop into the Star for those papers. I'm afraid you'll have to breakfast alone. Meet me at my office as soon as you can." He was off a few minutes later, as fresh as though he had been on a vacation instead of plunged into the fight of his life. I followed him, more leisurely, and then rode down in the infernal jam in the subway to execute his commission. Then for an hour or two I fidgeted impatiently in his office waiting for him, until finally he came downtown in the racing car which Warrington had placed at his disposal. He said nothing, but it was all the same to me. I had reached that nervous state where I craved something doing, as a drug-fiend craves the dope that sets his brain on fire again. I did not ask where he was going, for I knew it intuitively, and it was not long before we were again in the part of the city where the gangster's garage was located. We stopped and Garrick beckoned to an urchin, a couple of blocks below the garage. "Do you want to make a dollar, kid?" he asked, jingling four quarters enticingly. The boy's eyes never left the fist that held the tempting bait. "Betcherlife," he answered. "Well, then," instructed Garrick, "take these newspapers. I don't want you to sell any of them on the street. But when you come to that garage over there--see it?--I want you to yell, 'Extra--special extra! All about the great gambling exposure. Warrants out!' Just go in there. They'll buy, all right. And if you say a word about anyone giving you these papers to sell--I'll chase you and get back this dollar to the last cent. You'll go to the Gerry Society--get me?" The boy did. The bait was as alluring as the threat terrible. After Garrick had given him final instructions not to start with the papers for at least five minutes, we slipped quietly around the next street and came out near the Old Tavern, but not in front of it. Garrick left the car--I had been riding almost on the mud guard--in charge of Warrington's man, who was to appear to be tinkering with the engine as an excuse for waiting there, and to keep an eye on anything that happened down the street. We made our way into our room at the Tavern with more than ordinary caution, for fear that something might have been discovered. Apparently, however, the discovery of one detectaphone had been enough to disarm further suspicion, and the garage keeper had not thought it necessary to examine the telephone wires to see whether they had been tampered with in any way. The wire which he had thought led to the warehouse had seemed quite sufficient to explain everything. In the room which we had used so much, we found the other detectaphone working splendidly. Garrick picked it up. By the sound, evidently, someone in the garage was overhauling a car. It may have been that they were fixing one up so that its rightful owner would never recognize it, or they may have been getting ready to take one out. There was no way of determining. We could hear one of the workmen helping about the car, a man whom we had listened to when the instrument first introduced us to the place. The second machine, connected with the telephone, did not transmit quite as clearly as the broken detective device had done, but it served and, besides, we could both hear through this and could confirm anything that might be indistinct to either of us alone. "The Chief has gone up-state," remarked Garrick, piecing together the conversation where we had broken into it. "We had to hustle to make that boat," remarked a voice which I recognised as that of one of the men. "But she got off all right, didn't she?" "Sure--he had the tickets and everything, and her baggage had already gone aboard." "That's Lucille, I suppose," supplied Garrick. "No doubt part of her bribe for getting Miss Winslow into their power was free passage back to France. We can't stop to take up her case, yet." "My--but the Chief was mad," continued the voice of the man who must have been not only a machinist but a chauffeur when occasion demanded. "He had a package of letters. I don't know what they were--looked as if they might be from some woman." "What did he do with them?" asked the Boss in a tone that showed that he knew something, at least, about them already. "Why, he was so mad after that fellow Garrick and the other fellow beat him out, that when we went down along West Street to the boat with that other woman, he tore them up and threw them in the river." "Did he say anything?" "Why, I tell you he was mad. He tore 'em up and threw them in the river. I think he said there wasn't a damn thing in 'em except a lot of mush, anyhow." An amused smile crossed Garrick's face as he added, parenthetically, "Good-bye to Warrington's love letters that they took from his safe." "At least there has been nothing they managed to get that night of the fire that they have been able to use against Warrington," I remarked, with satisfaction. "Listen," cautioned Garrick. "What's that they are saying? Someone has told the Boss--he's talking--that they can go over Dillon's head and get back all the gambling paraphernalia? Well, I've been there, at the raided place, to-day, and it doesn't look so. The stuff has all been taken down to headquarters. Ah, so that is the game that is in the wind, is it? Get it all back by a court order and open somewhere else. Here's our boy." The improvised newsboy had apparently stuck his head in the door as he had been instructed, for we could hear them greet him with a growl, until he yelled lustily, "Extry, special extry! All about the big gambling exposure! Warrants out! Extry!" "Hey, you kid," came a voice from the detectaphone, "let's see that paper. What is it--the Star? Well, I'll be--! Read that. Someone's snitched to the district attorney, I'll bet. That'll make the Chief sore, all right--and he's 'way up in the country, too. I don't dare wire it to him. No, someone'll have to take a copy of this paper up there to him and tip him off. He'll be redheaded if he doesn't know about it. He was the last time anything happened. Hurry up. Finish with this car. I'll take it myself." Garrick laughed, almost gleefully. "The plant has begun to work," he cried. "We'll wait here until just before he's ready to start. Three of us around our car on the street are too many. He must be getting ready for a long run." "How much gas is there in this tank?" the gruff voice of the Boss demanded. "You dummy--not two gallons! No, you finish what you're doing. I'll fill it myself. There isn't any time for fooling now." There was the steady trickle of the stream of gasoline as he drew it. "Any extra tires? What! Not a new shoe in the place? Give me a couple of the best of those old ones. Never mind. Here are two over by the telephone. Say, what the devil is this wire back here--cut in on the telephone wire? Well,--rip it out! That's some more of that fellow Garrick's work. We got rid of one thing the other night. Well, thank heaven, I didn't have any telephone calls to-day. While I'm gone, you go over this place thoroughly. God knows how many other things he may have put in here." "Confound it!" muttered Garrick, as a pair of pliers made our second detectaphone die with an expiring gasp in the middle of a sentence of profanity. "Come on, Tom," he shouted. There was no use now in remaining any longer in the room. Gathering up the receiving apparatus, Garrick quickly carried it down and tossed it into the waiting car around the corner. Then he sent Warrington's man to hang around, up the street, and watch what was going on at the garage. Garrick was to drive the car himself, and we were going to leave Warrington's man behind. We could tell by the actions of the man as he stood down the street that something was taking place at the garage. We could hear a horn blow, and I knew that the doors had opened and a big car had been backed out, slowly. Our own engine was running perfectly in spite of the seeming trouble with which we had covered up our delay. Garrick jumped in at the wheel, and I followed. The man on the corner was signalling that the car was going in the opposite direction. We leaped ahead. As the big car ahead slipped along eastward, we followed at such a distance as not to attract attention. It was easy enough to do that, but not so easy to avoid getting tied up among the trucks laden with foodstuffs of every description which blocked the streets over in this part of town. Where the car ahead was bound, we did not know, but I could see that the driver was a stocky fellow, who slouched down into his seat, and handled his car almost as if it had been a mere toy. It was, I felt positive, the man whom McBirney had reported one night about the neighbourhood of Longacre Square in the car which had once been Warrington's. This, at least, was a different car, I knew. Now I realised the wisdom of allowing this man, whom they called the Boss, to go free. Under the influence of Garrick's "plant," he was to lead us to the right trail to the Chief. It was easier now to follow the car since it had worked its way into lower Fifth Avenue. On uptown it went. We hung on doggedly in the mass of traffic going north at this congested hour. At last it turned into Forty-seventh Street. It was stopping at the ladies' gambling joint, apparently to confirm the news. I had thought that the place was closed, until the present trouble blew over, but it seemed that there must be someone there. The Boss was evidently well known, for he was immediately admitted. Garrick did not stop. He kept on around the corner to the raided poolroom on the next street. Dillon's man, who had been stationed there to watch the place, bowed and admitted him. "I'm going to throw it into him good, this time," remarked Garrick, as he entered. "I've been planning this stunt for an emergency--and it's here. Now for the big scare!" CHAPTER XX THE SPEAKING ARC "Looks pretty deserted here," remarked Garrick to Dillon's man, who had accompanied us from the door into the now deserted gambling den. "Yes," he grinned, "there's not much use in keeping me here since they took all the stuff to headquarters. Now and then one of the old rounders who has been out of town and hasn't heard of the raid comes in. You should see their faces change when they catch sight of my uniform. They never stop to ask questions," he chuckled. "They just beat it." I was wondering how the police regarded Garrick's part in the matter, and while Garrick was busy I asked, "Have you seen Inspector Herman lately?" The man laughed. "What's the matter?" I asked, "Is he sore at having the raid pulled off over his head?" "Sore?" the roundsman repeated, "Oh, not a bit, not a bit. He enjoyed it. It gave him so much credit," the man added sarcastically, "especially after he fell down in getting the evidence against that other place around the corner." "Was that his case, too?" I asked. "Sure," replied the policeman. "Didn't you know that? That Rena Taylor was working under his orders when she was killed. They tell me at headquarters he's working overtime on the case and other things connected with it. He hasn't said much, but there's someone he is after--I know. Mark my words. Herman is always most dangerous when he's quiet. The other day he was in here, said there was a man who used to be seen here a good deal in the palmy days, who had disappeared. I don't know who he was, but Herman asked me to keep a particular lookout to see if he came back for any purpose. There's someone he suspects, all right." I wondered why the man told me. He must have seen, by the look on my face, that I was thinking that. "I wouldn't tell it to everybody," he added confidentially, "only, most of us don't like Herman any too well. He's always trying to hog it all--gets all the credit if we pick up a clew, and,--well, most of us wouldn't be exactly disappointed to see Mr. Garrick succeed--that's all." Garrick was calling from the back room to me, and I excused myself, while the man went back to his post at the front door. Garrick carefully closed the door into the room. While I had been busy getting the copies of the faked edition of the Star, which had so alarmed the owner of the garage and had set things moving rapidly, Garrick had also been busy, in another direction. He had explored not only the raided gambling den, but the little back yard which ran all the way to an extension on the rear of the house in the next street, in which was situated the woman's poolroom. He had explored, also, the caved-in tunnel enough to make absolutely certain that his suspicions had been correct in the first place, and that it ran to this other joint, from which the gamblers had made their escape. That had satisfied him, however, and he had not unearthed the remains of the tunnel or taken any action in the matter yet. Something else appeared to interest him much more at the present moment. "I found," he said when he was sure that we were alone, "that the feed wire of the arc light that burns all the time in that main room over there in the place on Forty-seventh Street--you recall it?--runs in through the back of the house." He was examining two wires which, from his manner, I inferred were attached to this feed wire, leading to it from the room in which we now were. What the purpose of the connection was I had no idea. Perhaps, I thought, it was designed to get new evidence against the place, though I could not guess how it was to be done. So far, except for what we had seen on our one visit, there had appeared to be no real evidence against the place, except, possibly, that which had died with the unfortunate Rena Taylor. "What's that?" I asked, as Garrick produced a package from a closet where he had left it, earlier in the day. I saw, after he had unwrapped it, that it was a very powerful microphone and a couple of storage cells. He attached it to the wire leading out to the electric light feed wire. "I had provided it to be used in an emergency," he replied. "I think the time has come sooner than I anticipated." I watched him curiously, wondering what it would be that would come next. There followed a most amazing series of groanings and mutterings from Garrick. I could not imagine what he was up to. The whole proceeding seemed so insane that, for the moment, it left me nonplussed and speechless. Garrick caught the puzzled look on my face. "What's the matter?" he laughed heartily, cutting out the microphone momentarily and seeming to enjoy the joke to the utmost. "Would you prefer to be sent to a State or a private institution?" I rasped, testily. "What insanity is all this? It sounds like the fee-faw-fum and mummery of a voodoo man." "Come, now, Tom," he rejoined, argumentatively. "You know as well as I do what sort of people those gamblers are--superstitious as the deuce. I did this once before to-day. This is a good time to do it again, before they persuade themselves that there is nothing in that story which we printed in the Star. That fellow is in there now, probably in that room where we were, and it is possible that they may reassure him and settle his fears. Now, just suppose a murder had been committed in a room, and you knew it, and heard groanings and mutterings--from nowhere, just in the air, about you, overhead--what would you do, if you were inclined to be superstitious?" Before I could answer, he had resumed the antics which before I had found so inexplicable. "Cut out and run, I suppose," I replied. "But what has that to do with the case? The groanings are here--not there. You haven't been able to get in over there to attach anything, have you? What do you mean?" "No," he admitted, "but did you ever hear what you could do with a microphone, a rheostat, and a small transformer coil if you attached them properly to a direct-current electric lighting circuit? No? Well, an amateur with a little knowledge of electricity could do it. The thing is easily constructed, and the result is a most complicated matter." "Well?" I queried, endeavouring to follow him. "The electric arc," he continued, "isn't always just a silent electric light. You know that. You've heard them make noises. Under the right conditions such a light can be made to talk--the 'speaking arc,' as Professor Duddell calls it. In other words, an arc light can be made to act as a telephone receiver." I could hardly believe the thing possible, but Garrick went on explaining. "You might call it the arcophone, I suppose. The scientific fact of the matter is that the arc is sensitive to very small variations of the current. These variations may run over a wide range of frequency. That suggested to Duddell that a direct-current arc might be used as a telephone receiver. All that you need is to add a microphone current to the main arc current. The arc reproduces sounds and speech distinctly, loud enough, even, to be heard several feet away from the light." He had cut out the microphone again while he was talking to me. He switched it in again with the words, "Now, get ready, Tom. Just one more; then we must hurry around in that car of ours and watch the fun." This time he was talking into the microphone. In a most solemn, sepulchral voice he repeated, "Let the slayer of Rena Taylor beware. She will be avenged! Beware! It will be a life for a life!" Three times he repeated it, to make sure that it would carry. Then, grabbing up his hat and coat, he dashed out of the room, past the surprised policeman at the door, and took the steps in front of the house almost at a bound. We hardly had time to enter our own car and reach the corner of Forty-seventh Street, when the big black automobile which we had followed uptown shot by almost before the traffic man at the crossing could signal a clear road. "We must hang onto him!" cried Garrick, turning to follow. "Did you catch a glimpse of his face? It's our man, the go-between, the keeper of the garage whom they call the Boss. He was as pale as if he had seen a ghost. I guess he did think he heard one. Between the news-paper fake and the speaking arc, I think we've got him going. There he is." It was an exciting ride, for the man ahead was almost reckless, though he seemed to know instinctively still just when to put on bursts of speed and when to slow down to escape being arrested for speeding. We hung on, managing to keep something less than a couple of blocks behind him. It was evident that he was making for the ferry uptown across the river to New Jersey, and, taking advantage of this knowledge, Garrick was able to drop back a little, and approach the ferry by going down a different street so that there was no hint yet that we were following him. By judicious jockeying we succeeded in getting on the boat on the opposite side from the car we were following, and in such a way that we could get off as soon as he could. We managed to cross the ferry, and, in the general scramble that attends the landing, to negotiate the hill on the other side of the river without attracting the attention of the man in the other car. His one idea seemed to be speed, and he had no suspicion, apparently, that in his flight he was being followed. As we bowled along, forced by circumstances to take the fellow's dust, Garrick would quietly chuckle now and then to himself. "Fancy what he must have thought," he chortled. "First the newspaper that sent him scurrying up to the gambling place for more news, or to spread the alarm, and then, while they were sitting about, perhaps while someone was talking about the strange voices they had already heard this morning, suddenly the voice from nowhere. Can you blame them if they thought it was a warning from the grave?" Whatever actually had happened in the gambling house, the practical effect was all that even Garrick could have desired. Hour after hour, we hung to that car ahead, leaving behind the cities, and passing along the regular road through town after town. Sometimes the road was well oiled, and we would have to drop back a bit to escape too close observation. Then we would strike a stretch where it was dry. The clouds of dust served to hide us. On we went until it was apparent that the man was now headed at least in the direction of Tuxedo. We now passed the boundary between New York state and New Jersey and soon after that came to the house of Dr. Mead where Warrington had been convalescing until Garrick's warning had brought him, still half ill, down to the city to protect Violet Winslow. In fact, the road seemed replete with interesting reminiscences of the case, for a few miles back was the spot where Rena Taylor's body had been found, as well as the garage whence had come the rumour of the blood-stained car. There was no chance to stop and tell the surprised Dr. Mead just what had become of his patient and we had to trust that Warrington would explain his sudden disappearance himself. In fact, Garrick scarcely looked to either the right or left, so intent was he on not missing for an instant the car that was leading us in this long chase. On we sped, around the bend where Warrington had been held up. It was a nasty curve, even in the daytime. "I think this fellow ahead noticed the place," gritted Garrick, leaning forward. "He seemed to slow up a bit as he turned. I hope he didn't notice us as he turned his head back slightly." It made no difference, if he did, for, the curve passed, he was evidently feeding the gas faster than ever. We turned the curve also, the forward car something more than a quarter of a mile ahead of us. "We must take a chance and close up on him," said Garrick, as he, too, accelerated his speed, not a difficult thing to do with the almost perfect racer of Warrington's. "He may turn off at a crossroad at any time, now." Still our man kept on, bowling northward along the fine state road that led to one of the richest parts of the country. He came to the attractive entrance to Tuxedo Park. Almost, I had expected him to turn in. At least I should not have been surprised if he had done so. However, he kept on northward, past the entrance to the Park. We hung doggedly on. Where was he going? I wondered whether Garrick might have been wrong, after all. Half a mile lengthened into a mile. Still he was speeding on. But Garrick had guessed right. Sure enough, at a cross road, the other car slowed down, then quickly swung around, off the main road. "What are you going to do?" I asked Garrick quickly. "If we turn also, that will be too raw. Surely he'll notice that." "Going to stop," cried Garrick, taking in the situation instantly. "Come on, Tom, jump out. We'll fake a little tire trouble, in case he should look around and see us stopping here. I'll keep the engine running." We went back and stood ostentatiously by the rear wheel. Garrick bent over it, keeping his eye fixed on the other car, now perhaps half a mile along on the narrow crossroad. It neared the top of a hill on the other side of the valley across which the road wound like a thin brown line, then dipped down over the crest and was lost on the other side. Garrick leaped back into our car and I followed. He turned the bend almost on two wheels, and let her out as we swept down a short hill and then took the gentle incline on high speed, eating up the distance as though it had been inches instead of nearly a mile. A short distance from the top of the hill, Garrick applied the brake, just in time so that the top of our car would not be visible to one who had passed on down the next incline into the valley beyond. "Let us walk up the rest of the way," he said quickly, "and see what is on the other side of this hill." We did so cautiously. Far down below us we could see the car which we had been trailing all the way up from the city, threading its way along the country road. We watched it, and as we did so, it slowed up and turned out, running up a sort of lane that led to what looked like a trim little country estate. The car had stopped at an unpretentious house at the end of the lane. The driver got out and walked up to the back door, which seemed to be stealthily opened to admit him. "Good!" exclaimed Garrick. "At last we are on a hot trail!" CHAPTER XXI THE SIEGE OF THE BANDITS As we watched from the top of the hill, I wondered what Garrick's next move was to be. Surely he would not attempt to investigate the place yet. In fact, there seemed to be nothing that could be done now, as long as it was day-light, for any movement in this half-open country would have been viewed with suspicion by the occupants of the little house in the valley, whoever they might be. We could not help viewing the place with a sort of awe. What secrets did the cottage hide, nestled down there in the valley among these green hills? Often I had heard that the gunmen of New York, when hard pressed, sought refuge in the country districts and mountains within a few miles of the city. There was something incongruous about it. Nature seemed so perfectly peaceful here that it was the very antithesis of those sections of the city in which he had found the gunman, whoever he was, indulging in practically every crime and vice of decadent civilization. "So--the one they call the Boss has led up to the refuge of the Chief, the scientific gunman, at last," Garrick exclaimed, with marked satisfaction, as we turned and walked slowly back again to our car. "Yes," I assented, "and now that we have found them--what are we to do with them?" "It is still early in the day," Garrick remarked, looking at his watch. "They suspect no trouble up here. Here they evidently feel safe. No doubt they think we are still hunting for them fruitlessly in New York. I think we can afford to leave them here for a few hours. At any rate, I feel that I must return to the city. I must see Dillon, and then drop into my office, if we are to accomplish anything against them." He had turned the car around and we made our way back to the main road, and then southward again, taking up in earnest the long return trip to the city and covering the distance in Warrington's racer in a much shorter time, now that we had not to follow another car and keep under cover. It was late in the afternoon, however, when we arrived and Garrick went directly to police headquarters where he held a hasty conference with Dillon. Dillon was even more excited than we were when he learned how far we had gone in tracing out the scant clews that we had uncovered. As Garrick unfolded his plan, the commissioner immediately began to make arrangements to accompany us out into the country that night. I did not hear all that was said, as Garrick and Dillon laid out their plans, but I could see that they were in perfect accord. "Very well," I overheard Garrick, as we parted. "I shall go out in the car again. You will be up on the train?" "Yes--on the seven-fifty," returned Dillon. "You needn't worry about my end of it. I'll be there with the goods--just the thing that you want. I have it." "Fine," exclaimed Garrick, "I have to make a call at the office. I'll start as soon as I can, and try to beat you out." They parted in good humour, for Dillon's passion for adventure was now thoroughly aroused and I doubt if we could have driven him off with a club, figuratively speaking. At the office Garrick tarried only long enough to load the car with some paraphernalia which he had there, much of which, I knew, he had brought back with him after his study of police methods abroad. There were three coats of a peculiar texture, which he took from a wardrobe, a huge arrangement which looked like a reflector, a little thing that looked merely like the mouthpiece of a telephone transmitter, and a large heavy package which might have been anything from a field gun to a battering ram. It was twilight when we arrived at the nearest railroad station to the little cottage in the valley, after another run up into the country in the car. Dillon who had come up by train to meet us, according to the arrangement with Garrick, was already waiting, and with him was one of the most trustworthy and experienced of the police department chauffeurs. Garrick looked about at the few loungers curiously, but there did not seem to be any of them who took any suspicious interest in new arrivals. We four managed to crowd into a car built only for two, and Garrick started off. A few minutes later we arrived at the top of the hill from which we had already viewed the mysterious house earlier in the day. It was now quite dark. We had met no one since turning off into the crossroad, and could hear no sound except the continuous music of the night insects. Just before crossing the brow of the last hill, we halted and Garrick turned out all the lights on the car. He was risking nothing that might lead to discovery yet. With the engine muffled down, we coasted slowly down the other side of the hill into the shadowy valley. There was no moon yet and we had to move cautiously, for there was only the faint light of the sky and stars to guide us. What was the secret of that unpretentious little house below us? We peered out in the gathering blackness eagerly in the direction where we knew it must be, nestled among the trees. Whoever it sheltered was still there, and we could locate the place by a single gleam that came from an upper window. Whether there were lights below, we could not tell. If there were they must have been effectively concealed by blinds and shades. "We'll stop here," announced Garrick at last when we had reached a point on the road a few hundred yards from the house. He ran the car carefully off the road and into a little clearing in a clump of dark trees. We got out and pushed stealthily forward through the underbrush to the edge of the woods. There, on the slope, just a little way below us, stood the house of mystery. Garrick and Dillon were busily conferring in an undertone, as I helped them bring the packages one after another from the car to the edge of the woods. Garrick had slipped the little telephone mouthpiece into his pocket, and was carrying the huge reflector carefully, so that it might not be injured in the darkness. I had the heavy coats of the peculiar texture over my arm, while Dillon and his man struggled along over the uncertain pathway, carrying between them the heavy, long, cylindrical package, which must have weighed some sixty pounds or so. Garrick had selected as the site of our operations a corner of the grove where a very large tree raised itself as a landmark, silhouetted in black against a dark sky. We deposited the stuff there as he directed. "Now, Jim," ordered Dillon, walking back to the car with his man, "I want you to take the car and go back along this road until you reach the top of the hill." I could not hear the rest of the order, but it seemed that he was to meet someone who had preceded us on foot from the railway station and who must be about due to arrive. I did not know who or what it might be, but even the thought of someone else made me feel safer, for in so ticklish a piece of business as this, in dealing with at least a pair of desperate men such as we knew them to be in the ominously quiet little house, a second and even a third line of re-enforcements was not, I felt, amiss. Garrick in the meantime had set to work putting into position the huge reflector. At first I thought it might be some method of throwing a powerful light on the house. But on closer examination I saw that it could not be a light. The reflector seemed to have been constructed so that in the focus was a peculiar coil of something, and to the ends of this coil, Garrick attached two wires which he fastened to an instrument, cylindrical, with a broadened end, like a telephone receiver. Dillon, who had returned by this time, after sending his chauffeur back on his errand, appeared very much interested in what Garrick was doing. "Now, Tom," said Garrick, "while I am fixing this thing, I wish you would help me by undoing that large package carefully." While I was thus engaged, he continued talking with Dillon in a low voice, evidently explaining to him the use to which he wished the large reflector put. I was working quickly to undo the large package, and as the wrappings finally came off, I could see that it was some bulky instrument that looked like a huge gun, or almost a mortar. It had a sort of barrel that might have been, say, forty inches in length, and where the breechlock should have been on an ordinary gun was a great hemispherical cavity. There was also a peculiar arrangement of springs and wheels in the butt. "The coats?" he asked, as he took from the wrappings of the package several rather fragile looking tubes. I had laid them down near us and handed them over to him. They were quite heavy, and had a rough feel. "So-called bullet-proof cloth," explained Garrick. "At close range, quite powerful lunges of a dagger or knife recoil from it, and at a distance ordinary bullets rebound from it, flattened. We'll try it, anyway. It will do no harm, and it may do good. Now we are ready, Dillon." "Wait just a minute," cautioned Dillon. "Let me see first whether that chauffeur has returned. He can run that engine so quietly that I myself can't hear it." He had disappeared into the darkness toward the road, where he had despatched the car a few minutes before. Evidently the chauffeur had been successful in his mission, for Dillon was back directly with a hasty, "Yes, all right. He's backing the car around so that he can run it out on the road instantly in either direction. He'll be here in a moment." Garrick had in the meantime been roughly sketching on the back of an old envelope taken from his pocket. Evidently he had been estimating the distance of the house from the tree back of which he stood, and worked with the light of a shaded pocket flashlight. "Ready, then," he cried, jumping up and advancing to the peculiar instrument which I had unwrapped. He was in his element now. After all the weary hours of watching and preparation, here was action at last, and Garrick went to it like a starved man at food. First he elevated the clumsy looking instrument pointed in the general direction of the house. He had fixed the angle at approximately that which he had hastily figured out on the envelope. Then he took a cylinder about twelve inches long, and almost half as much in diameter, a huge thing, constructed, it seemed, of a substance that was almost as brittle as an eggshell. Into the large hemispherical cavity in the breech of the gun he shoved it. He took another quick look at the light gleaming from the house in the darkness ahead of us. "What is it?" I asked, indicating the "gun." "This is what is known as the Mathiot gun," he explained as he brought it into action, "invented by a French scientist for the purpose, expressly, of giving the police a weapon to use against the automobile bandits who entrench themselves, when cornered, in houses and garages, as they have done in the outskirts of Paris, and as some anarchists did once in a house in London." "What does it do?" asked Dillon, who had taken a great interest in the thing. "It throws a bomb which emits suffocating gases without risking the lives of the police," answered Garrick. "In spite of the fragility of the bombs that I have here, it has been found that they will penetrate a wooden door or even a thin brick partition before the fuse explodes them. One bomb will render a room three hundred feet off uninhabitable in thirty seconds. Now--watch!" He had exploded the gun by hand, striking the flat head of a hammer against the fulminating cap. The gun gave a bark. A low, whistling noise and a crash followed. "Too short," muttered Garrick, elevating the angle of the gun a trifle. Quite evidently someone was moving in the house. There was a shadow, as of someone passing between the light in the upper story and the window on our side of the house. Again the gun barked, and another bomb went hurtling through the air. This time it hit the house squarely. Another followed in rapid succession, and the crash of glass told that it had struck a window. Garrick was sending them now as fast as he could. They had taken effect, too, for the light was out, whether extinguished by gases or by the hand of someone who realized that it afforded an excellent mark to shoot at. Still, it made no difference, now, for we had the range. "The house must be full of the stifling gases," panted Garrick, as he stopped to wipe the perspiration from his face, after his rapid work, clad in the heavy coat. "No man could stand up against that. I wonder how our friend of the garage likes it, Tom? It is some of his own medicine--the Chief, I mean. He tried it on us on a small scale very successfully that night with his stupefying gun." "I hope one of them hit him," ground out Dillon, who had no relish even for the recollection of that night. "What next? Do you have to wait until the gases clear away before we can make a break and go in there?" Garrick had anticipated the question. Already he was buttoning up his long coat. We did the same, mechanically. "No, Dillon. You and Jim stay here," ordered Garrick. "You will get the signal from us what to do next. Tom, come on." He had already dashed ahead into the darkness, and I followed blindly, stumbling over a ploughed field, then a fence over which we climbed quickly, and found ourselves in the enclosure where was the house. I had no idea what we were running up against, but a dog which had been chained in the rear broke away from his fastening at sight of us, and ran at us with a lusty and savage growl. Garrick planted a shot squarely in his head. Without wasting time on any formalities, such as ringing the bell, we kicked and battered in the back door. We paused a moment, not from fear but because the odor inside was terrific. No one could have stayed in that house and retained his senses. One by one, Garrick flung open the windows, and we were forced to stick our heads out every few minutes in order to keep our own breath. From one room to another we proceeded, without finding anyone. Then we mounted to the second floor. The odour was worse there, but still we found no one. The light on the third floor had been extinguished, as I have said. We made our way toward the corner where it had been. Room after room we entered, but still found no one. At last we came to a door that was locked. Together we wrenched it open. There was surely nothing for us to fear in this room, for a bomb had penetrated it, and had filled it completely. As we rushed in, Garrick saw a figure sprawled on the floor, near the bed, in the corner. "Quick, Tom!" he shouted, "Open that other window. I'll attend to this man. He's groggy, anyhow." Garrick had dropped down on his knees and had deftly slipped a pair of handcuffs on the unresisting wrists of the man. Then he staggered to my side at the open window, for air. "Heavens--this is awful!" he gasped and sputtered. "I wonder where they all went?" "Who is this fellow?" I asked. "I don't know yet. I couldn't see." A moment later, together, we had dragged the unconscious man to the window with us, while I fanned him with my hat and Garrick was wetting his face with water from a pitcher of ice on the table. "Good Lord!" Garrick exclaimed suddenly, as in the fitful light he bent over the figure. "Do you see who it is?" I bent down too and peered more closely. It was Angus Forbes. Strange to say, here was the young gambler whom we had seen at the gambling joint before it was raided, the long-lost and long-sought Forbes who had disappeared after the raid, and from whom no one had yet heard a word. I did not know his story, but I knew enough to be sure that he had been in love with Violet himself, and, although Warrington had once come to his rescue and settled thousands of dollars of his gambling debts, was sore at Warrington for closing the gambling joint where he hoped ultimately to recoup his losses. More than that, he was probably equally sore at Warrington for winning the favour of the girl whose fortune might have settled his own debts, if he had had a free field to court her. Why was Forbes here, I asked myself. The fumes of the bombs from the Mathiot gun may have got into my head but, at least as far as I could see, they had not made my mind any the less active. I felt that his presence here, apparently as one of the gang, explained many things. Who, I reasoned, would have been more eager to "get" Warrington at any cost than he? I never had any love for the fellow, who had allowed his faults and his temptations so far to get the upper hand of him. I had felt a sort of pity at first, but the incident of the cancelled markers in the gambling joint and now the discovery of him here had changed that original feeling into one that was purely of disgust. These thoughts were coursing through my fevered brain while Garrick was working hard to bring him around. Suddenly a mocking voice came from the hall. "Yes, it's Forbes, all right, and much good may it do you to have him!" The door to the room, which opened outward, banged shut. The lock had been broken by us in forcing an entrance. There must have been two of them out in the hall, for we heard the noise and scraping of feet, as they piled up heavy furniture against the door, dragging it from the next room before we could do anything. Piece after piece was wedged in between our door and the opposite wall. We could hear them taunt us as they worked, and I thought I recognised at once the voice of the stocky keeper of the garage, the Boss, whom I had heard so often before over our detectaphone. The other voice, which seemed to me to be disguised, I found somewhat familiar, yet I could not place it. It must have been, I thought, that of the man whom we had come to know and fear under the appellation of the Chief. We could hear them laugh, now, as they cursed us and wished us luck with our capture. It was galling. Evidently, too, they had not much use for Forbes, and, indeed, at such a crisis I do not think he would have been much more than an additional piece of animated impedimenta. Dissipation had not added anything to the physical prowess of Forbes. With a parting volley of profanity, they stamped down the narrow stairs to the ground floor, and a few seconds afterward we could hear them back of the house, working over the machine which we had followed up from New York earlier in the day. Evidently there were several machines in the barn which served them as garage, but this was the handiest. They had cranked it up, and were debating which way they should go. "The shots came from the direction of the main road," the Boss said. "We had better go in the opposite direction. There may be more of them coming. Hurry up!" At least, it seemed, there had been only three of them in this refuge which they had sought up in the hills and valleys of the Ramapos. Of that we could now be reasonably certain. One of them we had captured--and had ourselves been captured into the bargain. I stuck my head out of the window to look at the other two down below, only to feel myself dragged unceremoniously back by Garrick. "What's the use of taking that risk, Tom?" he expostulated. "One shot from them and you would be a dead one." Fortunately they had not seen me, so intent were they on getting away. They had now seated themselves in the car and, as Garrick had suspected, could not resist delivering a parting shot at us, emptying the contents of an automatic blindly up at our window. Garrick and I were, as it happened, busy on the opposite side of the room. All thought of Forbes was dropped for the present. Garrick said not a word but continued at work in the corner of the room by the other broken window. "Either they must have succeeded in getting out after the first shot and so escaped the fumes," muttered Garrick finally, "and hid in the stable, or, perhaps, they were out there at work anyhow. Still that makes little difference now. They must have seen us go in, have followed us quietly, and then caught us here." With a hasty final imprecation, the car below started forward with a jerk and was swallowed up in the darkness. CHAPTER XXII THE MAN HUNT Here we were, locked in a little room on the top floor of the mysterious house. I looked out of both windows. There was no way to climb down and it was too far to jump, especially in the uncertain darkness. I threw myself at the door. It had been effectually braced by our captors. Garrick, in the meantime, had lighted the light again, and placed it by the window. Forbes, now partly recovered, was rambling along, and Garrick, with one eye on him and the other on something which he was working over in the light, was too busy to pay much attention to my futile efforts to find a means of escape. At first we could not make out what it was that Forbes was trying to tell us, but soon, as the fresh air in the room revived him, his voice became stronger. Apparently he recognised us and was trying to offer an explanation of his presence here. "He kidnapped me--brought me here," Forbes was muttering. "Three days--I've been shut up in this room." "Who brought you here?" I demanded sharply. "I don't know his name--man at the gambling place--after the raid--said he'd take me in his car somewhere--from the other place back of it--last I remember--must have drugged me--woke up here--all I know." "You've been a prisoner, then?" I queried. "Yes," he murmured. "A likely story," I remarked, looking questioningly at Garrick who had been listening but had not ceased his own work, whatever it was. "What are you going to do, Guy? We can't stay here and waste time over such talk as this while they are escaping. They must be almost to the road now, and turning down in the opposite direction from Dillon and his man." Garrick said nothing. Either he was too busy solving our present troubles or he was, like myself, not impressed by Forbes' incoherent story. He continued to adjust the little instrument which I had seen him draw from his pocket and now recognised as the thing which looked like a telephone transmitter. Only, the back of it seemed to gleam with a curious brightness under the rays of the light, as he handled it. "They have somehow contrived to escape the effect of the bombs," he was saying, "and have surprised us in the room on the top floor where the light is. We are up here with a young fellow named Forbes, whom we have captured. He's the young man that I saw several times at the gambling joint and was at dinner with Warrington the night when the car was stolen. He was pretty badly overcome by the fumes, but I've brought him around. He either doesn't know much or won't tell what he knows. That doesn't make any difference now, though. They have escaped in a car. They are leaving by the road. Wait. I'll see whether they have reached it yet. No, it's too dark to see and they have no light on the car. But they must have turned. They said they were going in the direction opposite from you." "Well?" I asked, mystified. "What of it? I know all that, already." "But Dillon doesn't," replied Garrick, in great excitement now. "I knew that we should have to have some way of communicating with him instantly if this fellow proved to be as resourceful as I believed him to be. So I thought of the radiophone or photophone of Dr. Alexander Graham Bell. I have really been telephoning on a beam of light." "Telephoning on a beam of light?" I repeated incredulously. "Yes," he explained, feeling now at liberty to talk since he had delivered his call for help. "You see, I talk into this transmitter. The simplest transmitter for this purpose is a plane mirror of flexible material, silvered mica or microscope glass. Against the back of this mirror my voice is directed. In the carbon transmitter of the telephone a variable electrical resistance is produced by the pressure on the diaphragm, based on the fact that carbon is not as good a conductor of electricity under pressure as when not. Here, the mouthpiece is just a shell supporting a thin metal diaphragm to which the mirror on the back is attached, an apparatus for transforming the air vibrations produced by the voice into light vibrations of the projected beam, which is reflected from this light here in the room. The light reflected is thus thrown into vibrations corresponding to those in the diaphragm." "And then?" I asked impatiently. "That varying beam of light shoots out of this room, and is caught by the huge reflector which you saw me set up at the foot of that tall tree which you can just see against the dark sky over there. That parabolic mirror gathers in the scattered rays, focusses them on the selenium cell which you saw in the middle of the reflector, and that causes the cell to vary the amount of electric current passing through it from a battery of storage cells. It is connected with a very good telephone receiver. Every change in the beam of light due to the vibrations of my voice is caught by that receiving mirror, and the result is that the diaphragm in the receiver over there which Dillon is holding to his ear responds. The thing is good over several hundred yards, perhaps miles, sometimes. Only, I wish it would work both ways. I would like to feel sure that Dillon gets me." I looked at the simple little instrument with a sort of reverence, for on it depended the momentous question of whether we should be released in time to pursue the two who were escaping in the automobile. "You'll have to hurry," continued Garrick, speaking into his transmitter. "Give the signal. Get the car ready. Anything, so long as it is action. Use your own judgment." There he was, flashing a message out of our prison by an invisible ray that shot across the Cimmerian darkness to the point where we knew that our friends were waiting anxiously. I could scarcely believe it. But Garrick had the utmost faith in the ability of the radiophone to make good. "They MUST have started by this time," he cried, craning his neck out of the window and looking in every direction. Forbes was still rambling along, but Garrick was not paying any attention to him. Instead, he began rummaging the room for possible evidence, more for something to do than because he hoped to find anything, while we were waiting anxiously for something to happen. An exclamation from Garrick, however, brought me to his side. Tucked away in a bureau drawer under some soiled linen that plainly belonged to Forbes, he drew out what looked like a single blue-steel tube about three inches long. At its base was a hard-rubber cap, which fitted snugly into the palm of the hand as he held it. His first and middle fingers encircled the barrel, over a steel ring. A pull downward and the thing gave a click. "Good that it wasn't loaded," Garrick remarked. "I knew what the thing was, all right, but I didn't think the spring was as delicate as all that. It is a new and terrible weapon of destruction of human life, one that can be carried by the thug or the burglar and no one be the wiser, unless he has occasion to use it. It is a gun that can be concealed in the palm of the hand. A pull downward on that spring discharges a thirty-two calibre, centre fire cartridge. The most dangerous feature of it is that the gun can be carried in an upper vest pocket as a fountain pen, or in a trousers pocket as a penknife." I looked with added suspicion now, if not a sort of respect, on the young man who was tossing, half conscious, on the bed. Was he, after all, not the simple, gullible Forbes, but a real secret master of crime? Garrick, keen though he had been over the discovery, was in reality much more interested just now in the result of his radiophone message. What would be the outcome? I had been startled to see that almost instantly after his second call over the radiophone there seemed to rise on all sides of us lights and the low baying of dogs. "What's all that?" I asked Garrick. "Dillon had a dozen or so police dogs shipped up here quietly," answered Garrick, now straining his eyes and ears eagerly. "He started them out each in charge of an officer as soon as they arrived. I hope they had time to get around in that other direction and close in. That was what he sent the chauffeur back to see about, to make sure that they were placed by the man who is the trainer of the pack." "What kind of dogs are they?" "Some Airedales, but mostly Belgian sheep dogs. There is one in the pack, Cherry, who has a wonderful reputation. A great deal depends, now, on our dog-detectives." "But," I objected, "what good will they be? Our men are in an automobile." "We thought of that," replied Garrick confidently. "Here they are, at last," he cried, as a car swung up the lane from the road and stopped with a rush under our window. He leaned out and shouted, "Dillon--up here--quick!" It was Dillon and his chauffeur, Jim. A moment later there was a tremendous shifting and pulling of heavy pieces of furniture in the hall, and, as the door swung open, the honest face of the commissioner appeared, inquiring anxiously if we were all right. "Yes, all right," assured Garrick. "Come on, now. There isn't a minute to lose. Send Jim up here to take charge of Forbes. I'll drive the car myself." Garrick accomplished in seconds what it takes minutes to tell. The chauffeur had already turned the car around and it was ready to start. We jumped in, leaving him to go upstairs and keep the manacled Forbes safely. We gained the road and sped along, our lights now lighted and showing us plainly what was ahead. The dust-laden air told us that we were right as we turned into the narrow crossroad. I wondered how we were ever going to overtake them after they had such a start, at night, too, over roads which were presumably familiar to them. "Drive carefully," shouted Dillon soon, "it must be along here, somewhere, Garrick." A moment before we had been almost literally eating the dust the car ahead had raised. Garrick slowed down as we approached a bend in the road. There, almost directly in our path, stood a car, turned half across the road and jammed up into a fence. I could scarcely believe it. It was the bandit's car--deserted! "Good!" exclaimed Dillon as Garrick brought our own car to a stop with a jerk only a few feet away. I looked about in amazement, first at the empty car and then into the darkness on either side of the road. For the moment I could not explain it. Why had they abandoned the car, especially when they had every prospect of eluding us in it? They had not been forced to turn out for anybody, for no other vehicle had passed us. Was it tire trouble or engine trouble? I turned to the others for an explanation. "I thought it must be about here," cried Dillon. "We had one of my men place an obstruction in the road. They didn't run into it, which shows clever driving, but they had to turn so sharply that they ran into the fence. I guess they realised that there was no use in turning and trying to go back." "They have taken to the open country," shouted Garrick, leaping up on the seat of our car and looking about in a vain endeavour to catch some sign of them. All was still, save here and there the sharp, distant bark of a dog. "I wonder which way they went?" he asked, looking down at us. CHAPTER XXIII THE POLICE DOG Dillon pulled a whistle from his pocket and blew a short blast sharply. Far down the road, we could hear faintly an answering bark. It came nearer. "They're taught to obey a police whistle and nothing else," remarked Dillon, with satisfaction. "I wonder which one of the dogs that was. By the way, just keep out of sight as much as you can--get back up in our car. They are trained to worry anyone who hasn't a uniform. I'll take this dog in charge. I hope it's Cherry. She ought to be around here, if the men obeyed my orders. The others aren't keen on a scent even when it is fresh, but Cherry is a dandy and I had the man bring her up purposely." We got back into our car and waited impatiently. Across the hills now and then we could catch the sounds of dogs scouting around here and there. It seemed as if every dog in the valley had been aroused. On the other slope of the hill from the main road we could see lights in the scattered houses. "I doubt whether they have gone that way," commented Garrick following my gaze. "It looks less settled over here to the right of the road, in the direction of New York." The low baying of the dog which had answered Dillon's call was growing nearer every moment. At last we could hear it quite close, at the deserted car ahead. Cherry seemed to have many of the characteristics of the wild, prehistoric animal, among them the full, upright ears of the wild dog, which are such a great help to it. She was a fine, alert, up-standing dog, hardy, fierce, and literally untiring, of a tawny light brown like a lioness, about the same size and somewhat of the type of the smooth-coated collie, broad of chest and with a full brush of tail. Untamed though she seemed, she was perfectly under Dillon's control, and rendered him absolute and unreasoning obedience. "Now, Cherry, nice dog," we heard Dillon encouraging, "Here, up here. And here." He was giving the dog the scent from the deserted car. His voice rang out sharply in the night air, "Come on Garrick and Marshall. She's got it. I've got her on leash. Follow along, now, just a few feet behind." Cherry was on the trail and it was a hot one. We could just see her magnificent head, narrow and dome-like, between the keen ears. She was working like a regular sleuthhound, now, too, slowly, picking up the trail and following it, baying as she went. She was now going without a halt or falter. Nose to the ground, she had leaped from the bandit's car and made straight across a field in the direction that Garrick had suspected they would take, only a little to the west. "This is a regular, old-fashioned man hunt," called back Dillon, as we followed the dog and himself, as best we could. It was pitch dark, but we plunged ahead over fields and through little clumps of trees, around hedges, and over fences. There was no stopping, no cessation of the deep baying of the dog. Cherry was one of the best and most versatile that the police had ever acquired and trained. We came to the next crossroad, and the dog started up in the direction of the main road, questing carefully. We had gone not a hundred feet when a dark object darted out of the bushes at the side of the road, and I felt myself unceremoniously tumbled off my feet. Garrick leaped aside, with a laugh. "Dillon," he shouted ahead at the top of his voice, "one of the Airedales has discovered Marshall. Come back here. Lie still, Tom. The dog is trained to run between the legs and trip up anyone without a police uniform. By Jupiter--here's another one--after me. Dillon--I say--Dillon!" The commissioner came back, laughing at our plight, and called off the dogs, who were now barking furiously. We let him get a little ahead, calling the Airedales to follow him. They were not much good on the scent, but keen and intelligent along the lines of their training, and perfectly willing to follow Dillon, who was trusting to the keen sense of Cherry. A little further down, the fugitives had evidently left the road after getting their bearings. "They must have heard the dogs," commented Garrick. "They are doubling on their tracks, now, and making for the Ramapo River in the hope of throwing the dogs off the scent. That's the game. It's an old trick." We came, sure enough, in a few minutes to the river. That had indeed been their objective point. Cherry was baffled. We stuck close to Dillon, after our previous experience, as we stopped to talk over hastily what to do. Had they gone up or down, or had they crossed? There was not much time that we could afford to lose here in speculation if we were going to catch them. Cherry was casting backward in an instinctive endeavour to pick up the trail. Dillon had taken her across and she had not succeeded in finding the scent on the opposite bank for several hundred yards on either side. "They started off toward the southwest," reasoned Garrick quickly. "Then they turned in this direction. The railroads are over there. Yes, that is what they would make for. Dillon," he called, "let us follow the right bank of the river down this way, and see if we can't pick them up again." The river was shallow at this point, but full of rocks, which made it extremely hard, if not dangerous, to walk even close to the bank in the darkness. "I don't think they'd stand for much of this sort of going," remarked Garrick. "A little of it would satisfy them, and they'd strike out again." He was right. Perhaps five minutes later, after wading in the cold water, clinging as close to the bank as we could, we came to a sort of rapids. Cherry, who had been urged on by Dillon, gave a jerk at her leash, as she sniffed along the bank. "She has it," cried Garrick, springing up the bank after Dillon. I followed and we three men and three dogs struck out again in earnest across country. We had come upon a long stretch of woods, and the brambles and thick growth made the going exceedingly difficult. Still, if it was hard for us now, it must have been equally hard for them as they broke through in the first place. At last we came to the end of the woods. The trail was now fresher than ever, and Dillon had difficulty in holding Cherry back so that the rest of us could follow. As we emerged from the shadow of the trees into the open field, it seemed as if guns were blazing on all sides of us. We were almost up with them. They had separated and were not half a mile away, firing at random in our direction, as they heard the dogs. Dillon drew up, Cherry tugging ahead. He turned to the Airedales. They had already taken in the situation, and were now darting ahead at what they could see, if not scent. I felt a "ping!" on my chest. I scarcely realized what it was until I heard something drop the next instant in the stubble at my feet, and felt a smarting sensation as if a sharp blow had struck me. I bent down and from the stubble picked up a distorted bullet. "These bullet-proof coats are some good, anyhow, at a distance," remarked Garrick, close beside me, as he took the bullet from my fingers. "Duck! Back among the trees--until we get our bearings!" Another bullet had whizzed just past his arm as he spoke. We dodged back among the trees, and slowly skirted the edge of the wood, where it bent around a little on the flank of the position from which the continuous firing was coming. At the edge we stopped again. We could go no further without coming out into the open, and the moon, just rising, above the trees, made us an excellent mark under such conditions. Garrick peered out to determine from just where they were firing. "Lucky for us that we had these coats," he muttered, "or they would have croaked us, before we knew it. These are our old friends, the anaesthetic bullets, too. Even a little scratch from one of them and we should be hors de combat for an hour or two." "Shall we take a chance?" urged Dillon. "Just a minute," cautioned Garrick, listening. The barking of the Airedales had ceased suddenly. Cherry was straining at her leash to go. "They have winged the two dogs," exclaimed Garrick. "Yes--we must try it now--at any cost." We broke from the cover, taking a chance, separating as much as we could, and pushing ahead rapidly, Dillon under his breath keeping Cherry from baying as much as possible. I had expected a sharp fusillade to greet us as we advanced and wondered whether the coats would stand it at closer range. Instead, the firing seemed to have ceased altogether. A quick dash and we had crossed the stretch of open field that separated us from a dark object which now loomed up, and from behind which it seemed had come the firing. As we approached, I saw it was a shed beside the railroad, which was depressed at this point some twelve or fifteen feet. "They kept us off just long enough," exclaimed Garrick, glancing up at the lights of the block signals down the road. "They must be desperate, all right. Why, they must have jumped a freight as it slowed down for the curve, or perhaps one of them flagged it and held it up. See? The red signal shows that a train has just gone through toward New York. There is no chance to wire ahead, either, from this Ducktown siding. Here's where they stood--look!" Garrick had picked up a handful of exploded cartridge shells, while he was speaking. They told a mute story of the last desperate stand of the gunmen. "I'll keep these," he said, shoving them into his pocket. "They may be of some use later on in connecting to-night's doings with what has gone before." We looked at each other blankly. There was nothing more to do that night but to return to the now deserted house in the valley where we had left Forbes in charge of Dillon's man. Toilsomely and disgusted, we trudged back in silence. Garrick, however, refused to be discouraged. Late as it was, he insisted on making a thorough search of the captured house. It proved to be a veritable arsenal. Here it seemed that all the new and deadly weapons of the scientific gunman had been made. The barn, turned into half garage and half workshop, was a mine of interest. We found it unlocked and entered, Garrick flashing a light about. "There's a sight that would do McBirney's eyes good," he exclaimed as he bent the rays of the light before us. Before us, in the back of the barn, stood Warrington's stolen car--at last. "They won't plot anything more--at least not up here," remarked Garrick, bending over it. In the house, we found Jim still with Forbes, who was now completely recovered. In the possession of his senses, Forbes' tongue which the anaesthetic gases seemed to have loosened, now became suddenly silent again. But he stuck doggedly to his story of kidnapping, although he would not or could not add anything to it. Who the kidnapper was he swore he did not know, except that he had known his face well, by sight, at the gambling joint. I could make nothing of Forbes. But of one thing I was sure. Even if we had not captured the scientific gunman, we had dealt him a severe and crushing blow. Like Garrick, I had begun to look upon the escape philosophically. CHAPTER XXIV THE FRAME-UP Although I felt discouraged on our return to the city, the morning following our exciting adventure at the mysterious house in the Ramapo valley, Garrick, who never let anything ruffle him long, seemed quite cheerful. "Cheer up, Tom," he encouraged. "We are on the home stretch now." "Perhaps--if they don't beat us to the tape," I answered disconsolately. "What are you going to do next?" "While you were snatching a little sleep, I was rummaging around and found a number of letters in a table drawer, up there. One was a note, evidently to the garage keeper, and signed merely, 'Chief.' I'll wager that the handwriting is the same as that in the blackmailing letter to Miss Winslow." "What of it?" I asked, refusing to be comforted. "We haven't got him and the prospects--" "No, we haven't got him," interrupted Garrick, "but the note was just a line to tell the Boss, who seemed to have been up there in the country at the time, to meet the Chief at 'the Joint,' on Second Avenue." I nodded, but before I could speak, he added, "It didn't say any more, but I think I know the place. It is the old International Cafe, a regular hang-out for crooks, where they come to gamble away the proceeds of their crimes in stuss, the great game of the East Side, now. Anyhow, we'll just drop into the place. We may not find them, but we'll have an interesting time. Then, there is the possibility of getting a strangle hold on someone, anyhow." Garrick was evidently figuring on having driven our gunman back into the haunts of the underworld. There seemed to be no other course that presented itself and therefore, rather than remain inactive until something new turned up, I consented to accompany him in his excursion. Forbes, still uncommunicatively protesting that he would say nothing until he had an opportunity to consult a lawyer, had been taken down to New York by Dillon during the morning and was lodged in a West Side prison under a technical charge which was sufficient to hold him until Garrick could investigate his case and fix his real status. We had taken a cross-town car, with the intention of looking over the dive where Garrick believed the crooks might drop in. The ride itself was uninteresting, but not so by any means the objective point of our journey. Over on the East Side, we found the International Cafe, and slouched into the back room. It was not the room devoted to stuss, but the entrance to it, which Garrick informed me was through a heavy door concealed in a little hallway, so that its very existence would not be suspected except by the initiate. We made no immediate attempt to get into the hang-out proper, which was a room perhaps thirty feet wide and seventy feet deep. Instead, we sat down at one of the dirty, round tables, and ordered something from the waiter, a fat and oily Muscowitz in a greasy and worn dinner coat. It seemed that in the room where we were had gathered nearly every variety of the populous underworld. I studied the men and women at the tables curiously, without seeming to do so. But there could be no concealment here. Whatever we might be, they seemed to know that we were not of them, and they greeted us with black looks and now and then a furtive scowl. It was not long, however, before it became evident that in some way word had been passed that we were not mere sightseers. Perhaps it was by a sort of wireless electric tension that seemed to pervade the air. At any rate, it was noticeable. "There's no use staying here," remarked Garrick to me under his breath, affecting not to notice the scowls, "unless we do something. Are you game for trying to get into the stuss joint?" He said it with such determination to go himself that I did not refuse. I had made up my mind that the only thing to do was to follow him, wherever he went. Garrick rose, stretched himself, yawned as though bored, and together we lounged out into the public hall, just as someone from the outside clamoured for admission to the stuss joint through the strong door. The door had already been opened, when Garrick deftly inserted his shoulder. Through the crack in the door, I could see the startled roomful of players of all degrees in crookdom, in the thick, curling tobacco smoke. The man at the door called out to Garrick to get out, and raised his arm to strike. Garrick caught his fist, and slowly with his powerful grip bent it back until the man actually writhed. As his wrist went back by fractions of an inch, his fingers were forced to relax. I knew the trick. It was the scientific way to open a clenched fist. As the tendons refused to stretch any farther, his fingers straightened, and a murderous looking blackjack clattered to the floor. All was confusion. Money which was on the various tables disappeared as if by magic. Cards were whisked away as if a ghost had taken them. In a moment there was no more evidence of gambling than is afforded by any roomful of men, so easy was it to hide the paraphernalia, or, rather, lack of paraphernalia of stuss. It was the custom, I knew, for criminals, after they had made a haul to retire into such places as these stuss parlors, not only to spend the proceeds of their robberies, but for protection. Even though they were unmercifully fleeced by the gamblers, they might depend on them to warn of the approach of the "bulls" and if possible count on being hidden or spirited off to safety. Apparently we had come just at a time when there were some criminals in hiding among the players. It was the only explanation I could offer of the strange action that greeted our simple attempt to gain admission to the stuss room. Whether they were criminals who had really made a haul or mere fugitives from justice, I could not guess. But that a warning had been given the man at the door to be on his guard, seemed evident from the manner in which we had been met. There was a rush of feet in the room. I expected that we would be overwhelmed. Instead, as together we pushed on the now half-open door, the room emptied like a sieve. Whoever it might be who had taken refuge there had probably disappeared, among the first, by tacit understanding of the rest, for the whole thing had the air of being run off according to instructions. "It's a collar!" had sounded through the room, the moment we had appeared at the door, and it was now empty. I wondered whether the letter which Garrick had found might not, after all, have brought us straight to the last resort of those whom we sought. "Where have they gone?" I panted, as the door opened at last, and we found only one man in the place. There he stood apparently ready to be arrested, in fact courting it if we could show the proper authority, since he knew that it would be only a question of hours when he would be out again and the game would be resumed, in full blast. The man shook his head blankly in answer to my question. "There must be a trap door somewhere," cried Garrick. "It is no use to find it. They are all on the street by this time. Quick--before anyone catches us in the rear." We had been not a moment too soon in gaining the street. Though we had done nothing but attempt to get into the stuss room, ostensibly as players, the crowd in the cafe was pressing forward. On the street, we saw men filing quickly from a cellar, a few doors down the block. We mingled with the excited crowd in order to cover ourselves. "That must have been where the trap door and passage led," whispered Garrick. A familiar figure ducked out of the cellar, surrounded by others, and the crowd made for two taxicabs standing on the opposite side of the street near a restaurant which was really not a tough joint but made a play at catering to people from uptown who wanted a taste of near-crime and did not know when they were being buncoed. Another cab swung up to the stand, just as the first two pulled away. Its sign was up: "Vacant." Quick as a flash, Garrick was in it, dragging me after him. The driver must have thought that we, too, were escaping, for he needed only one order from Garrick to leap ahead in the wake of the cabs which had already started. A moment later, Garrick's head was out of the window. He had drawn his revolver and was pegging away at the tires of the cabs ahead. An answering shot came back to us. Meanwhile, a policeman at a corner leaped on a passing trolley and urged the motorman to put on the full power in a vain effort to pursue us as we swept by up the broad avenue. Even the East Side, accustomed to frequent running fights on the streets between rival gunmen and gangs, was roused by such an outburst. The crack of revolver shots, the honking of horns, the clang of the trolley bell, and the shouts of men along the street brought hundreds to the windows, as the cars lurched and swayed up the avenue. The cars ahead swerved to dodge a knot of pedestrians, but their pace never slackened. Then the rearmost of the two began to buck and almost leap off the roadway. There came a rattle and roar from the rear wheels which told that the tires had been punctured and that the heavy wheels were riding on their rims, cutting the deflated tubes. At a cross street the first car turned, just in time to avoid a truck, and dodged down a maze of side streets, but the second ran squarely into the truck. As the first car disappeared we caught a glimpse of a man leaning out of it. He seemed to be swinging something around and around at arm's length. Suddenly he let it go and it shot high up in the air on the roof of a tenement house. "The automobile is the most dangerous weapon ever used by criminals," muttered Garrick, as the first car shot down through a mass of trucking which had backed up and shifted, making pursuit momentarily more impossible for us. "These people know how to use the automobile, too. But we've got someone here, anyhow," he cried, leaping out and pushing aside the crowd that had collected about the wrecked car. In the bottom of it we found a man, stunned and crumpled into a heap. Blood flowed from his arm where one of the bullets had struck him. Several bullets had struck the back of the cab and both tires were cut by them. As I came up and looked over Garrick's shoulder at the prostrate and unconscious figure in the car, I could not restrain an exclamation of surprise. It was the garage keeper, the Boss--at last! Policemen had come up in the meantime, and several minutes were consumed while Garrick proved to them his identity. "What was that thing the fellow in the forward car whirled over his head?" I whispered. "A revolver, I think," returned Garrick. "That's a favourite trick of the gunmen. With a stout cord tied to a gun you can catapult it far enough to destroy the evidence that will hold you under the Sullivan law, at least. I mean to get that gun as soon as we are through with this fellow here." Someone had turned in a call for an ambulance which came jangling up soon after, and we stood in a group close to the young surgeon as he worked to bring around the captured gangster. "Where's the Chief?" he mumbled, dazed. Garrick motioned to us to be quiet. The man rambled on with a few inconsequential remarks, then opened his eyes, caught sight of the white coated surgeon working over him, of us standing behind, and of the crowd about him. Memory of what had happened flitted back to him. With an effort he was himself again, close-mouthed, after the manner of the gangsters. The surgeon had done all in his power and the man was sufficiently recovered to be taken to the hospital, now, under arrest. As far as we were concerned, our work was done. The Boss could be found now, at any time that we needed him, but that he would speak all the traditions of gangland made impossible. I wondered what Garrick would do. As for myself, I had no idea what move to make. It surprised me, therefore, to see him with a smile of satisfaction on his face. "I'll see you this afternoon, Tom," he said merely, as the ambulance bore the wounded Boss away. "Meanwhile, I wish you'd take the time to go over to headquarters and give Dillon our version of this affair. Tell him to hold to-night open, too. I have a little work to do this afternoon, and I'll call him up later." Dillon, I found, was overjoyed when I reported to him the capture of at least one man whom we had failed to get the night before. "Things seem to be clearing up, after all," he remarked. "Tell Garrick I shall hold open to-night for him. Meanwhile, good luck, and let me know the moment you get any word about the Chief. He must have been in. that first cab, all right." As I left Dillon's office, I ran into Herman in the hall, coming in. I bowed to him and he nodded surlily. Evidently, I thought, he had heard of the result of our activities. I did not ask him what progress he had made in the case, for I had had experience with professional jealousy before, and thought that the less said on the subject the better. Recalling what Garrick had said, I curbed my impatience as best I could, in order to give him ample time to complete the work that he had to do. It was not until the middle of the afternoon that I rejoined him in his office. I found him at work at a table, still, with a microscope and an arrangement which I recognised as the apparatus for making microphotographs. Several cartridges, carefully labelled, were lying before him, as well as the peculiar pistol we had found when we had captured Forbes in the little room. There were also the guns we had captured in the garage and one found in the cab which we had chased and wrecked. On the end of the table was a large number of photographs of a most peculiar nature. I picked up one. It looked like an enlarged photograph of an orange, or like some of the pictures which the astronomers make of the nearer planets. "What are these?" I asked curiously, as he leaned back from his work, with a smile of quiet satisfaction. "That is a collection of microphotographs which I have gathered," he answered, adding, "as well as some that I have just made. I hope to use them in a little stereopticon entertainment I am arranging to-night for those who have been interested in the case." Garrick smiled. "Have you ever heard?" he asked, "that the rounded end of the firing pin of every rifle when it is examined under a microscope bears certain irregularities of marking different from those of every other firing pin and that the primer of every shell fired in a rifle is impressed with the particular markings of that firing pin?" I had not, but Garrick went on, "I know that it is true. Such markings are distinctive for each rifle and can be made by no other. I have taken rifles bearing numbers preceding and following that of a particular one, as well as a large number of other firing pins. I have tried the rifles and the firing pins, one by one, and after I made microphotographs of the firing pins with special reference to the rounded ends and also photographs of the corresponding rounded depressions in the primers fired by them, it was forced upon me that cartridges fired by each individual firing pin could be positively identified." I had been studying the photographs. It was a new idea, and it appealed to me strongly. "How about revolvers?" I asked quickly. "Well, Dr. Balthazard, the French criminologist, has made experiments on the identification of revolver bullets and has a system that might be compared to that of Bertillon for identifying human beings. He has showed by greatly enlarged photographs that every gun barrel leaves marks on a bullet and that the marks are always the same for the same barrel but never identical for two different barrels. He has shown that the hammer of a revolver, say a centre fire, strikes the cartridge at a point which is never the exact centre of the cartridge, but is always the same for the same weapon. He has made negatives of bullets nearly a foot wide. Every detail appears very distinctly and it can be decided with absolute certainty whether a certain bullet or cartridge was fired by a certain revolver." He had picked up one of the microphotographs and was looking at it attentively through a small glass. "You will see," he explained, "on the edge of this photograph a rough sketch calling attention to a mark like an L which is the chief characteristic of this hammer, although there are other detailed markings which show well under the microscope but not in a photograph. You will note that the marks on a hammer are reversed on the primer in the same way that a metal type and the character printed by it are reversed as regards one another. Moreover, depressions on the end of a hammer become raised on the primer and raised markings on the hammer become depressions on the primer. "Now, here is another. You can see that it is radically different from the first, which was from the cartridge used in killing poor Rena Taylor. This second one is from that gun which I found on the tenement roof this morning. It lacks the L mark as well as the concentric circles. Here is another. Its chief characteristics are a series of pits and elevations which, examined under the microscope and measured, will be found to afford a set of characters utterly different from those of any other hammer. "In short," he concluded with an air of triumph, "the ends of firing pins are turned and finished in a lathe by the use of tools designed for that purpose. The metal tears and works unevenly so that microscopical examination shows many pits, lines, circles, and irregularities. The laws of chance are as much against two of these firing pins or hammers having the same appearance under the microscope as they are against the thumb prints of two human subjects being identical." I picked up the curious little arrangement which we had found in the drawer in Forbes' room and examined it closely. "I have been practicing with that pistol, if you may call it that," he remarked, "on cartridges of my own and examining the marks made by the peculiar hammer. I have studied marks of the gun which we found on the roof. I have compared them with the marks on cartridges which we have picked up at the finding of Rena Taylor's body, at the garage that night of the stupefying bullet, with bullets such as were aimed at Warrington, with others, both cartridges and bullets, at various times, and the conclusion is unescapable." Who, I asked myself, was the scientific gunman? I knew it was useless to try to hurry Garrick. First, by a sort of intuition he had picked him out, then by the evidence of hammer and bullet he had made it practically certain. But I knew that to his scientific mind nothing but absolute certainty would suffice. While I was waiting for him to proceed, he had already begun to work on some apparatus behind a screen at the end of his office. Close to the wall at the left was a stereopticon which, as nearly as I could make out, shot a beam of light through a tube to a galvanometer about three feet distant. In front of this beam whirled a five-spindled wheel governed by a chronometer which was so accurate, he said, that it erred only a second a day. Between the poles of the galvanometer was stretched a slender thread of fused quartz plated with silver. It was the finest thread I could imagine, only a thousandth of a millimeter in diameter, far too tenuous to be seen. Three feet further away was a camera with a moving plate holder which carried a sensitized photographic plate. Its movement was regulated by a big fly-wheel at the extreme right. "You see," remarked Garrick, now engrossed on the apparatus and forgetting the hammer evidence for the time, "the beam of light focussed on that fine thread in the galvanometer passes to this photographic plate. It is intercepted by the five spindles of the wheel, which turns once a second, thus marking the picture off in exact fifths of a second. The vibrations of the thread are enormously magnified on the plate by a lens and produce a series of wavy or zigzag lines. I have shielded the sensitized plate by a wooden hood which permits no light to strike it except the slender ray that is doing the work. The plate moves across the field slowly, its speed regulated by the fly-wheel. Don't you think it is neat and delicate? All these movements are produced by one of the finest little electric motors I ever saw." I could not get the idea of the revolvers out of my head so quickly. I agreed with him, but all I could find to say was, "Do you think there was more than this one whom they call the Chief engaged in the shootings?" "I can't say absolutely anything more than I have told you, yet," he answered in a tone that seemed to discourage further questioning along that line. He continued to work on the delicate apparatus with its thread stretched between the stationary magnets of the galvanometer, a thread so delicate that it might have been spun by a microscopic spider, so light that no scales made by human hands could weigh it, so slender that the mind could hardly grasp it. It was about one-third the diameter of a red corpuscle of blood and its weight had been estimated as about .00685 milligrams, truly a fairy thread. It was finer than the most delicate cobweb and could be seen with the naked eye only when a strong light was thrown on it so as to catch the reflection. "All I can say is," he admitted, "that the bullets which committed this horrible series of crimes have been proven all to be shot from the same gun, presumably, I think I shall show, by the same hand, and that hand is the same that wrote the blackmailing letter." "Whose gun was it?" I asked. "Was there a way to connect it and the bullets and the cartridges with the owner--four things, all separated--and then that owner with the curious and tragic succession of events that had marked the case since the theft of Warrington's car?" Garrick had apparently completed his present work of adjusting the delicate apparatus. He was now engaged on another piece which also had a powerful light in it and an attachment which bore a strong resemblance to a horn. He paused a moment, regarding me quizzically. "I think you'll find it sufficiently novel to warrant your coming, Tom," he added. "I have already invited Dillon and his man, Herman, over the telephone just before you came in. McBirney will be there, and Forbes, of course. He'll have to come, if I want him. By the way, I wish you'd get in touch with Warrington and see how he is. If it is all right, tell him that I'd like to have him escort Miss Winslow and her aunt here, to-night. Meanwhile I shall find out how our friend the Boss is getting on. He ought to be here, at any cost, and I've put it off until to-night to make sure that he'll be in fit condition to come. To-night at nine--here in this office--remember," he concluded gayly. "In the meantime, not a word to anybody about what you have seen here this afternoon." CHAPTER XXV THE SCIENTIFIC GUNMAN Our little audience arrived one by one, and, as master of ceremonies, it fell to me to greet them and place them as much at ease as the natural tension of the occasion would permit. Garrick spoke a word or two to each, but was still busy putting the finishing touches on the preparations for the "entertainment," as he called it facetiously, which he had arranged. "Before I put to the test a rather novel combination which I have arranged," began Garrick, when they had all been seated, "I want to say a few words about some of the discoveries I have already made in this remarkable case." He paused a moment to make sure that he had our attention, but it was unnecessary. We were all hanging eagerly on his words. "There is, I believe," he resumed slowly, "no crime that is ever without a clew. The slightest trace, even a drop of blood no larger than a pin-head, may suffice to convict a murderer. So may a single hair found on the clothing of a suspect. In this case," he added quickly, "it is the impression made by the hammer of a pistol on the shell of a cartridge which leads unescapably to one conclusion." The idea was so startling that we followed Garrick's every word as if weighted with tremendous importance, as indeed it was in the clearing up of this mysterious affair. "I have made a collection from time to time," he pursued, "of the various exploded cartridges, the bullets, and the weapons left behind by the perpetrator of the dastardly series of crimes, from the shooting of the stool pigeon of the police, Rena Taylor, and the stealing of Mr. Warrington's car, down to the peculiar events of last night up in the Ramapos and the running fight through the streets of New York in taxicabs this morning. "I have studied this evidence with the microscope and the microphotographic apparatus. I have secured excellent microphotographs of the marks made by various weapons on the cartridges and bullets. Taking those used in the commission of the greater crimes in this series, I find that the marks are the same, apparently, whether the gun shot off a bullet of wax or tallow which became liquid in the body, whether it discharged a stupefying gas, or whether the deadly anaesthetic bullet was fired. I have obtained a gun"--he threw it on the table with a clang--"the marks from the hammer of which correspond with the marks made on all the cartridges I have mentioned. One person owned that gun and used it. That is proved. It remains only to connect that gun positively and definitely, as a last link, with that person." I noticed with a start that the revolver still had a stout cord tied to it. As he concluded, Garrick had begun fitting a curious little device to each of our forearms. It looked to me like an electrode consisting of large plates of German silver, covered with felt and saturated with salt solution. From each electrode wires ran across the floor to some hidden apparatus. "Back of this screen," he went on, indicating it in the corner of the room, "I have placed what is known as the string galvanometer, invented, or, perhaps better, perfected by Dr. Einthoven, of Leyden. It was designed primarily for the study of the beating of the heart in cases of disease, but it also may be used to record and study emotions as well,--love and hate, fear, joy, anger, remorse, all are revealed by this uncanny, cold, ruthlessly scientific instrument. "The machine is connected by wires to each of you, and will make what are called electrocardiographs, in which every emotion, every sentiment, every passion is recorded inevitably, inexorably. For, the electric current that passes from each of you to the machine over these wires carrying the record of the secrets of your hearts is one of the feeblest currents known to science. Yet it can be caught and measured. The dynamo which generates this current is not a huge affair of steel castings and endless windings of copper wire. It is merely the heart of the sitter. "The heart makes only one three-thousandth of a volt of electricity at each beat. It would take thousands of hearts to light one electric light, hundreds of thousands to run one trolley car. Yet just that slight little current from the heart is enough to sway a gossamer strand of quartz fibre in what I may call my 'heart station' here. This current, as I have told you, passes from each of you over a wire and vibrates a fine quartz fibre in unison with it, one of the most delicate bits of mechanism ever made, recording the result on a photographic film by means of a beam of light reflected from a delicate mirror." We sat spellbound as Garrick unfolded the dreadful, awe-inspiring possibilities of the machine behind the screen. He walked slowly to the back of the room. "Now, here I have one of the latest of the inventions of the Wizard of West Orange--Edison," he resumed. "It is, as you perhaps have already guessed, the latest product of this genius of sound and sight, the kinetophone, the machine that combines moving pictures with the talking machine." A stranger stepped in from an outer office. He was the skilled operator of the kinetophone, whom Garrick had hired. In a few terse sentences he explained that back of a curtain which he pulled down before us was a phonograph with a megaphone, that from his booth behind us he operated the picture films, and that the two were absolutely synchronized. A moment later a picture began to move on the screen. Sounds and voices seemed to emerge as if from the very screen itself. There, before us, we saw a gambling joint operating in full blast. It was not the Forty-eighth Street resort. But it was strongly reminiscent of it. From the talking machine proceeded all the noises familiar to such a scene. Garrick had moved behind the screen that cut off our view of the galvanometer. One after another, he was studying the emotions of each of his audience. Suddenly the scene changed. A door was burst in, cards and gambling paraphernalia were scattered about and hidden, men rushed to escape, and the sounds were much like those on the night of the raid. Garrick was still engrossed in the study of what the galvanometer was showing. The film stopped. Without warning, the operator started another. It was a group of men and women playing cards. A man entered, and engaged in conversation with one of the women who was playing. They left the room. The next scene was in an entirely different room. But the connection which was implied with the last scene was obvious. Different actors entered the room, a man and a woman. There was a dispute--there was a crack of a revolver--and the woman fell. People rushed in. Everything was done to hide the crime. The girl was carried out into a waiting automobile, propped in as if overcome by alcohol and whisked away. I found myself almost looking to see if the car was of the make of Warrington's, so great was the impression the scene made on me. Of course it was not, but it all seemed so real that one might be pardoned for expecting the impossible, especially when her body was thrown, with many a muttered imprecation, by the roadside, and in the last picture the man was cleaning the exploded gun. One single still picture followed. It was a huge, enlarged cartridge. I followed the thing with eager eyes and ears. From a long list of canned and reeled plays, Garrick had selected here and there such scenes and acts as, interspersed with a few single, original pictures of his own, like the cartridge, would serve best to recapitulate the very case which we had been investigating. It carried me along step by step, wonderfully. Another moving and talking picture was under way. This time it seemed to be a race between two automobiles. They were tearing along, and the sound of the rapidly working cylinders was most real. The rearmost was rapidly overhauling that in front. Imagine our surprise as it crept up on the other to see the driver rise, whip out a pistol, and fire point blank at the other as he dashed ahead, and the picture stopped. A suppressed scream escaped Violet Winslow. It was too much like what had happened to Mortimer Warrington for her to repress the shudder that swept over her, and an involuntary movement toward him to make sure that it was not real. Still Garrick did not move from his post at the galvanometer. He was taking no chances. He had us thrilled, tense, and he meant to take advantage to the full in reading the truth in the dramatic situation he had so skilfully created. Another picture started almost on the heels of the last. It was of the robbery of a safe. Then came another, a firebug at work in starting a conflagration. We could hear the crackling of flames, the shouts of the people, the clang of bells, and the hasty tread of the firemen as they advanced and put out the blaze. The film play was one of those which never fail to attract, where the makers had gone to the utmost extent of realism and had actually set fire to a house to get the true effect. The next was a scene from a detective play, pure and simple, in which that marvellous little instrument which had served us in such good stead in this case was played up strongly, the detectaphone. Then followed a scene from another play in which a young girl was kidnapped and rescued by her lover just in the nick of time. Nothing could have been selected to arouse the feelings of the little audience to a higher pitch. The last of the series, which I knew was to be a climax, was not an American picture. It was quite evidently made in Paris and was from actual life. I myself had been startled when the title was announced by the voice and on the screen simultaneously, "The Siege of the Motor Bandits by the Paris Police." It was terrific. It began with the shouts of the crowd urging on the police, the crack of revolvers and guns from a little house or garage in the suburbs, the advance and retreat of the gendarmes on the stronghold. Back and forth the battle waged. One could hear the sharp orders of the police, the shrill taunts of the bandits, the sounds of battle. Then at a point where the bandits seemed to have beaten off the attack successfully, there came an automobile. From it I could see the police take an object which I now knew must be a Mathiot gun. The huge thing was set up and carefully aimed. Then with a dull roar it was fired. We could see the bomb hurtling through the air, see it strike the little house with a cloud of smoke and dust, hear the report of the explosion, the shouts of dismay of the bandits--then silence. A cry went up from the crowd as the police now pressed forward in a mass and rushed into the house, disclosing the last scene--in which the bandits were suffocated. The film suddenly stopped. Garrick's office, which had been ringing with firearms and shouts from the kinetophone, was again silent. It was an impressive silence, too. No one of us but had felt and lived the whole case over again in the brief time that the talking movies had been shown. The lights flashed up, and before we realised that the thing was over, Garrick was standing before us, holding in his hand a long sheet of paper. The look on his face told plainly that his novel experiment had succeeded. "I may say," he began, still studying the paper in his hand, although I knew he must have arrived at his conclusion already or he would never have quitted his "heart station," so soon, "I may say that some time ago a letter was sent to Miss Winslow purporting to reveal some of Mr. Warrington's alleged connections and escapades. It is needless to say that as far as the accusations were concerned he was able to meet them all adequately and, as for the innuendoes, they were pure baseless fabrications. The sender was urged on to do it by someone else who also had an interest of another kind in placing Mr. Warrington in a bad light with Miss Winslow. But the sender soon realised his mistake. The fact that he was willing to go to the length of a dangerous robbery accompanied by arson in order to get back or destroy the letter showed how afraid he was to have a sample of his handwriting fall into my hands. He blundered, but even then he did not realise how badly. "For, in certain cases the handwriting shows a great deal more than would be recognised even by the ordinary handwriting expert. This letter showed that the writer was, as I have already explained to Mr. Marshall, the victim of a peculiar kind of paralysis which begins to show itself in nerve tremours for days before the attack and exhibits itself even in the handwriting. "Now, my string galvanometer shows not only the effects of these moving and talking pictures on the emotions, but also, as it was really designed to do, the state of the heart with reference to normality. It shows to me plainly the effect of disease on the heart, even if it is latent in the subject. While I have been using the psychological law of suggestion, and have been recapitulating as well as I was able under the circumstances the whole story of the crime briefly in moving and talking pictures, I have found, in addition, that the same heart which shows the emotions I expected also shows the disease which I discovered in the blackmailing letter. "There was surprise at the sight of the gambling den, rage at the raid, fear at the murder of the girl in the other den and the disposal of her body, excitement over the racing motor cars, passion over the kidnapping of the girl, anger over the little detectaphone, and panic at the siege of the bandits, as I showed by the selection of the films that I was getting closer and closer to the truth. And there was the same abnormality of the heart exhibited throughout." Garrick paused. I scarcely breathed, nor did I move my eyes, which were riveted on his face. What was he going to reveal next? Was he going to accuse someone in the room? "Mr. Marshall," he resumed with a smile toward me, "I am glad to say is quite normal and innocent of all wrongdoing--in this instance," he added with a momentary flash of humour. "Commissioner Dillon also passes muster. Mr. Warrington--I shall come back to, later." I thought Violet Winslow gave a little, startled gasp. She turned toward him, anyhow, and I saw that not even science now could shake her faith in him. "Mr. Forbes," he continued, speaking rapidly as I bent forward to catch every word, "incriminated himself quite sufficiently in connection with the gambling joint, the raid and the slanderous letter, so that I should advise him when this case comes to trial to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth about his helping a gunman in order to further what proved a hopeless love affair on his own part. Here, too, is a little vest-pocket gun that was found under such circumstances as would be likely to connect Forbes in the popular mind with the shootings." "My lawyer has my statement about that. I'll read--" "No, Forbes," interrupted Garrick. "You needn't read. Your lawyer may be interested to add this to the statement, however. A pistol that has been shot off has potassium sulphide from the powder in the barrel. Later, it oxidizes and iron oxide is found. This weapon has neither the sulphide nor the oxide, as far as I can determine. It has never even been discharged. No, it was not the pistol found on Forbes that figured in this case. "As far as that new-fangled gun goes, Forbes, it was a frame-up. You were kidnapped by a man whom you thought was your friend, and it was done for a purpose. He knew the situation you were in, your jealousy--I won't dwell on that here. He held you at the house up in the valley. You told the truth about that. He did it, the man who wrote the letter, because he hoped ultimately to shift all the guilt on you and himself go scot-free." Forbes stared dumbly. I knew he had known what was coming but had held back for fear of what he knew had always happened to informers in the circle to which he had sunk. "McBirney," continued Garrick, "your emotions, mostly astonishment, show that you have much to learn in this new business of modern detection, besides the recovery of stolen cars." Garrick had paused for effect again. "And now we come to the keeper of a nighthawk garage on the West Side, a man whom they seem to call the Boss. That is getting higher up. I find that he points, according to this scientific third degree, to one whom I have for a long time suspected--" A dull thud startled us. I turned. A man was lying, face down, on the floor. Before any of us could reach him, Garrick concluded, "This is the man who framed up the case against Forbes, who stole Warrington's car to use to get rid of the body of the informer, Rena Taylor, because she by her success interfered with his gambling graft, who wrote the letter to Miss Winslow to injure Warrington because he, too, was interfering with his graft collection from the gambling house by threatening to close it up. He committed the arson to cover up his identity by getting back the letter; he planned and nearly executed the kidnapping of Miss Winslow in order to hold up Warrington, and then hid in the country where we ferreted him out, not far from the very scene of a murderous attack on Warrington for his brave stand in suppressing gambling--from which this man was weekly shaking down a huge profit as the price of police protection of the vice." Garrick was kneeling by the prostrate form now, not so much the accuser as the scientist, studying a new phase of crime. The threatened paralysis had struck Inspector Herman sooner than even Garrick had expected. When we had made Herman as comfortable as we could, Garrick added to Dillon, who stood over us, speechless, "You had under you one of the strong links in the secret system of police protection of vice and crime, and you never knew it--the greatest grafter and scientific gunman that I ever knew. It has been a long, hard fight. But I have the goods on him at last." The exposure was startling in the extreme. Herman had gained for himself the reputation of being one of the shrewdest and most efficient men in the department. But he had felt the lure of graft. With the aid of the gamblers and unscrupulous politicians he had built up a huge, secret machine for collection of the profits from the sale of police protection against the enforcement of the law he was sworn to uphold. He had begun to mix with doubtful characters. But he was a genius and had become, by degrees, the worst of the gangmen and gunmen who ever operated in the metropolis. Detailed to catch the gamblers and gangsters, with official power to do almost as he pleased, he had enjoyed a fine holiday and employed his leisure both for new crimes and in covering up so successfully his tracks in the old ones, even with Garrick on his trail, that he had been able to completely hoodwink his superior, Dillon, by his long, detailed reports which sounded very convincing but which really meant nothing. As the strange truth of the case was established by Garrick, Dillon was the most amazed of us all. He had trusted Herman, and the revulsion of feeling was overwhelming. "And to think," he exclaimed, in disgust, "that I actually placed his own case in his own hands, with carte blanche instructions to go ahead. No wonder he never produced a clew that amounted to anything. Well, I'll be--" Words failed him, as he looked down and glared savagely at the man in silence. All were now crowding around Garrick eager to thank him for what he had done. As Warrington, now almost his former hearty wholesome self again, grasped Garrick's hand in the heartiness of his thanks, Garrick, with the electrocardiogram paper still in his other hand, smiled. He released himself and turned to touch the dainty little hand of Violet Winslow, whose eyes were so full of happy tears that she could scarcely speak. "Miss Winslow," he beamed, gazing earnestly and admiringly into her sweet face, "I promised to attend to the case of that man later,--" he added, with a nod at Warrington. "It may interest you to know scientifically what you already know by something that is greater than science, a woman's intuition." She blushed as he added, "Mr. Warrington has a good, strong, healthy heart. He wouldn't be alive to-day if he hadn't. But, more than that, I have observed throughout the evening that he has hardly taken his eyes off you. Even the 'talkies' and the 'movies' failed to stir him until the kidnapping scene overwhelmed him. Here on this strip of paper I have a billet-doux. His heart registers the current that only that consummate electrician, little Dan Cupid, can explain." 
53407	----	book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Books project.) [Illustration: The _Snowbird_ continued to forge ahead.--_Page 265_.] Dave Porter Series DAVE PORTER'S RETURN TO SCHOOL OR WINNING THE MEDAL OF HONOR BY EDWARD STRATEMEYER Author of "Dave Porter at Oak Hall," "Dave Porter in the South Seas," "Old Glory Series," "Pan-American Series," "Colonial Series," "American Boys' Life of Theodore Roosevelt," etc. _ILLUSTRATED BY CHARLES NUTTALL_ [Illustration] BOSTON LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. Published, March, 1907 COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. _All rights reserved_ DAVE PORTER'S RETURN TO SCHOOL Norwood Press BERWICK & SMITH CO. Norwood, Mass. U. S. A. PREFACE "DAVE PORTER'S RETURN TO SCHOOL" is a complete story in itself, but forms the third volume in a line issued under the general title of "Dave Porter Series." In the initial volume of this series, entitled "Dave Porter at Oak Hall," I took pleasure in introducing to my readers a typical American lad, of strong moral qualities, and told of many of the things which happened to him during a term at an American boarding school of to-day. Such a school is a little world in itself, and Dave made both friends and enemies, and aided one weak and misguided youth to a realization of his better self. The great cloud over Dave's life was the question of his parentage. His enemies called him "a poorhouse nobody," which hurt him to the quick. At length he made a discovery which led him to begin a search for his missing relatives, and in the second volume of this series, entitled "Dave Porter in the South Seas," we followed the lad on a most unusual voyage, in a quarter of our globe but little known. Here Dave met his uncle, and learned something of himself and his father and sister, which pleased him immensely. In the present volume the scene is shifted back to Oak Hall, where Dave goes to finish his preparation for college. His friends are still with him, and likewise his enemies, and what the various students do I leave for the pages that follow to relate. In all his trials Dave stands up for what is honest and true, and in this his example is well worth following. Again I thank the many young people who have taken an interest in my efforts to amuse and instruct them. I hope this volume may prove to their liking and do them good. EDWARD STRATEMEYER. _Washington's Birthday, 1907._ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. AT THE RAILROAD STATION 1 II. SOMETHING OF THE PAST 11 III. DAVE'S RETURN TO OAK HALL 20 IV. IN THE DORMITORY 29 V. SOMETHING OF A MYSTERY 38 VI. JOB HASKERS'S BAD NIGHT 47 VII. A CHALLENGE ACCEPTED 57 VIII. THE RIVALS OF OAK HALL 66 IX. THE END OF THE GAME 76 X. ALL ON ACCOUNT OF A KITE 86 XI. AT THE WIDOW FAIRCHILD'S HOUSE 95 XII. AT WORK IN THE DARK 105 XIII. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY 115 XIV. CARRIED OFF 125 XV. OFF FOR THE GAME 134 XVI. THE GREAT FOOTBALL GAME 143 XVII. HOW THE GAME ENDED 153 XVIII. A FUNNY INITIATION 163 XIX. ALMOST SCARED TO DEATH 173 XX. A STUDENT'S STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE 182 XXI. THE CAVERN IN THE WOODS 191 XXII. A BOY AND A MOTOR CYCLE 201 XXIII. WHAT A RUNAWAY LED TO 211 XXIV. MORE PLANS THAN ONE 220 XXV. THE FIGHT IN THE GYMNASIUM 229 XXVI. THE DISAPPEARANCE OF NICK JASNIFF 239 XXVII. WHAT HAPPENED AT ROCKVILLE 249 XXVIII. AN ICE-BOAT RACE 259 XXIX. THE CABIN ON THE ISLAND 269 XXX. DAVE'S HEROISM 279 XXXI. GUS PLUM'S CONFESSION 289 XXXII. THE MEDAL OF HONOR--CONCLUSION 297 ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE The Snowbird continued to forge ahead. Frontispiece Dave began to mount the improvised rope. 50 Carl was made to bow until his nose touched the floor. 166 He made one wild leap forward. 288 DAVE PORTER'S RETURN TO SCHOOL CHAPTER I AT THE RAILROAD STATION "Here comes the train, fellows!" "I hope Dave Porter is on board." "He will be, and Ben Basswood too. Ben wrote to me that they were coming to-day." "I wonder if Dave will be glad to get back to Oak Hall, Lazy?" "Why not?" returned Sam Day, a big, round-faced youth, with a shock of curly hair hanging over his forehead. "Didn't we have fine times when he was here last term?" "Yes, but----" Maurice Hamilton paused to glance at the train that had rolled into the Oakdale station. "There they are, sure enough! Hurrah!" The train had come to a stop and a dozen or more passengers alighted. In the crowd were two boys, each carrying a dress-suit case. Both were tall, well-built, and manly-looking. The one in the lead had a face full of merriment and earnest eyes that were rather out of the ordinary. "Dave!" cried Maurice Hamilton, rushing up and catching the youth addressed by the hand. "You don't know how glad I am to see you!" "Same here, Shadow," responded Dave Porter, and gave the other boy's hand a squeeze that made the lad wince. "Whoa, Dave! I want to use that hand again!" cried Shadow, as he was familiarly called. "Not so hard." "And how are you, Lazy?" went on Dave Porter, turning to the other boy on the platform. "Active as ever?" And he smiled brightly. "No, it has been dead slow since you and Roger and Phil went away," answered Sam Day. "How are you, Ben?" he added, to the second youth from the train. "I hope you've come back to stir things up." "Oh, Dave will stir 'em up, don't you worry," replied Ben Basswood. "He feels like a two-year-old colt since--well, you know," he added, in a lower voice. "Any one would," responded Sam Day, heartily. "My, but what a trip you must have had to the South Seas!" he added, to Dave. "Wish I had been along!" "Every one of our crowd has been wishing that," said Shadow Hamilton. "When you're settled down, and have time, you must tell us all about it, Dave." "I certainly will. Have you seen anything of Phil and Roger yet?" "They are coming to-morrow." "Good. All the others here?" "All but Polly Vane and Luke Watson. Polly had to go to his aunt's wedding, and Luke had to go around by way of Albany, on business for his father. But the whole crowd will be on hand by the end of the week." "And what of Gus Plum and Nat Poole and that crowd?" asked Ben Basswood, with a shade of anxiety in his voice. "Oh, they are around, as lordly as ever. But say, wasn't Plum taken down when he heard that Dave had found some relatives and was rich! He wouldn't believe it at first; said it was a fake." "But it is true," cried Ben Basswood, his face glowing. "Dave's folks are rich. I don't know but that Dave is the richest boy at Oak Hall now." "Oh, come, let us talk about something else," said Dave, blushing in spite of himself. "Where's the carryall?" "Here you are, gents!" cried a voice from the end of the platform, and Jackson Lemond, the driver from Oak Hall, appeared. He got down on one knee and made a profound bow to Dave. "Hope I see you well, Lord Porter," he went on, humbly. "Lord Porter?" queried Dave, in bewilderment. "Hush!" whispered Sam Day, quickly. "Some of the fellows told Horsehair you were a real, live lord now, and he believes it." "But I am not," cried Dave, and burst out laughing. "Up with you, Horsehair, or you'll get your knee dirty." "Yes, sir, yes, sir," answered the driver, nervously. "Will--er--will Lord Porter sit on the front seat, or----" "A lord always drives himself," answered Shadow Hamilton, with a grin. "Horsehair, you'll have to sit on the back spring." "Yes, sir, but--er----" The driver of the carryall paused. "Any more boys?" "Look here, fellows," interrupted Dave, throwing his dress-suit case on the top of the carryall. "I like fun as well as anybody, but making out I'm a lord is--well, it's something I don't like. Even though my folks may have a little money I want to be just as I used to be." "Ain't you no lord?" gasped the carryall driver. "Of course not--I'm a plain, everyday American boy." "Well, I'll be switched! Them young gents told me as how you was a real lord, an' was coming to the school with four colored servants, an' a whole lot more." "And now Dave has spoiled it all," said Shadow Hamilton, with a ponderous sigh. "Puts me in mind of a story I once heard about a----" "Yarn No. 1," interrupted Ben. "I thought you'd begin to tell 'em as soon as we arrived. You have 'em bottled up, and unless you pulled the cork now and then I suppose you'd explode." "Which puts me in mind of another story, about a----" "Wait till we are on our way to the Hall," cried Sam Day. "All in!" And one after another the schoolboys piled into the big carryall which was to take them to Oak Hall. The turnout was just about to start when there came a cry from the other end of the station, and two youths appeared, each loudly dressed, one somewhat after the manner of a dude and the other in the style of a sport. Each carried a small parcel, showing he had come down to the town to do some shopping. "Gus Plum and Nat Poole!" whispered Ben, and his face fell. "I hope they don't want to ride with us." "That is what they are going to do," answered Dave. "I am sorry myself, but it can't be helped." "Jump in if you are going along," cried the Hall driver. "Who have you got?" sang out Gus Plum, rather roughly. He came closer with his companion and stared at those in the carryall. "Humph!" "How do you do, Plum?" said Dave, politely. He knew Gus Plum to be the bully of the school, but he had determined to be perfectly fair to all. "Humph!" murmured the bully again. "Got back, eh?" "I have." "Humph!" "Going to cut a fearful swath, I presume," said Nat Poole, who was the bully's close crony. Dave's face flushed. He had anticipated trouble, but had not expected it to come so soon. A sharp answer came to his lips, but he suppressed it and remained silent. "Don't start in now, Plum!" cried Ben. "If you are going to the Hall say so and get in." "I'll go to the Hall when I feel like it," growled the bully. It was plain to see that he was in an unusually bad humor. "Well, we are not going to wait for you to make up your mind," said Shadow Hamilton. As we shall learn later, he had good reasons for counting Gus Plum his enemy. "Are you going, or are you not?" "See here, Hamilton, you can't boss me!" roared the bully. "I'll get in when I please." "The carryall has got to wait for us," added Nat Poole, maliciously. "Dr. Clay said we could come back in it." "Then come on," said Sam Day. "We are not through with our errands yet," answered Gus Plum, and winked in secret at his crony. "That's it--and the carryall has got to wait till we are through," added Nat Poole, quickly. "How long?" asked Dave, looking sharply at Plum and Poole. "Oh, about half an hour," answered the bully, carelessly. "This is a shame," muttered Sam Day. "Horsehair, can't you come back for them?" "Certainly," answered the driver. "Then off we go!" cried Shadow Hamilton. "I'd rather ride without them anyway," he whispered. "Hi! stop!" roared Gus Plum. "If you drive to the Hall you won't be back for an hour and a half or more. You've got to wait for us." At this bold announcement there was silence all around. The students in the carryall looked at Dave, as he was their natural leader. "There are four of us who want to get to the Hall without unnecessary delay," said Dave, steadily. "Either you can go along now, or wait till Horsehair comes back." "That's the talk," came promptly from Dave's chums. "So you are going to play the master, are you?" blustered Gus Plum. "Going to rule the roost, eh? and make everybody bow low to you, eh?" "Nothing of the kind, Plum. I merely wish----" "Oh, I know! You've talked soft to me before, and soft to Nat, too! I suppose you think now you have money you can do anything here. Well, it don't go--not with me anyway, and I want to give you fair warning right now, at the very start. I want you to understand----" "Plum, don't talk so loud, you are drawing a crowd," whispered Ben. "Dave is all right, and you know it." "Humph! I want him to understand----" "Plum, listen to me," said Dave, leaning out of the carryall and facing the bully squarely. "I intended to have a talk with you later, but since you are so insistent we may as well have it out right now. When it was decided that I should come back to Oak Hall I made up my mind to do my best to keep out of trouble and stick closely to my lessons. I also made up my mind to steer clear of you, and Nat Poole, and all the others of your crowd, and I was going to ask you to leave me alone. I want absolutely nothing to do with any of you, and I don't want any of you to go around talking behind my back, as you have been doing in the past. You know I could do some talking on my own account if I wanted to, but I prefer to keep silent. Now then, are you willing to meet me on those terms or not?" "Humph!" "That is no answer." "You can't bully me." "You are the bully and always have been, and you know it." "That's the truth," said Sam Day. "Plum, you've got to take a back seat, and the sooner you do it the better off you'll be," added Shadow. "Exactly what I say," was Ben's comment. "All against me, just as you always were!" cried Gus Plum, savagely. "But never mind! Just you wait, that's all!" And he shook his fist as he backed away. "You're a set of sneaks!" murmured Nat Poole, as he too retreated. But he was careful to speak in such a low tone that nobody in the carryall understood him. "I don't want to ride with you; I'd rather walk," went on the bully. "I'll come back for you two," said the driver, as he took up the reins again. "Git up there!" he cried to his team and snapped his whip. "Looks to me like there was trouble in the air," he continued, glancing first at the students left behind and then at those in the carryall. "I am afraid you are right," answered Dave, soberly. CHAPTER II SOMETHING OF THE PAST Once again Dave Porter was brought face to face with the troubles which he had hoped had been put behind him forever. He had expected to have the best kind of a time on returning to Oak Hall, and here were his old enemies, Gus Plum and Nat Poole, ready to do all in their power to make his schooldays miserable. To those who have read "Dave Porter at Oak Hall" Dave needs no special introduction. In that volume was related how the boy was found when a little child wandering along the railroad tracks just outside of the village of Crumville, and turned over to the poorhouse authorities. Every effort to establish his identity failed, and when he grew up he was taken in by a broken-down college professor, Caspar Potts, who had turned farmer. The old professor did what he could for the youth, but his farm was mortgaged to a hard-hearted money lender, Aaron Poole, the father of Nat Poole, just introduced. Aaron Poole would have sold the old man out had not aid come from an unexpected quarter. There was an automobile accident, and Dave succeeded in saving the life of a little girl, Jessie Wadsworth. For this the Wadsworth family were very grateful, and when it was learned that Caspar Potts was one of Mr. Oliver Wadsworth's former college professors, the rich manufacturer took the old professor to live with him, and also took care of the mortgage. Then, for his bravery, and because Dave reminded him of a dead son, Mr. Wadsworth resolved to send the youth to a boarding school and give him a thorough education. Oak Hall was the institution selected, an ideal place of learning, located not a great distance from the town of Oakdale, in one of our New England States. The buildings were substantial and surrounded by beautiful grounds sloping down to the Leming River. Stately oaks grew on the grounds and in that vicinity, giving the school its name. Dave had but one boy friend in Crumville, Ben Basswood, who also went to Oak Hall, but the lad was not slow to make other acquaintances, some of whom became his closest chums. Among the number were Roger Morr, the son of a United States senator; Phil Lawrence, whose father was a ship-owner; Joseph Beggs, usually called Buster because he was so fat; and Sam Day and "Shadow" Hamilton, already introduced. For a time all went well and the poorhouse boy was happy. But then came trouble with Gus Plum the bully, and with Nat Poole, who also became a student at the Hall. Poole told everybody that Dave was a "poorhouse nobody," and Plum taunted him, with the result that there was a fight, in which Dave came off the victor. But this only angered the bully the more, and he vowed to "get square" sooner or later. "I'll take it out of the poorhouse whelp," he said to Chip Macklin, a small youth who was his toady, and laid his plot with care. But the plan miscarried, and when Dave learned the truth he gave Chip Macklin such a talking to that the small boy resolved to have nothing more to do with the bully. Macklin turned over a new leaf, and was now hailed as "a pretty decent sort of chap" by those who had formerly despised him. Then Plum did something which got Shadow Hamilton into serious trouble, stealing a collection of valuable postage stamps belonging to the master of the school, which poor Shadow had hidden when he was sleep-walking. This base action was also brought to light, and the bully came near being expelled from the Hall. The question of his parentage was ever in Dave's mind, and when he gained what he thought was a clew he followed it up as promptly as possible. An old sailor named Billy Dill declared that he knew Dave or somebody that looked exactly like him, only older. This unknown individual was on an island in the South Seas, and the youth arranged to visit that portion of the globe in one of the ships belonging to Phil Lawrence's father. Phil, and Roger Morr, went with him, and also Billy Dill, the necessary funds for the trip being furnished by Oliver Wadsworth. As related in the second volume of this series, "Dave Porter in the South Seas," the voyage of the _Stormy Petrel_ proved to be a decidedly strange one. Fearful storms were encountered, and a portion of the crew, led by a dishonest supercargo and a mate, tried to run off with the vessel, leaving Dave, his chums, the captain, and some others, on an uninhabited island. But in the end the vessel was retaken, and Dave reached the place for which he was bound. A great and happy surprise awaited the youth. He came face to face with a Mr. Dunston Porter, who proved to be the boy's uncle. Mr. Porter was rich and was wandering around the islands of the Pacific looking for a treasure said to have been buried by the natives years before. The uncle told Dave that he was the son of a twin brother, David Breslow Porter. Dave's mother was dead, but there was a sister Laura, one year younger than Dave. Mr. David Porter and his daughter Laura were now in Europe, traveling for the former's health. Dave had been stolen from his parents by a crazy nurse, and because of this Mr. Porter never went anywhere without taking Laura with him. There was a good deal of money in the family, a fair share of which would rightfully fall to Dave when he became of age. As was but natural, Dave was impatient to meet his father and his sister. He and the others journeyed back to the United States, and various messages were sent, to Mr. David Porter and to friends at Crumville. Then Dave and his uncle journeyed to the Wadsworth home, where they were warmly received. At first the message forwarded to Dave's father in Europe brought no reply, but at last came back an answer from the keeper of a hotel in Paris where Mr. Porter and Laura had been stopping. This said that the Porters had departed some weeks before for an extended trip to Norway, after which they expected to sail for New York, to which place all mail was to be addressed. Where the two travelers were at the present time there was no telling. "Dave, this is hard luck," said the boy's uncle, on receiving the news. "I don't know what to do except to wait." "Can't we send letters to different cities in Norway?" returned the youth. "I want to meet my father and my sister so much!" "Yes, we can try that," answered Dunston Porter, and the letters were sent without delay; but so far no answers had been received. Oak Hall had opened for the fall term, and after some discussion it was decided that Dave should return to that school until some word was received from his father. In the meanwhile Mr. Dunston Porter became the guest of Mr. Wadsworth. Outside of the fact that he was impatient to meet his father and his sister face to face, Dave was very light-hearted when he and Ben Basswood left Crumville on their journey to Oakdale. Being a "poorhouse nobody" was now a thing of the past, and he felt relieved to think that no one could again taunt him regarding his parentage. More than this, he was now in the care of an uncle who was kind and loving to the last degree, and he was provided with all the money he needed, and it was "his own money," as he told himself with great satisfaction. He had already met some of his chums since returning from the South Seas--boys who had stopped off at Crumville while on their railroad journey to Oakdale. All had congratulated him on his luck and wished him well. But Nat Poole had not been happy over Dave's good fortune. They had met at the local post-office, and Poole had made some undertoned remarks that did not please Dave in the least. As a matter of fact Nat Poole, even though fairly well-to-do himself, envied Dave because of his riches. "Wait and see how he tries to lord it over us when he comes back," said Nat Poole to Gus Plum, when the two met at Oak Hall. "I suppose he will put on such airs there will be no living with him. And he will do what he can to buy all the other fellows over to him." "He shan't lord it over me, or buy me over either," answered the bully. His tone was very bitter, because of the fact that his own position in life seemed to be going down. His father had lost money steadily during the past year, and it was now almost a question whether Gus should continue at school or leave and go to work. "It made me sick to see how Crumville folks bowed and smiled to him," went on Nat Poole. "When he was nobody they wouldn't notice him--now they tumble over each other to shake him by the hand." "But has he really got so much money?" "They say so--but I don't believe it." "Does he dress any better than he used to?" "Hardly a bit better. If that uncle of his has the rocks I guess he is miserly about using any." "Then maybe Dave won't have so very much spending money," said Gus Plum, his face brightening a bit. "I don't know anything about that. But I do know it makes me sick to think he is coming here to show off in front of all of us." Gus Plum looked around cautiously. The pair were in their dormitory and nobody else was within hearing. "Nat, we hung together last term and we had better hang together this term too," he whispered. "What do you mean--against Porter and his crowd?" "Yes." "I'll do that quick enough." "We must find some way to throw him off his high horse." "Well, we don't want to get pinched doing it." "We won't get pinched--if we do the thing right." "I'm willing to do anything that can be done to make him eat humble pie." "I owe him a whole lot--and so do you," continued the bully of Oak Hall, bitterly. "Don't you remember how he treated us at the athletic contests, and down at the boathouse? It makes me boil every time I think of it!" "Yes, and the tricks he and his cronies played on us," returned Nat Poole. "Gus, I'll do anything--so long as we are not caught at it." "I'd like to fix him so he'd be disgraced before the whole school." Gus Plum's voice sank to a hoarse whisper. "Can we do it?" "Maybe we can," was the answer. And there and then, two days before Dave got back to Oak Hall, these two unworthies plotted to disgrace him and leave a smirch upon his fair name. CHAPTER III DAVE'S RETURN TO OAK HALL The carryall containing Dave and his friends soon left Oakdale behind and was bowling swiftly along over the smooth highway leading to Oak Hall. The boys were all inside, leaving the driver to manage his team in any way that suited him. Usually they loved to torment Horsehair, as they called him, but now they had other matters on their minds. "The same old Plum," said Ben, with a sigh. "Doesn't it make one weary to listen to him?" "Better try to forget him, and Nat Poole too," answered Dave. "That is easier said than done," said Shadow Hamilton. "Which puts me in mind of a story. There was once----" "He is bound to tell 'em," came, with a groan, from Sam Day. "Never mind; go ahead, Shadow," said Dave. "Sam said you could start in after we were on board, and I'd rather hear a story than discuss Plum and Poole." "You were talking about forgetting Plum. One day a boy got into his mother's pantry and stole some preserved plums. When the plums were found missing the boy's mother caught him and cuffed his ears in good style. Then the boy went outside and his chum told him to stop crying. 'Forget that your mother cuffed you,' said the other boy. 'I ain't thinkin' of that,' answered the boy who had stolen the plums. 'Then stop crying.' 'I can't.' 'Why not?' asks the other boy. 'Because the plums was hot an' I kin feel 'em all along my throat yit.'" And at this anecdote a smile passed around. "I suppose football is being talked about," observed Ben, after a brief pause. "Yes, some of the boys are playing already," answered Sam Day. "I have been waiting for Roger to get back. He was captain of our eleven last season, you'll remember." "Yes, and you were right tackle." "Do you suppose we'll get another challenge from the Rockville Military Academy?" "Sure we will," burst out Shadow. "They'll want to wipe out the defeat of last year." "Gus Plum has organized a football team of his own," observed Sam. "He has got Poole and a lot of new students in it. They call themselves the Arrows, and one boy told me they were going to have suits with arrows embroidered on them." "By the way, what of Chip Macklin?" asked Dave. "He is around and as bright as a button," answered Sam. "It is simply wonderful what a change there is in that chap since he cut away from Plum." "Oh, look at the apples!" cried out Ben, as the carryall made a turn in the road. He pointed to a tree in a field loaded with the fruit. "Wish I had one." "You won't get any there," declared Shadow. "That's Mike Marcy's field and he keeps any number of dogs." "Well, I never!" burst out Sam, feeling down under the seat. "If you hadn't spoken I should have forgotten them entirely." He brought out a bag containing a dozen big red apples. "I bought them while we were waiting for the train. Here, boys, help yourselves." And he passed them around. "Thank you, Sam," said Dave, as he bit into one of the apples. "This is fine." And the others said the same. Each had his story to tell, and Sam and Shadow listened with eager interest while Dave told of his long trip across the Pacific, and his many adventures since he had left the academy. "Sounds almost like a fairy tale," declared Sam. "I'd like to see something of the world myself." The carryall made another turn and came in sight of the river, dotted here and there with small craft. Along the shore grew some bushes and a few trees. "I see some of the fellows are out rowing," observed Dave. "I'd like to go out myself some day, before it gets too cold." The carryall was passing a point where the road was considerably higher than the surface of the stream. Dave had bitten into a second apple, that proved to be wormy. Now he leaned out of the carryall and sent the fruit spinning down through the bushes toward the river. "Hi! hi!" came back a voice from the shore below. "Who hit me?" "Gracious, I must have hit somebody!" exclaimed Dave. "I didn't mean to do it." "What's the matter?" demanded the driver, pulling his team in. "You needn't stop," answered Ben. "Dave threw an apple away, that's all." "I've got to fix the harness--there's a strap loose," went on Lemond, and leaped to the ground. He was at work when a man appeared, climbing up the river bank through the bushes. It was Job Haskers, one of the assistant teachers at the Hall, the only instructor the students did not like. "Ha! so some of you played a trick on me, eh?" fumed Job Haskers, as he emerged upon the road and strode toward the carryall. "Nice doings, I must say!" "Did the apple hit you, Mr. Haskers?" asked Dave, mildly. "Did it hit me? I should say it did, right on top of the head." "I am sorry, sir." "So you threw it, Porter. I am amazed that you would dare do such a thing." "I didn't know you were down there--in fact, I didn't know anybody was there." "A likely story," sneered the teacher, who was very often hot-headed and unreasonable. "I am telling the truth, sir," and Dave's face flushed. "I cannot go out for a quiet stroll by the river side but somebody must hit me in the head with a hard apple," growled the instructor. "Have you just arrived?" "Yes, sir." "You ought to be more careful of what you are doing." "As I said before, I didn't know anybody was down there." "I presume you didn't want to see me." The teacher turned to all of the boys. "Where did you get those apples?" he asked, suspiciously. "I bought them in Oakdale," answered Sam. "Haven't been stopping at some orchard on the way?" "You may ask Mr. Cassello, the fruit man, if you don't believe me," and Sam drew himself up. "Well, be more careful after this, or you'll hear from me!" answered Job Haskers, and strode off down the road in a thoroughly bad humor. "Phew! but we are catching it all along the line," was Ben's comment. "First Plum and Poole, and now Haskers. Wonder what we'll strike next?" "I didn't mean to hit anybody," said Dave. "How peppery he is!" "And he thinks we took the apples from some orchard," added Sam. "Well, such things have happened," observed Ben, with a grin. "Which puts me in mind of another story," said Shadow. "There was a little boy, and his mother had been away nearly all day. 'Mamma,' said he when she came home, 'can I have two apples?' 'Won't one do?' she asked. 'No, I want two.' 'Very well,' said his mother. Then she saw him go to the basket and get one apple. 'I thought you wanted two,' she remarked. 'Oh,' he answered, 'I had the other one this morning!'" Sam burst out laughing and so did the others. "I see the drift of that," said Sam. "You haven't forgotten when we went to Japlet's orchard after apples----" "And the bull cornered Sam," said Ben. "Don't forget that, Sam." "Nevertheless, Haskers is hard on us, and he had no business to call Dave down as he did, just for throwing the apple into the bushes." "Perhaps he has found out something about that ram and how he got up in his room," whispered Ben, and then a laugh went up, in the midst of which the driver started up the carryall and the journey to Oak Hall was resumed. Dave was on the watch, to catch his first sight of the school. They were passing through a bit of woodland. Now they made a turn, and rolled out in front of a broad campus lined on either side with a boxwood hedge. At each corner of the campus were clumps of monstrous oaks, the leaves of which had just begun to turn, and at the entrance were more of the same kind of trees. The school itself was a thoroughly up-to-date structure, of brick and stone, laid out in the shape of a broad cross. The classrooms, the office, and the dining hall and kitchen were on the ground floor and the dormitories and private bedrooms and the bathrooms were above. Off to one side of the campus was the gymnasium, and down by the river were a boathouse and a row of bathing houses. "Hurrah! Here we are at last!" cried Dave, and his heart gave a bound. "Let us give 'em the old song, boys!" cried Sam Day, who was a good singer, and he at once started up the following, to the tune of "Auld Lang Syne": "Oak Hall we never shall forget, No matter where we roam; It is the very best of schools, To us it's just like home. Then give three cheers, and let them ring Throughout this world so wide, To let the people know that we Elect to here abide!" They sang with a will, and when they had finished they added the old academy cry: "Baseball! Football! Oak Hall Has the call! Biff! Boom! Bang! Whoop!" "Hello! hello!" sang out a dozen voices from the campus. "Here come some more of the old students!" "There's Dave Porter and Ben Basswood!" "Hello, Dave, how do you feel after traveling across the Pacific?" "Bring any of those South Sea Islanders with you?" "Mighty glad to see you back, old man!" So the cries rang on, as Dave and the others left the carryall. Dave was surrounded, and half a dozen tried to shake hands at once. "We want you on the football team, Dave," said one. "I'm glad to know you found your folks," added another. "You've come back to stay now, haven't you?" asked a third. Dave shook hands all around. As the school song had it, the place felt just like home. For the time being his heart was lighter than ever, and his return to Oak Hall filled him with more pleasure than words can express. CHAPTER IV IN THE DORMITORY It took Dave several days to settle down and during that time he heard but little from Gus Plum and Nat Poole, who prudently kept their distance, awaiting the time when they might do Dave some injury. During those days Roger Morr and Phil Lawrence arrived, both hale and hearty from their trip with Dave across the Pacific. The senator's son had spent two days in Washington with his father, while Phil had been settling up some affairs with his parent regarding the cargo of the _Stormy Petrel_. "This is certainly like old times," remarked Roger, as the crowd sat in their dormitory. "I hope we have as much sport as we did last season." "We will have, don't worry," answered Phil. "Provided Job Haskers doesn't stop us," said Buster Beggs, who was lying across one of the beds. "Tell you what, boys, he is sharp on this term. Yesterday he caught me writing on the boathouse wall and he made me write 'chirography' five hundred times." "Well, that's a good way to improve your handwriting," answered Dave, with a smile. "I've done a little of that sort of thing myself." "He kept me in two hours yesterday, when I wanted to play football," growled Shadow Hamilton. "It was a burning shame." "But what did you do?" questioned Roger. "Oh, nothing much. Nat Poole was coming down the aisle and he made a face at me. I happened to stretch out my leg and Poole tripped and went flat. Then old Haskers said it was all my fault." "And what did Poole say?" asked Sam, with interest. "Oh, he threatened to punch me good--but he didn't do it. He started to quarrel after school, but Gus Plum called him off." "Well, that was queer," observed Dave. "Generally Gus is out for a fight." "Which puts me in mind of a story," came from Shadow. "A little----" "Narrative No. 206," broke in Sam. "You shan't keep me from telling it," went on Shadow, calmly. "A little man----" "How small?" asked Roger, with a wink at the others. "Oh, that hasn't anything to do with it. A little man once met another man----" "Was the other man small, too?" questioned Phil, seriously. "Never mind if he was or not. A little man once met another man who had a big bulldog with him----" "What was the color of the bulldog?" asked Dave. "What color? See here, I----" "When you tell a story, Shadow, give us the details, by all means. Was he white or black, red or yellow? Or maybe he was cream-color, or sky-pink, or----" "He was--er--he was a regular bulldog color. Well, this man----" "Sort of a brownish blue, with a dash of crimson and violet," suggested Phil. "He was a regular common, everyday bulldog, only he was very big and very savage." "Muzzled, of course," came from Roger. "Bulldogs always are." "I saw one once that wasn't," added Buster Beggs. "Some of 'em wear silver-plated muzzles," observed Sam. "Do you mean to say this bulldog had a silver-plated muzzle?" demanded Dave, turning to Shadow. "Who in creation said he had a muzzle?" cried the would-be story-teller. "I said----" "I know you did, Shadow dear," said Luke Watson, who sat on a low stool with his banjo in his lap, tuning up. "Don't let them sidetrack you, or the bulldog either." "What I want to know is this," said Phil, impressively. "Were those men white or black? That may have a very important bearing on the moral of the tale." "See here, if you don't want to hear the story----" began Shadow, half angrily. "We do! we do!" came from several at once. "We are dying for you to finish," said Roger. "Now start up again. A small bulldog once came along, leading a big, fierce man----" "That's not right," broke in Buster. "A small bulldog once met another bulldog leading a bulldog-colored man who----" "Great Cæsar! That's as bad as the story of the canner," broke in Sam. "The canner can eat what he can and what he can't he can can, can't he?" And a laugh went up. "I am going to tell this story if I die for it," cried Shadow. "A small man--remember that--met another man--remember that--with a big, fierce bulldog--remember that. The small man was afraid, but he didn't want to show it, so he said to the man with the bulldog: 'Is that dog a valuable animal?' 'Yes,' says the other man. 'Well, don't let him loose, then.' 'Why not?' 'Because I don't like dogs and I might hurt him.' Now there's the story, and you've got to swallow it whether you want to or not." "Which puts me in mind of a song," said Luke Watson. "Sam, you know it, and can join in," and he began, accompanying himself on the banjo: "I love him, I love him, He's down at the gate; He's waiting to meet me No matter how late. He loves me so truly, It fills me with joy To hug him and kiss him-- My poodle dog, Floy!" The song rang out clearly and sweetly, and when the verse was repeated the others joined in. But then came a knock at the door, and Jim Murphy, the big-hearted monitor, appeared. "Hush! not so loud," he whispered, warningly. "Haskers is coming upstairs." And then the monitor disappeared again. "I know what that means," said Luke, and rising he put his banjo away in a closet. "He stopped me before--he shan't have the chance to do it again." The boys had scarcely settled themselves when Job Haskers appeared and gazed sharply around the dormitory. He found all the boys either writing or studying. "Who is making that noise up here?" he demanded. To this there was no reply. "If I hear any more of it I shall punish everybody in this room," added the assistant teacher, and went out again, closing the door sharply after him. "He's in an elegant humor to-night," was Phil's comment. "Must have swallowed some tacks, or a cup of vinegar." "He ought to be taken down a peg," said Shadow, who had not forgotten how he had been kept in. "I wish we could do something like last term when we got Farmer Cadmore's ram up in his room and----" "That's it," cried Buster. "Only it won't do to try the same joke twice. We'll have to think up something new. Polly, give us an idea." He turned to Bertram Vane, who sat at a table, trying to write a composition. Bertram was very girlish in appearance, hence the nickname. "Please don't bother me now," pleaded Polly. "I want to finish this composition." "We want some idea to work off on Haskers. Open up your knowledge box, Polly," came from Phil. "Really I can't," returned the girlish student. "I am writing a composition on Bats, and I want----" "Baseball bats?" questioned Roger. "No, no, living bats. Their habits are very interesting, and----" "Polly has solved the question for us!" exclaimed Dave, and began to grin. "Just the thing! Polly, have you written much yet?" "No, I hadn't the chance, with so much talking going on." "Then you had better change your subject, for I don't think Mr. Haskers will want to read a composition on Bats to-morrow--not if the plan goes through." "What is the plan?" came eagerly from several of the others. "I just happened to remember that one of the boys over at Lapham's farm has a cage full of bats that he caught last week. He said he would sell them for fifty cents. Perhaps Mr. Haskers would be pleased to have them presented to him." "Whoop! We'll get those bats!" shouted Phil. "And put them in his room," added Shadow. "And as we are modest we won't say where the gift came from," remarked Sam. The plan was approved by everybody, even Polly Vane smiling faintly. "Bats are very curious creatures," he observed. "They fly in people's hair, and they can make one very uncomfortable." The crowd talked the matter over, and it was decided to get the bats at once, if it could be done. As Dave knew the boy who had the creatures he was commissioned to go after them, taking Shadow and Roger along. It was still early, so the three lads had no difficulty in getting out of the academy building. They did not, however, dare to ask for permission to leave the grounds, and so stole across the campus to the gymnasium building, back of which they vaulted the boxwood hedge. Close at hand was a road leading through a patch of woods to the Lapham farm, whither they were bound. "We have got to watch out, when we are coming back," said the senator's son, as they trudged along. "We don't want to get caught by Haskers, or Dr. Clay either." "When we return one of us can go ahead and see if the coast is clear," answered Dave. "It will be all right unless somebody has been playing the spy on us." "I didn't see anybody." "Neither did I, but I believe they are going to enforce the rules more strictly than ever this season." It was a cool, clear night, with hundreds of stars twinkling in the sky. They knew the road well, having traveled it many times before. They left the woods behind, and then came out on a small hill, below which was the farm for which they were bound. "Perhaps the Laphams are in bed," said Shadow. "Some farmers go to bed mighty early." "I know it, especially when the days are short," answered Dave. "Well, if the boy's asleep we'll have to wake him up. I guess he'll be glad enough to sell the bats. He said his mother didn't want him to have them around." "I see a light in the house," said Roger, as they drew closer. "Have they a dog?" "No." "Then we can go right up to the door and knock." The three students entered the lane leading up to the farmhouse. They saw a light flash up in one lower room and then appear in the next. While they were gazing it suddenly disappeared, leaving the farmhouse in total darkness. "Evidently they are just going to bed," said Dave. "Hurry up, before they get upstairs." He broke into a swift walk and the others did the same. They were close to the front porch of the house when they heard a shrill cry from within: "John! John! Wake up! There is somebody in the house!" CHAPTER V SOMETHING OF A MYSTERY "Did you hear that?" asked the senator's son, as he and his companions came to a halt on the porch of the farmhouse. "I did, and there must be something wrong," answered Dave. "Perhaps there are burglars around," said Shadow. "I must say, I don't like this," he continued, nervously. "There was a burglary in Oakdale night before last," said Dave. "I heard Swingly the janitor telling about it." All three now heard a commotion in the farmhouse. There was the slamming of a back door, and then somebody came leaping down the inside stairs. "Where is he, Jane?" they heard in a man's voice. "I don't know, but I heard the back door shut," answered a woman's voice. "And I saw a light." "I don't see anybody," went on the man of the house, and lit a match. Soon he had a lamp in his hand, with which he went to the back door. "Did you leave the wash-shed window open?" he called out. "No," returned Mrs. Lapham. "I shut it tight." "It's open wide,--and the back door is unlocked," went on her husband. "Any thieves around, pop?" came in a boyish voice. "Better git the gun," advised another boy, Bob Lapham, who had the bats for sale. The man went out in the yard, lamp in hand. As he did this, the three students walked around to meet him. "Hello, what do you want?" demanded John Lapham, halting and staring at his unexpected visitors. "Were you in my house?" he continued, suspiciously. "No, sir, we just came up," answered Dave. "We want to buy those bats your son has for sale." "Did you see anybody around here--I mean going out just now?" "No." "We saw a light, in the parlor and the sitting room," said Roger. "It went out just as we came up." "Then my wife must be right. Somebody has been in the house. I must take a look around." The two Lapham boys now came out, and the whole crowd looked around the farmhouse and the stable near by. Not a soul was in sight anywhere. "Whoever he was, he has gotten away," said the farmer, soberly. "I hope he didn't steal anything." He and his sons were but partly dressed and they went in the house again, followed by the students, who were curious to learn if anything had been taken. "I brought home a lot of stuff from my aunt's house yesterday," explained John Lapham. "She is breaking up housekeeping and gave us her silverware and such. I had it all in the box yonder." He set down the lamp and threw aside the cover of the box he had pointed out. One look inside and he gave a groan. "The silverware is gone!" "All of it?" queried one of his sons. "Yes, and the cut glass fruit dish is gone too!" By this time Mrs. Lapham had dressed and now she came down. At the news she burst into tears. "Oh, John, you must get after those burglars!" "Can there have been more than one?" asked Dave. "I think I heard two men moving around, but I am not sure," said the woman. Another search was made by the students, while the farmer and his sons hastily donned the rest of their clothing. Then John Lapham brought forth a shotgun. "I'm going to get that stuff back," said he, determinedly. "You say the burglars didn't go out by the front road?" "We didn't see anybody," answered Roger. "Then they must have taken to the lane that leads down to the river." "Let us go down and see, pop," said Bob Lapham, eagerly. So it was agreed, and after a few words Dave and his chums went along. For the time being the bats were forgotten. "This may get us into a mess at the Hall," whispered Shadow, as they hurried along. "In telling the news Mr. Lapham will be sure to mention us." "Well, that can't be helped, and we'll have to get out of it the best we can," answered Dave. "It's our duty to help capture those burglars, if it can be done." The whole party walked down the lane leading to the river, which, at this point, overflowed a portion of the Lapham meadow. The farmer had brought along his barn lantern. "I see something!" cried Dave, as a bright object caught his eye. But it was only a battered tin can, which caused everybody to utter a short laugh. It did not take long to reach the water's edge. Here they saw where a rowboat had been hauled up on the bank. In the mud and grass they made out the footsteps of two men, but that was all. "Have you had a boat up here in the last few days?" asked Dave of the farmer. "Ain't had a boat here in a month." "Then this must have been the burglars' boat." "I think so." John Lapham gave something of a sigh. "They got a good start." "Yes, and we don't know which way they went," added one of his sons. "Have you any idea what the stuff that was stolen was worth?" asked the senator's son. "Fifty or sixty dollars, maybe more." "I shouldn't think any professional burglars would bother to take such a small amount," was Shadow's comment. "Maybe they are worthless characters from around here." "Like as not," answered the farmer. "Maybe the same rascals that robbed Jerry Logan's house at Oakdale. They got about fifty dollars' worth there too." They looked out upon the river as best they could, but not a craft of any kind was in sight, nor could they hear any sound of rowing. The farmer drew a long sigh. "I'm stumped," he declared. "You'd better notify the authorities," suggested Roger. "Won't do a bit o' good. The constable ain't worth his salt, and the justice ain't no good either. If I want to find those burglars I've got to do it myself." "Have you a boat?" "No, but I can get one in the morning, and I'll get some of the neighbors to help me." There seemed nothing more to do just then, and the whole party returned to the farmhouse. Then Dave explained what he had come for to Bob Lapham. "All right, you can have the bats," said the farm boy. "They are in the barn. But what do you want of them?" "Oh, we were going to use them for something--but perhaps we won't now," said Dave, and handed over the amount to be paid. Soon the bats were brought forth, in a battered mocking-bird cage. They were a round dozen in number. "See here, Bob, don't say anything to anybody about our coming here," whispered Roger, slipping an extra quarter into the farm boy's hand. "We are not supposed to be away from the Hall, you know." "All right, I won't say anything." "And keep your brother and your father quiet too,--if you can." "I'll do my best. I don't know your names anyway." "None of them?" "No." "Good enough. Now we are off. Good-night." The boys were about to turn from the farmhouse when John Lapham called them back. "What do you want?" asked Dave, and a sudden strange sensation took possession of him. "I've been thinking that things look rather queer," went on the farmer, pointedly. "In what way?" demanded Shadow. "How was it that you didn't knock on the front door when you first came here?" "We heard a noise and we listened to find out what it meant," answered the senator's son. "It seems mighty queer to me," said the farmer, doggedly. "What do you mean, Mr. Lapham?" demanded Dave, his face beginning to burn. "It's queer you should come here this time of night just to get some bats that ain't any good to nobody." "Well, that is what we came for and nothing else." "You're sure you don't know anything about that robbery?" "Mr. Lapham, do you take us for thieves?" cried the senator's son, hotly. "I didn't say that; I said it was queer." "You know we haven't the stolen stuff." "And you are sure you don't know anything about those other chaps?" mused the farmer. "Not a thing," answered Dave. "All we saw was the light just before it went out, and heard the noise." "It is preposterous to think we would come here to take your silverware," went on Roger, warmly. "Oh, pop, they are all right," said Bob Lapham. "All the students at Oak Hall are honest fellows." "I don't know about that," was the grim answer. "They don't seem to be honest when it comes to getting in our orchards." "I have never been in your orchard," said Dave. "Nor I," added Shadow. "Nor I," affirmed the senator's son. "Last season I had about half of my fruit stolen." "Well, some of it was taken by the boys from the military academy, you must remember," said Bob Lapham, who evidently wanted to help the Oak Hall students all he could. "Yes, I know that." "We are totally innocent," asserted Shadow. "I don't see how you can suspect us." "What is your name?" demanded the farmer. Shadow hesitated and then straightened up. "I am not ashamed to tell you. It is Maurice Hamilton." "And what is yours, young man?" went on John Lapham, turning to Dave. "David Porter." "And yours?" "Roger Morr." "Morr, eh? Do you belong around here?" "No, sir, I come from near Hemson." "Oh! Then you ain't related to Mr. Samuel Morr, of Bainridge?" "I am. He is my uncle." "Are you Senator Morr's son?" "Yes, sir." "Oh!" The farmer's face changed slightly. "Well, that makes a difference. I know Mr. Samuel Morr quite well," he continued, but did not add that Roger's uncle held his note for two hundred dollars, and he wished the same renewed for three months. "Of course, if you are Senator Morr's son it is all right, and I am sure you didn't have anything to do with the robbery." CHAPTER VI JOB HASKERS'S BAD NIGHT After that the farmer questioned the boys further concerning their visit to his home and at last drew from the students their whole story. When they acknowledged that they wanted to play a joke on Job Haskers he smiled broadly. "I know that man," he said. "He wanted to buy some apples and potatoes here once, to ship to some of his folks, and he was so close and mean about it, I wouldn't sell him anything. Go ahead and play your joke on him, and I won't say anything about it." "And you won't say anything about our visit here?" questioned Roger, eagerly. "Not a thing--unless, of course, it becomes absolutely necessary to do so." "You're a brick, Mr. Lapham," cried Dave, much relieved. "We'll do all we can to help you catch those burglars." "That we will," added Shadow. "I am afraid we'll never catch them, boys. The constable here is no good, and I don't know where to look for them," responded the farmer. A few minutes later found the students on the return to Oak Hall, Dave carrying the cage full of bats. "That was a narrow escape," was Shadow's comment, as they hurried along to make up for lost time. "I thought sure he'd report the matter to Dr. Clay." "To think we should run into a burglary!" declared the senator's son. "I wonder if the same fellows robbed Mr. Lapham who committed the robbery at Oakdale?" "It is more than likely. I hope they catch the fellows." It did not take the three youths long to reach the academy grounds. Roger slipped in ahead and was gone five minutes. "Hurry up--the coast is clear!" he whispered, on coming back. "The side door is open and nobody on the stairs, so far as I could see." They ran across the campus, Dave with the cage full of bats still in his hand. They had almost reached the door when they heard it slam shut. Then the key was turned and the bolt shot into place. "We're locked out!" whispered Shadow, in consternation. "Let us try the other doors," suggested Dave. They did this, making the entire round of the school building. Every door was shut and locked, even that to the kitchen addition being tight. "Now we are in a pickle and no mistake," groaned the senator's son. "I suppose the other fellows have gotten tired of waiting for us and gone to bed," said Shadow. "We've been away an hour and a half longer than we expected." "One thing is certain, we must get into the Hall somehow," said Dave. "We can't stay out here all night." "Let us go around under one of our windows," said Roger. They were soon under a window of Dormitory No. 12. It was open from the top to admit the fresh air. All was dark in the school building and they had only the starlight to guide them. Gathering up a handful of pebbles, Dave threw them at the window and Roger and Shadow followed suit. At first nobody paid attention to this. Then the window was raised from the bottom and the head of Phil appeared. "Hello you!" he called softly. "Thought you were going to make a night of it." "We were delayed," answered Dave. "All the doors are locked. Can't you open one for us?" "I'll see." Phil's head disappeared, and then Sam Day and Buster Beggs showed themselves. "Got the bats?" asked Sam. "Yes." "Where are they?" "Here, in this cage." "Good enough!" The boys below waited fully five minutes after that. Then Phil appeared once more. "It's pretty risky to open a door," he announced. "Mr. Dale is below, and so are Pop Swingly and one or two others. I think they are watching for somebody." "I hope they are not watching for us," returned Shadow, with a shiver. "No, I think they are looking for some other fellows who went out." "Here's a fishing line," said Sam. "You can send up the bats on that, if you like. Then if you are caught, they won't find out what you were after." "A good idea," answered Dave, and tied the cage to the end of the line. Soon the bats were hauled up to the dormitory and stowed away in a safe place. "I wish we could go up on the line too," said Shadow, wistfully. "We can get a ladder from the barn and go up, if you say so," suggested Roger. "Only, what will we do with the ladder afterwards?" [Illustration: Dave began to mount the improvised rope.--_Page 51._] "The ladder would expose us," said Dave. "I've got a plan. Take the bed sheets and make a rope of them, and we'll haul ourselves up somehow." The charm of this idea took instantly, and those in the dormitory set to work to knot together five or six sheets without delay. Then one end was held fast while the other was dropped to the ground. "Will it hold?" questioned Roger. "We don't want to break our necks." "I'll try it," said Dave, and began to mount the improvised rope hand over hand, bracing his feet against the brick and stone building as he did so. As the youth was a pretty good athlete he had small trouble in gaining the top and hopping into the dormitory. Then Shadow came up, followed by the senator's son, and the bed sheets were hauled back and separated. The sheets were somewhat mussed from the strange usage, but that was all. The other boys wanted to know what had kept Dave and his companions so long, but it was too late to relate the whole story. "We can tell it in the morning," said the senator's son. "Just now let us see how the land lies for getting the bats into old Haskers's room." He and Dave tiptoed their way out into the hallway, which was dark saving for a faint light near a bathroom door. Not a person was in sight, but a faint murmur of voices came from a room below. "I am afraid he will have his door locked," said Dave. "He learned his lesson when he had the trouble with the ram." But to their satisfaction they found the door to the assistant teacher's bedroom unlocked. They listened and heard Job Haskers breathing heavily. "He is sound asleep," whispered Roger. "Let us put the key on the outside first," answered Dave. This was done, and then the two boys went back for the cage of bats. The other students in the dormitory wanted to see the fun, and half a dozen went out into the hallway. In order that they might not be seen and recognized, the light was extinguished. "I am going to loosen the bottom of the cage and then throw the whole thing on Haskers's bed," said Dave. "Stand ready, somebody, to lock the door." "I'll do that," answered Phil. With caution the door was opened for a little over a foot. Then Dave loosened the bottom of the cage and shook the bats up. As they fluttered around he threw cage and all directly on the teacher's bed. Then the door was quickly closed and locked and the key thrown down into the lower hallway. For a moment there was silence. Then from Job Haskers's room there arose a frightful shriek. "Help! Get away! What is this? Oh, my eye! Get away, I say! Oh! oh! Save me! I shall be killed! Get away!" And there followed a series of yells and thumps and the overturning of a chair and a table. "He is enjoying himself--I don't think!" cried Roger, with a chuckle. "Oh, say, listen to that!" "Back to the room, or we'll be discovered," warned Phil, and back they ran with all speed. But the strange commotion had aroused the whole Hall, and dormitory doors were opened on all sides and students rushed out to see what was the matter. Then Dr. Clay appeared, garbed in a dressing gown. Andrew Dale, the first assistant teacher, ran up from below. "What is the meaning of this unseemly noise?" thundered the good doctor. "Make a light, somebody." Several lights were lit. In the meantime the noise in Job Haskers's room continued. The second assistant was having a hot fight with the bats. The creatures banged him in the face, whizzed past his ears, caught in his rather long hair, and practically scared him out of his wits. He made wild passes at them with his hands, dancing around in the meanwhile, and in his bewilderment brought down a steel engraving covered with glass with a tremendous crash. "Mr. Haskers must be going crazy!" "Perhaps there is a burglar in his room!" "Look out that you don't get shot!" "I know what's the matter!" cried one fun-loving student. "He must have the hydrophobia. He said a dog tried to bite him a couple of days ago." "Oh, if he has gone mad I don't want him to bite me!" shrieked one of the younger students. "Better chain him up and pour water on him!" "Mr. Haskers!" thundered the doctor, rattling the doorknob. "Mr. Haskers! What is the matter? Open the door." But the noise was so fearful that no attention was paid to the request. Then came another crash, as the assistant teacher picked up a book, let it fly at the bats, and sent a big pane of glass in the window into a hundred pieces. This was too much for Dr. Clay. Satisfied that something dreadful was going on, he put his shoulder to the door and burst it open. As he did this, something whizzed past his ear and made him dodge. "Stop! Don't throw anything at me!" he called. "What in the world does this mean?" "I don't know what it means!" roared Job Haskers, who was so bewildered he scarcely knew what he was saying. "Get out of here! Oh, my eye! That's the third time I've been hit!" And he made another sweep at his invisible enemy. Then, as Dr. Clay backed into the hallway, the teacher followed him and ran down the corridor like one gone crazy. By this time somebody was bringing a lantern, and Andrew Dale had armed himself with a club. The doorway to Job Haskers's room had been left wide open and the sounds within had suddenly ceased. With caution Andrew Dale peered inside. "I do not see anything out of the ordinary," he announced, looking around with caution. "Maybe the bats have cleared out!" whispered Roger to Dave. "I hope they have. See, the window is open from the top, and the bottom glass is broken out." One after another, teachers and students crowded into the room. Phil spied the battered bird cage resting near the foot of the bed, and, in secret, passed it to Dave, who handed it to Sam. The latter was close to the window, and threw the object out as far as he could. In the meantime the excitement continued. "I don't see anything." "Better look for robbers!" "Maybe somebody is in the closet." The closet was searched, but nothing out of the ordinary was discovered. The students in the secret looked for bats, but every one of the creatures had taken its departure for parts unknown. CHAPTER VII A CHALLENGE ACCEPTED "Mr. Haskers, I would like to have you explain this affair," said Dr. Clay, after the excitement had died down. "Have you--have you got them?" faltered the assistant teacher, who was still much bewildered. "Got what?" "Why,--er--the--the things that were in my room." "I can find nothing in your room, and neither can Mr. Dale." "No--nothing? absolutely nothing, sir?" "Not a thing out of the ordinary. Did you have a nightmare?" And the worthy master of the Hall looked sternly at his assistant. "I--er--I don't think I did. I woke up suddenly, sir, and something flew by my head. Then something hit me in the face and got caught in my hair, and after that I--er--I was hit half a dozen times." "Ahem! This is certainly extraordinary. You are sure you weren't dreaming?" "I don't think I was, sir." "Was your window open when you went to bed?" "Yes, from the top." "Perhaps a night bird flew in." "There must have been half a dozen of them." "Well, whatever it was, it is gone now. You had better go back to bed. You can push the chiffonier against the broken-out window if you wish, to keep out the cold air. Boys, I want you all to retire. We'll have the window and the broken lock mended in the morning." The doctor turned and waved the students away, and one after another they departed for their dormitories. Then he followed Job Haskers into the latter's bedroom. The door was closed and what was said was not heard by the others. "Well, that was certainly one on Job Haskers," chuckled Roger, as he followed Dave to bed. "And I doubt if he ever learns what was the real trouble," answered Dave. "By the way, I didn't see Gus Plum and Nat Poole," said Phil. "It is queer they didn't come out of their room." "Maybe they weren't in the building!" cried Sam. "Mr. Dale was watching downstairs for somebody." "I am not going to bother my head about it," announced the senator's son, as he began to get ready to jump into bed, having disrobed in part before playing the joke on the teacher. "The walk made me tired." "I am tired, too, and sleepy," said Shadow. "Ditto here," announced Dave. All of the students had gone to their dormitories, and once more quiet settled over the Hall. The light that had been lit was extinguished, and one after another the boys hopped into bed and tucked the covers in around them. "Great hambones! What's this!" came, an instant later, from Phil, and he began to wiggle from head to foot. "Adam's tombstone, but this is fierce!" cried the senator's son and sat bolt upright. "I should say it was!" declared Dave, as he also thrashed around. "I can't stand this. Who put something in my bed?" "I didn't!" declared Buster. "Nor I!" declared one after another of the occupants of the dormitory. Once more the boys got up, and the light was again lit. It was soon discovered that a mass of burdock burs had been placed in the beds of Phil, Roger, and Dave. None of the other beds had been touched. "This is an itchy joke and no mistake," said Dave, with a sickly grin. "Puts me in mind of a story," began Shadow. "At a school----" "No stories just now!" cried Dave. "I want to know who did this?" "I saw some burdock burs yesterday," said Polly Vane. "Little Sammy Bilderman had them." "Yes, and he gave them to Nat Poole," declared Chip Macklin. "I saw him do it." "That explains it!" cried Dave. "Explains what?" asked several of the others. "Why Poole and Plum didn't show themselves while the racket was going on in Haskers's room. They came in here and fixed us up." "It must be so," said Phil, "for I know my bed was all right before." Dave leaped noiselessly to the door and threw it open. Nobody was outside, but he heard a door at a distance close softly. "Somebody was out there. He just ran off," he declared. "Come on," said Roger, and tiptoed his way into the semi-dark hall, followed by Dave and Phil. They made their way to the door of the dormitory in which Poole and Plum belonged. They heard a rustle and the faint creaking of two beds. "We've found them all right," whispered the senator's son. "The question is, what shall we do in return?" "Wait," advised Dave. "We've had enough for one night. Let us get to bed." The others were willing, and so they returned to their own room. The burs were cleared away, and in a few minutes more all of the lads were in the land of dreams. In the morning, on entering the classroom, the students found Job Haskers heavy-eyed and in anything but a pleasant humor. He called one class after another to order in a sharp, jerky voice, and gave the pupils demerit marks upon the slightest provocation. As a result Dave, Phil, and eight other students suffered in their general average. "How I wish Dr. Clay would get rid of him," sighed Phil. "And get another teacher like Mr. Dale to take his place," said Dave. All the boys loved Andrew Dale, who was as pleasant as he was capable. It was not until two days later that Roger met Bob Lapham. The farm boy said his father had heard nothing more of the burglars and the stolen silverware, and had come to the conclusion that little could be done in the matter. "It is too bad," said the senator's son. "I do hope he gets his stuff back some day." Although Dave was out for fun and sport, it must not be thought that he neglected his studies. As my old readers know, he was a youth who put his whole heart and soul into whatever he was doing, and this applied to his lessons as well as to everything else. In the past he had kept close to the top of his class, and he was resolved to retain that position or do still better. "I came to learn something," he said, more than once. "I am not going to neglect my lessons, no matter what is in the air." "But you'll join our football team, won't you?" asked the senator's son, who was looked upon as the leader in that sport by nearly all the old football players. "I will if you want me to, Roger. But you know I am not an extra good player. Baseball is my game, not football." "But we want you to play the position you took last year, when you made that victorious run." "Very well. What of the other fellows?" "Ben will be quarter-back as before, and Phil a half-back, and Sam right tackle. I haven't made up my mind about the others yet, although I think I'll try Shadow for center and Buster for guard." "What do you think of the team Gus Plum has organized?" "Well, to tell the truth, Dave, I think some of his fellows play pretty good football," answered Roger, in a low voice, so that no outsider might hear him. "Just what I think. Henshaw is a dandy quarter-back, and Babcock makes a good, heavy tackle. We ought to have them on our team--if we are to play Rockville." "Well, I would ask them to join us, only if I do that, Plum will say I am trying to steal his men from him." The next morning came a surprise. Roger received a challenge from the Arrows to play a game of football the very next Saturday afternoon. Nat Poole delivered the paper, and his face had a superior smile on it as he did so. "Why, Poole, we are not in trim to play yet," said Roger. "We need more practice." "Afraid to play us, eh?" sneered the aristocratic youth. "I thought so." "I am not afraid. Make it three weeks from now and I'll accept." "No, you must play this week or not at all. If you won't play we'll challenge the Rockville fellows." With this declaration Nat Poole hurried away, leaving the senator's son much worried. As Roger had said, his team needed practice. They were all good players individually, but team work is what counts in a modern game of football. He went to consult his friends. "We can't do it," said Sam, shaking his head. "Why, some of us scarcely know the new rules yet, much less our signals." "We need at least two weeks of good, snappy practice," put in another of the players. "None of us are hard enough yet." "This is a plan to get us into a hole," declared Dave. "If we back out Plum will challenge the Rockville boys and make out that his eleven is the representative one from this school. It's just like one of his dirty tricks." The boys talked the matter over a good hour, and finally a vote was taken. "I say play," declared Dave. "Let us practise all we possibly can. If we are beaten we can immediately send a challenge for another game on the Saturday following." So it was at last decided, although Roger, Phil, and Sam were still doubtful. They declared it was taking a big risk and that if they lost they would never hear the end of it. In the meantime Gus Plum was laughing in his sleeve, as the popular saying goes, feeling certain that Roger's eleven would not accept the challenge. Three of the players who had formerly played on the team of the senator's son had left Oak Hall, and that meant the substitution of green hands from whom it was not known what to expect. "They'll crawl out of it," declared Nat Poole, as he and the bully of the Hall and a student named Jasniff talked it over. Jasniff was a newcomer at Oak Hall, a fellow with a squint in one eye and a manner that few of the boys cared to tolerate, although, strange to say, it pleased Plum and Poole. Jasniff smoked, and played pool when he got the chance, and so did they, and, in addition, the new student was fond of drinking and horse races,--a poor sort of a companion for any youth who wanted to make a man of himself. "You've got them dead to rights," said Nick Jasniff. "They'll crawl, see if they don't." "I'll give them until Thursday to accept," said Gus Plum. "If they don't, I'll send a challenge to Rockville on Friday." "Will Rockville play us?" asked Poole. "They may put up some sort of a kick." "I'll let them know how matters stand," answered the bully of the Hall, with a suggestive wink. "If Morr's crowd won't play us, then we are the representative team of the Hall, aren't we?" As the bully ceased speaking, Dave and Roger walked up to the three other boys. "Here's our answer to that challenge, Plum," said the senator's son, and held out a paper. "I presume you decline to play us," sneered the bully, as he took the note. "On the contrary we take pleasure in accepting the challenge," said Dave. CHAPTER VIII THE RIVALS OF OAK HALL For the moment after Dave made his announcement there was a dead silence. The faces of Gus Plum and his associates showed their disappointment. "Going to play us, eh?" said the bully, slowly. "You'll be beaten out of your boots," said Nat Poole, with a sneer. "That remains to be seen," answered Roger. "We accept the challenge and we are here to arrange all the details of the game." A talk lasting nearly a quarter of an hour followed, in which they went over such details as seemed necessary. Plainly Plum was ill at ease. He wanted to chose an umpire, referee, and linesmen from outside of Oak Hall, but the senator's son would not consent to this. "I am satisfied to have Mr. Dale for umpire," he said. "And three of our head students can act as referee and linesmen." And so at last it was decided, but not without a great deal of grumbling. "You won't win this time, Porter," remarked Nick Jasniff, as Dave and Roger were leaving. "After this game you'll never be heard of again in this school." "'He laughs best who laughs last,'" quoted Dave, and walked away, arm in arm with Roger. Jasniff stared after him and so did Plum and Poole. "They really mean to play after all," muttered Poole. "I was dead sure they'd decline." "You never can tell what Porter will do," growled Gus Plum. "I'll wager he got Morr to accept." "Well, we've got to wax 'em good and hard," remarked Nick Jasniff. "And we ought to be able to do that easily enough--with Henshaw and Babcock on our side. Those two fellows play as if they belonged to some college eleven." "Yes, I hope great things from Henshaw and Babcock," answered the bully of Oak Hall. When Roger and Dave returned to the members of their own eleven they were asked how Plum and his crowd had taken the acceptance of the challenge. Then the coming game was discussed from every possible point of view. "Do you know, I'd almost rather beat Plum than some outside team," remarked Phil. "He deserves to be taken down." "I don't like Nick Jasniff at all," said Dave, slowly. "In one way I think he is a worse fellow than either Plum or Poole." "He has a bad eye," said Sam. "It's an eye I don't trust." "Which puts me in mind of a story," added Shadow. "Now don't stop me, for this is brand-new----" "Warranted?" queried Dave. "Yes, warranted. Two Irishmen and a Dutchman got into an argument and when they separated all three were in bad humor. The next day one of the Irishmen met the other Irishman. 'Sure, Pat,' says he. 'I don't loike that Dootchmon at all, at all.' 'Nayther do I,' answered the other Irishman. 'He has a bad eye, so he has,' went on the first Irishman. 'That's roight, he has--an' I gave him that same this very marnin'!' says the other Irishman." "Three cheers for the new joke!" cried Roger, and a general laugh arose. "Well, I suppose all we can do is to start practice and keep it up until the day for the match comes," said Dave, after the laughter had subsided. "That's it," answered the senator's son. "We'll do what we can this very afternoon." The boys went to their classroom with their heads full of the coming football contest. Roger had already made up his eleven, largely from the material of the season previous. But the boys who had gone from Oak Hall left weak spots in the line which it was next to impossible to fill. Then came another set-back, which made Dave and the others gloomy enough, and caused Gus Plum and his associates to smile grimly to themselves. Instead of remaining clear, a cold, dismal rain set in that very afternoon and kept up for two days. To practise on the football field was out of the question, and all Roger's eleven could do was to exercise in the gymnasium. Here there was always some one of Plum's crowd to look on and see whatever was being tried in the way of a trick or a new movement. "I hope it rains Saturday, too," grumbled Phil. "We won't be able to make any kind of a showing at this rate." "It will be just our luck to have good weather Saturday," sighed Shadow. Even Dave was disheartened, but he did not show it. Instead he did all the practising he could in the gymnasium and helped Roger whip the eleven into shape. As he had said, he did not care for football as much as baseball, but he was resolved to do his best. On Saturday morning all the boys were up early, to see what sort of weather they were going to have. The sun was under a cloud, but by nine o'clock it cleared up and a fine, warm wind from the south sprang up. "That settles it, we have got to play," said Buster Beggs. "Let us go out and practise as soon as we can," said the senator's son, and called the eleven without delay. Of course the match had been talked over throughout the school and even outside. As a consequence, when the time came to play, a goodly crowd had assembled on the football field. There was cheering for both sides and the waving of a good many Oak Hall banners. In the small stand that had been put up sat Dr. Clay and about twenty visitors. "I don't see anything of Henshaw and Babcock," said Dave, looking over the field. "They must be going to play." "There they are, over in the corner, talking to Plum and Poole," answered Roger, pointing with his hand. "They must be planning some new move," said Phil. "We'll have to watch out for them." Presently Babcock, a fine, sturdy player, came forward, followed by Henshaw. Both were frowning, and when Babcock said something to his companion Henshaw nodded vigorously. Plum and Poole came behind, and neither appeared particularly happy. The game was to be played under the rules of that year, with two halves of thirty minutes each. When it came to the practice Roger's team did what it could. The players were full of energy, but the team work was not at all what it might have been. "Want to tune up!" sang out one looker-on, to Roger. "Get together!" "We are trying to," answered the senator's son. Plum's eleven did much better in practice, working in perfect harmony. Only Poole made fumbles, for which the bully of the Hall upbraided him roundly. "Oh, don't howl at me," growled Poole. "I am doing as well as you are." At length the game was called and the two elevens lined up. They were pretty well matched, although Henshaw and Babcock stood out above the others. "Wish that pair were on our side," sighed Roger. "Each of them has weight, wind, and cleverness--just the things a good football player ought to possess." There was no time to say more. The toss-up gave Plum's eleven the ball and a few minutes later it was put into play and sent twenty yards into our friends' territory. Then came a scrimmage and the leather went back and forth rapidly. The play was ragged, for neither side had as yet settled down to hard work. There was no brilliant play, and when the ball was carried over the line by Henshaw the applause was rather tame. "An easy touchdown!" "Now make it a goal." This was not so easy, for the wind had freshened. The ball sailed outside of the posts, so that the Arrows received but five points. Again the ball was put into play and now the work on both sides became more earnest. Several of Gus Plum's players became rough and Plum himself tried to "spike" Dave with his shoe. Dave gave the bully a shove that sent him headlong. "A foul! Time!" was the cry. "He tried to spike me!" cried Dave, hotly. "I didn't!" roared the bully. "He did--I saw it!" put in Roger. "Have you spikes in your shoes?" demanded the umpire. "No," muttered Gus Plum, but his face grew red. The umpire made him show the bottoms of his shoes. Each had a small spike in it--something quite contrary to the rules, as all football players know. "Change your shoes at once, or get out of the game," was the decision rendered, and Gus Plum ran off the field with a redder face than ever. The first half of the game closed with the score 12 to 0 in favor of Gus Plum's eleven. A safety for Roger's team had been made by Dave, who saw it was the only thing to do when crowded by Babcock, Henshaw, and two others. The second touchdown made by the Arrows came through Babcock aided by several others. "We could whip them if it wasn't for Babcock and Henshaw," said Luke Watson. "Those two chaps are dandy players and no mistake." During the intermission it was seen that Gus Plum was having another lively interview with Babcock and Henshaw. But the two expert players would not listen to the bully of Oak Hall. "Something is wrong in their camp, that's certain," was Phil's comment. "Look here, if you say anything, I'll put you off the team!" cried Gus Plum, to Babcock and Henshaw, so loudly that many standing around could hear him. "All right, put me off if you wish," answered Babcock sharply. "I'll never play with you again anyway!" added Henshaw. "I've done my best to-day, but this ends it, if I never play again as long as I stay at Oak Hall." "You're out of it, both of you!" roared Gus Plum, in a sudden rage. "Dawson, take Henshaw's place, and Potter, you take Babcock's place. I'll show you that I can run a team to suit myself." "Very well," said Babcock, and turning on his heel he left the field. Henshaw, without saying a word, followed his friend. All who witnessed the scene were curious to know what it meant, but none of the other Arrow players would explain. Soon it was time for the second half of the game. Two of Roger's players had been slightly hurt, and their places were filled by two substitutes, which weakened the eleven still more. "Henshaw and Babcock are out of it!" cried Phil, to Roger and Dave. "That gives us a better chance to win," said the senator's son. "If it isn't too late," returned Sam Day; "12 to 0 is a pretty hard lead to overcome." "We'll do our best," said Dave. "Let every man go in for all he is worth!" The play was fast and furious from the very start, and inside of two minutes Roger's players had the leather close to the Arrows' goal line. But then Nick Jasniff with extreme roughness hurled Sam Day to the ground. Jasniff was off-side at the time and his movements were consequently contrary to the rules. "You may retire from the field," said the referee, after he and the umpire had talked the matter over. Poor Sam was in bad shape when picked up and carried from the field, but fortunately he recovered inside of an hour. In the meantime another player was put in his place and another in the place of Jasniff and the game went on. CHAPTER IX THE END OF THE GAME "A touchdown for the Morr team!" "That's the way to do it!" "Now make it a goal!" The leather had been carried over the line after hard work. Without delay it was placed in position for the kick and went sailing directly between the two posts. "That's the talk!" "Now go and make another!" There were still eighteen minutes in which to play. The goal made Roger, Dave, and the others enthusiastic, and they "sailed in" as never before. On the other hand, the loss of Babcock, Henshaw, and Jasniff cast a gloom over Gus Plum's eleven and the bully could do little to rally them. "It was a mistake to fire Babcock and Henshaw," said one of the tackles. "They were our best players." "That's right," added the center rush. "Do you mean to say they can play better than I and Nat?" demanded Gus Plum. "They can play just as well," grumbled the tackle. "Rot! Come on ahead and wax 'em!" But the call to "wax" Roger's team was of small avail. With Babcock and Henshaw gone the Arrows could do little or nothing, and soon Dave kicked a goal from the field. Then came another touchdown, another goal from the field, and two more touchdowns. Each of the touchdowns resulted in goal kicks. The Arrows were in despair and could do absolutely nothing. "Pile it on!" cried Roger, enthusiastically. "Pile it on, boys!" And they did pile it on, until the whistle blew and the game was over. Final score--Plum's eleven 12, Roger Morr's eleven 45! It was a terrible defeat for the bully of Oak Hall and he could scarcely wait for the game to come to an end. He fairly ran for the gymnasium when it was over and did his best to keep out of sight for the rest of the day and all day Sunday, and Nat Poole went with him. The cheering for Roger and his eleven was great, and all the players came in for their full share of glory. Dave had done some remarkably clever work, for which his friends shook his hand and congratulated him. "Well, you gave Gus Plum's crowd all that was coming to them," said one of the students to Dave. "I don't think he'll ever organize another football eleven in this academy." What this student said was practically true. During the following week the Arrows held several stormy sessions and the upshot was that the eleven disbanded. Nearly all the players were angry because Gus Plum had put Henshaw and Babcock out of the game, for to this they attributed their defeat. It leaked out that Plum had wanted the two players to play some rough trick on Roger's eleven, and both Babcock and Henshaw had declined, stating that it was against the rules and unsportsmanlike. This had angered the bully, and hence the quarrel and separation. "I want to play fairly and squarely or not at all," said Babcock, and Henshaw said practically the same thing. Gus Plum denied the report, but nobody believed him. During the following week Dave was taking a walk along the river bank when he heard loud talking close at hand. Looking through the bushes he saw Sam Day and Nick Jasniff. "You had no business to jump on me as you did at the game," Sam was saying. "It was outrageous." "Oh, stop your yowling," grumbled Jasniff. "It wasn't done on purpose." "It was done on purpose, Nick Jasniff, and I think you were a brute to do it." Sam had scarcely uttered the latter words when Nick Jasniff, who carried a heavy stick in his hand, leaped forward and struck out. The stick landed on Sam's head and he went down in a heap. "Don't!" he groaned. "Don't hit me again!" "Won't I, though!" cried Nick Jasniff, in a passion. "I'd like to know what's to hinder me?" And he raised the stick again. "Stop, Jasniff!" came from Dave, and leaping through the bushes he came up behind the student and caught the stick in his hand. "What do you mean by attacking Sam in this fashion?" "Let go of that stick!" ejaculated Jasniff, and tried to pull it away. Then a tussle ensued which came to an end as Dave twisted the stick from the other youth's grasp and flung it into the river. "What do you mean by throwing my cane away?" cried Jasniff. "I want you to leave Sam alone." "I've a good mind to give you a drubbing." "Better not try it, Jasniff," answered Dave, as calmly as he could. He stood on guard against any treachery. "Think you're the king of the school, don't you?" "No, but I am always ready to stand up for a friend." By this time Sam was staggering to his feet. He rushed at Nick Jasniff and sent him backward into the bushes. "You will hit me with your stick!" he exclaimed. "Thank you, Dave, for what you did, but I can take my own part." And he stood over Jasniff with clenched fists. "Two to one, eh?" sneered Jasniff, as he got up slowly. "That's fighting fair, ain't it?" "It is fairer than hitting a fellow with a stick," retorted Sam. "But I can fight you alone, if you want to fight." "I'll not soil my hands on you further," grumbled Nick Jasniff, and backing away, he walked off towards the school at a rapid pace. "The coward!" murmured Sam, as he and Dave watched the departure. "Do you know, Sam, I don't like that fellow at all," said Dave. "I've said so before. He's a bad egg if ever there was one." "I believe you. Cadfield told me that there was a report in the town Jasniff came from that he had once set fire to a farmer's barn because the farmer caught him stealing peaches, but the whole matter was hushed up." "He doesn't appear to be any too good to set fire to a barn. We'll have to keep our eyes open for him after this." "I certainly shall. I don't want to be struck down with a stick again," answered Sam. With the brisk autumn winds blowing, kite-flying was in favor with many of the students of Oak Hall and numerous were the big and little kites that were sent up. Some were curiously painted, some were of the box variety, while others were in the shape of eagles and other big birds. Most of the kites were raised from a meadow near the river, and every afternoon a crowd of students would go down to watch the sport. Roger made for himself an immense eagle kite, while Phil tried his hand at a plain affair, shaped like a diamond and eight feet high and five feet across. "That ought to be strong enough to pull a wagon," was Dave's comment, as he surveyed Phil's creation. "You'll have to get a pretty strong cord to hold it, otherwise it may drag you into the river--if the wind happens to be blowing that way." One afternoon a number of the boys brought out their flat kites and started to see who could make his fly the highest. Among the crowd was Nat Poole, who had a gorgeous affair painted yellow and red. "Wait till you see this soar upward," he said, boastfully. "I'll bet it will go up a hundred feet higher than any other." Half a dozen kites were already in the air and soon more were raised. Then Poole ran his new kite up. It arose a distance of a hundred feet and then began to dart from side to side. "You want more tail, Nat!" cried a friend. "That kite isn't balanced right," said Ben. "Oh, it's all right, only it isn't high enough," answered Nat Poole. He was not one to take advice, and so he did his best to get the kite to ascend without altering it. Among those in the meadow at the time was Job Haskers. He was going on a visit to some ladies who lived not far from the Hall and was taking a short cut instead of journeying around by the regular road. He did not care for sports of any kind and so paid small attention to what was taking place. He was arrayed in his best, and on his head rested a new high hat, the silk nap polished to the best degree. Dave was aiding Phil to manage his big kite and so did not notice the assistant teacher until Job Haskers passed close by. "My! but he is dressed up!" Dave remarked to his chum. "Must be going to see his best lady friend," was Phil's comment. "Oh, look at Nat Poole's kite!" he added, suddenly. Dave looked and saw the kite in question far up in the sky and swooping wildly from side to side. Then the kite made a downward plunge, skimming over the meadow like a wild bird. "Look out, or somebody will get hit!" cried Dave, and fell down as the kite passed within a foot of his head. Then the kite went up again, only to take another plunge. As this was occurring, Job Haskers was starting to leap over a small brook that flowed across the meadow into the river. Another wild plunge, and down came Poole's kite on the teacher's head, smashing the silk hat flat and sending Job Haskers face first into the stream of muddy water! The score of boys who witnessed the mishap could not help but laugh, and a roar went up. The teacher floundered around wildly and it was several seconds before he could pull himself from the brook. His face and the front of his clothing were covered with mud, and he was more angry than words can describe. "You--you----Who did that?" he spluttered, after ejecting some of the dirty water from his mouth. "I demand to know who did it!" And he shook his fist at the students. "The kite did it," answered one boy, who stood behind some others. "Whose kite was it?" At this there was a silence, no one caring to tell upon Nat Poole, who stood with the kite string still in his hand and his mouth wide open in amazement and terror. "I say, whose kite was it?" bawled the irate teacher, and then, as he rubbed the water from his eyes, he caught sight of the kite and the string. "Ha! so it was yours, Master Poole!" "I--er--I didn't mean to do it," stammered Nat Poole. "The--the kite came down all of a sudden." "Infamous! Look at me! Look at my hat!" Job Haskers caught up the battered tile. "This is an outrage!" "Really, I didn't mean to do it, Mr. Haskers," pleaded Poole. He was fairly shaking in his shoes. "The--the kite got the best of me!" "A likely story! You boys are forever trying to play your tricks on me! I know you! You'll pay for this silk hat!" "Yes, sir, I'll do that," answered Nat, eagerly. "And you'll pay for having this suit of clothes cleaned." "Yes, sir." "And you'll pay all other damages, too." "Yes, sir." "And you'll go to your classroom and stay there until supper time," went on Job Haskers, in high anger. "Stay there every day this week, too. Do you hear?" "Yes, sir, but----" "I will not listen to a word, young man. Go,--go at once! If I had my way I'd dismiss you from the school!" roared the assistant teacher. And then and there he made Nat Poole take up his kite and march off to the academy, there to stay in after school every day for a full week. More than this, he brought in a bill for fifteen dollars' worth of damage, to the silk hat and the suit of clothing, and this bill Aaron Poole had to pay, even though the miserly money-lender did his best to evade it. CHAPTER X ALL ON ACCOUNT OF A KITE "That's the time Poole caught it," remarked Phil, after the excitement had come to an end. "That's right," answered Dave. "I am glad it was not your kite, Phil." "So am I." "In one way, it was Nat's own fault," said Roger, who was near. "Half a dozen told him to balance the kite better, but he wouldn't listen." Down on the river some of the students had attached their kites to boats and were having races. But soon the wind changed and the kites veered around to another point of the compass and the races had to be abandoned. Phil's kite was well up and it was all he and Dave could do to manage it. Roger and Ben grew somewhat tired of the sport presently and brought down their kite and wound up the string. Then Phil and Dave began to lower the big kite. "The wind is freshening," observed Dave. "Gracious! how this big kite does tug!" He could scarcely hold it as Phil wound up the cord. Then came another blast of air and Dave fell backward with the broken string in his hand, while the big kite went soaring away in the direction of Oakdale. "There goes the kite!" "Stop it! stop it!" yelled Phil, forgetting himself in his excitement. "How?" asked Dave, dryly, as he arose from the grass. "I don't want to lose that fine kite," went on Phil, soberly. "Why, it cost me over three dollars to make it. It was part silk!" "Let us go after it," said Dave. "I don't think it will sail so very far." Roger's kite was placed in the care of Buster Beggs and Shadow Hamilton, and off went the senator's son, Dave, and Phil after the runaway kite. The course was almost straight for Oakdale and presently they saw the silken affair settle in the direction of Mike Marcy's orchard. "It is going down at Marcy's!" cried Roger. "I hope it doesn't get torn in the trees," returned Phil, who was doubly proud of the kite because he had made it alone and by his own plan. "Maybe Marcy won't give it to us," said Dave. "Remember, he doesn't like us students." "Yes, and remember, too, that he keeps dogs," added Roger. Mike Marcy was an Irish-American farmer who had lived in that section for many years. He was what is termed a "close-fisted man," and one who had but little to do with the outside world. He was supposed to be rich, although he usually put on an air of poverty whenever anybody called upon him. His farm was of fair size, and contained a good stone house, a barn, and several other out-buildings. He had a big orchard, and to keep off thieves kept half a dozen dogs, all of them more or less savage creatures. The three students approached the orchard from the rear and after looking around located the silken kite in the limbs of an apple tree. The tree was bare of fruit, but close at hand were other trees loaded with golden russets. "Wonder if we can get that kite without being seen," mused Phil, as he gazed longingly at his property, dangling downward by its gorgeous tail of fancy ribbons. "I don't see anybody around," answered Dave. "And I don't hear any of his dogs either." "You want to go slow," cautioned the senator's son. "He may be around, watching us on the sly." "Perhaps we had better go around to the road and ask for the kite," said Dave. "No, he won't give it to us," answered Phil. "He is too mean--I know him. I'd rather try to get it on the sly." The wind was still blowing and it was growing dark. They took another careful look around and then leaped the fence of the orchard. Soon they were at the tree from which the kite dangled, and Phil climbed up. "Catch it!" he called, as he loosened the tail, but just then the wind caught the kite and carried it to the other side of the orchard. "There it goes!" cried Dave, and made a run after the object. The others followed, and presently they had the kite in their possession. In running through the orchard Dave caught his foot on a tree root and fell headlong but did not hurt himself. With the kite in their possession the three students left the orchard as quickly as they had entered it. It was now so late that they were afraid they could not get back to Oak Hall in time for supper and so set off at a brisk pace. But suddenly Dave came to a stop. "I declare, my watch is gone!" he cried. "Your watch!" asked his chums, in concert. "Yes, I must have dropped it when I stumbled in the orchard." "Oh, Dave, that's too bad!" cried Roger. "I'll have to go back for it," went on Dave. "It's the new watch my uncle gave me." "Shall we go back with you?" asked Phil. "No, there is no use of all three of us being late. You can tell Mr. Dale I lost my watch and stopped to hunt for it." In another moment Dave had turned back and Phil and the senator's son continued on their way to Oak Hall. Dave started on a run, and it did not take him long to reach the orchard once more. Down under the trees it was very dark and he had to feel around for the watch. But he had dropped it just where he thought, and soon had it in his possession again. "Now I had better hump myself and get back," he murmured, and started for the fence once more. Scarcely had he gone four steps when a form loomed up before him and he found himself in the strong clutch of Mike Marcy. "Caught ye, have I?" said the farmer, in a cold, hard voice. "How do you do, Mr. Marcy," replied Dave, as coolly as he could. "How do ye do, is it?" roared the farmer. "I'll fix ye, ye villain!" And he started to shake Dave with great violence. He was a strong man and one given to sudden passion. "Stop!" cried the youth, trying to squirm away. "Stop! What are you doing this for? I have done nothing wrong." "Then stealin' apples ain't wrong, eh? And stonin' my dogs ain't wrong, eh? And stealin' a chicken, eh?" "I am not stealing apples, and the only time I stoned one of your dogs was when he ran after me as I was passing on the road. I didn't propose to be bitten." "Don't tell me, ye young vagabond! I know you boys--a pretty crowd ye be, all o' ye! I'll have the law on ye!" And once again Mike Marcy shook poor Dave. "What is it, Mike?" came from out of the gloom, and a woman appeared. She was the farmer's wife and as hard-hearted as her husband. "I've got one o' them schoolboys," answered the man. "Caught him prowlin' around the orchard." "See here, I have done no wrong, I tell you, and I want you to treat me decently," said Dave. "We came over awhile ago for a kite, that sailed into one of your trees. After we got the kite I discovered that I had lost my watch and I came back for it." "A fine story indade," muttered Mike Marcy. "But it's not me that is going to believe that same. I've caught ye and I am going to make an example of ye!" "Yes, Mike, don't let him go," put in Mrs. Marcy. "You haven't any right to detain me," said Dave. "I have told you the exact truth." "I don't believe it, and until ye can prove the tale ye'll stay here." With this Mike Marcy took a firmer hold of Dave's collar than ever and began to drag him through the orchard towards the farmhouse. Dave struggled, but the strong farmer was too much for him and he was compelled to go along. The farmer's wife came behind the pair, armed with a mop she had picked up at the back door. "What are you going to do with me?" asked the youth, after a minute of silence. "Ye'll soon see," answered the farmer. They soon reached the barnyard attached to the farm. Here, to one side, was a smokehouse, built of stone, with a heavy door of wood and sheet-iron. The small building was open and empty. "I'll put ye in there for a while and see how ye like it," said Mike Marcy, and shoved Dave towards the smokehouse. "See here, Mr. Marcy, you are not treating me fairly. You have no right to make me a prisoner." "Sure and I'll take the right. I have suffered enough and I'm going to teach somebody a lesson," answered the farmer, grimly. "When Dr. Clay hears of this he'll make trouble for you." "Will he? Not much, I'm after thinkin'. Ye had no right to be trespassin' on my land. The signs are up, and I take it ye can read." "I simply came over to get something that belonged to me." "Well, ye'll stay here for a while, an' that is all there is to it," returned Mike Marcy, and without further ceremony he thrust Dave into the smokehouse. The youth began to struggle but could not get away, and once inside, the door was banged shut in his face. Then the bolt was secured with a stout iron pin, and he found himself a prisoner in pitch darkness. "I'll be back sooner or later," cried Mike Marcy, in a satisfied tone. "So make yourself comfortable, me laddibuck!" And then he walked away, followed by his wife, and Dave was left to himself. It was a galling position to be in and Dave resented it thoroughly. Yet what to do he did not know. He could not see a thing and on all sides of him were the thick stone walls of the building, the only break being the iron-covered door, which was practically as solid as the walls themselves. Under his feet the ground was as hard as stone. Everything was covered with a thick soot, so that he scarcely dared to put out a hand for fear of becoming like a negro. "Here's a fine mess truly!" he murmured to himself, after several minutes had passed. He listened, but not a sound broke the stillness. He wondered how it happened that Mike Marcy's dogs were not around, not knowing that the farmer had lost one through a peculiar sickness and had taken the others away to a dog doctor for special treatment. A quarter of an hour passed. The time was unusually long to Dave, and now, at the risk of getting black, he began to feel around the smokehouse, looking for some means of escaping from his prison. From over his head dangled an iron chain, used for smoking purposes, and he climbed this, reaching a crossbar above. From the crossbar he could touch the roof, which proved to be of heavy planking, well joined together. "If I could only knock off one of those planks I might get out," he reasoned, and began to feel of one plank after another, trying to determine which would offer the least resistance to his efforts. Dave had just discovered a plank which seemed to be a little looser than the others when a sound outside broke upon his ears. Thinking that Mike Marcy was coming back, he dropped to the flooring of the smokehouse. The sounds came closer and presently he heard two persons come to a halt close to the smokehouse door. By their voices they were evidently men, but neither was the owner of the place. Wondering what this new arrival meant Dave remained quiet and listened intently. For several seconds he could not make out what was being said. Then he heard words which filled him with astonishment and alarm. CHAPTER XI AT THE WIDOW FAIRCHILD'S HOUSE "Are you dead certain the money is in the house?" were the first words that Dave heard distinctly. They came in rather a hoarse voice. "Yes, I saw Mrs. Fairchild draw the money from the bank. She put it in a black bag and started straight for her home." The reply came in a voice that was also hoarse, almost guttural. "It would certainly be a dandy haul." "Just what I've said all along." "But the risk. If that hired man sleeps in the house----" "I don't think he does. The widow don't like men folks around. I heard that from one of the neighbors, the day I went to price some chickens." "Well, we might go over to her place and take a look around," came after a pause, and then followed some conversation that Dave could not catch. A few minutes later the two men walked away, and the youth heard no more of them. Dave was amazed and with good reason. If he understood the situation at all the two men intended to rob the house of a widow who lived about half a mile up the road. They had seen her draw some money from a bank somewhere and intended to take the amount from her. "They must be the very chaps who robbed Mr. Lapham and also the place in Oakdale," he thought. "I must get out and do what I can to outwit them!" In feverish haste he climbed the chain again and pushed on the plank of the roof. By hard work he managed to loosen one end, but the other end seemed to be tight and refused to budge. "If I only had something to pry it off with," he mused, but could find nothing. Then, almost in desperation, he dropped to the ground again and began to pound on the door, at the same time shouting at the top of his lungs. For a good five minutes this brought forth no response, but presently Mike Marcy came forth from the farmhouse, lantern in hand, and stalked over to his barn. When he came out he carried a long rawhide whip in his hand. "Say, boy, quit that noise, or I'll tan ye well!" he cried, wrathfully, as he came up to the smokehouse and set the lantern on the ground. "Mr. Marcy, is that you?" queried Dave, quickly. "Yes, 'tis, and I want ye to stop that racket." "Let me out at once--it is very important," went on Dave. "Important, is it?" sneered the Irish-American farmer. "'Tis more important ye stop that noise, so it is!" "Mr. Marcy, listen to me," said Dave. "I have something very important to tell you. If you won't listen there will be big trouble. You must let me out, and both of us must catch two burglars." "Sure, and what is the lad talkin' about?" exclaimed the farmer. "I am telling you the truth. Let me out instantly." "'Tis a trick, I'm after thinkin'----" "No, sir, I give you my word of honor it is not. Let me out and I will explain. Please hurry up." Dave's earnestness at last impressed the farmer to the extent that he opened the door cautiously for the space of a foot. As the youth came forth the man caught him by the arm. "Now don't try to run, or 'twill be the worse for ye!" "Mr. Marcy, listen!" cried Dave. "Only a short while ago two men were here. They stopped close to the smokehouse to talk. They spoke of the Widow Fairchild having money in her house which she had just gotten from the bank. They talked of robbing her, and they went off to do the job." The farmer listened and his jaw dropped slightly. "Is it a fairy story ye are after tellin'?" "No, sir, it is the absolute truth. I think they were the same chaps who robbed Mr. Lapham and robbed that house in Oakdale. They seem to be doing their best to loot this whole neighborhood." "They were here?" faltered Mike Marcy. At last he began to believe Dave. "Yes, sir, not over quarter of an hour ago." "Did they speak of robbing my place?" went on the Irish-American farmer suspiciously. "No, sir, I am sure they started directly for Mrs. Fairchild's place." "And ye want me to go with ye and catch them?" "Isn't it our duty to catch them if we can?" "Sure. But can we do it alone?" "We can call up somebody else on the way." "So we can. Well, I'll go--but first I'll take a look around my own place," added Mike Marcy. He took his lantern and walked around the house and then told his wife of Dave's discovery. Mrs. Marcy began to tremble as she listened, and she shook her head when her husband said he proposed to go after the robbers. "It is not meself is going to stay here all alone, wid robbers floatin' around in the dark," said Mrs. Marcy. "Let the boy call up the constable, or somebody else." "It will take too long," said Dave, impatiently. "Even now it may be too late." "Ye'll be safe enough with the doors and windows locked," said Mike Marcy. "Ye can use the shotgun if they come back. I'll take the pistol." He was a man used to having his own way, and soon he set off with his pistol in his pocket and a good-sized club in his hand. Dave armed himself with another club, and set a good stiff pace, once they were on the road. "We can stop at Brown's house and call him up," said Mike Marcy. He referred to Farmer Brown, who occupied a house directly on the road they were traveling. Reaching the place they knocked loudly on the door and presently the owner stuck his head out of an upper window. "What's wanted?" "Come down here," shouted Mike Marcy. "We want ye to help capture two robbers." "Two robbers?" said Farmer Brown. "Mercy sakes alive!" burst out the farmer's wife. "Are robbers around? We'll all be murdered in our beds!" "They ain't here--they be over to the Widow Fairchild's," answered Mike Marcy. "Come on. Is Bill around?" "Yes, here I am," said the farmer's son, from another window. "I'll be down in a minit, with my gun." There was a short argument after this, but in the end Farmer Brown and his son Bill, a tall, wiry youth of nineteen, agreed to accompany Mike Marcy and Dave. Mrs. Fairchild's home was less than a quarter of a mile away, and to cut off a bend of the highway they took to an open field which came to an end at the edge of the widow's orchard. "There is the house," whispered Mike Marcy, at last. "Better go slow now." "Yes, we don't want them to get away," answered Dave. "Let us spread out around the house," advised Farmer Brown. "The first one to spot the rascals can give the alarm." So it was agreed, and while Dave went to the rear of the dwelling the others passed to the front and sides. The place was pitch dark on the inside and lit up only by the light of the stars from without. Dave's heart was beating rather rapidly, for there was no telling when he would find himself face to face with the two robbers, and he realized that they must be desperate characters. He clutched the club tightly, resolved to do his best, should it come to a hand-to-hand encounter. Several minutes passed and slowly the four outside walked completely around the building. Only one window was open, that to the dining room. "See anybody?" whispered Mike Marcy, coming up to Dave. "No." "Sure ye didn't make any mistake?" "I didn't see a soul. Maybe they haven't come up yet." "That is so." "We can wait a while and see," suggested Bill Brown. "If we wake the widder we may scare 'em off." They waited after that for another spell, but nobody appeared, nor did they hear any sound out of the ordinary. Then it was resolved to arouse Mrs. Fairchild and wait in the house for the coming of the robbers. "That is, if they are coming," said Farmer Brown. "Maybe the boy made a mistake." "I am certain I made no mistake," answered Dave, positively. "But they may have changed their plans." "Humph!" muttered Mike Marcy. "If it's a trick--But we'll talk that over later." The door had an old-fashioned knocker, and this Farmer Brown used lightly at first and then with vigor. To the surprise of all in the party nobody answered the summons. "The widder must be away!" cried Farmer Brown. "Funny,--she was home at sundown. Where would she go after dark?" "Perhaps she's been murdered," suggested Bill. "Murdered!" exclaimed the others, and Dave's blood seemed to run cold. "A regular robber wouldn't stop at murder, if he was caught in the act," said the farmer. "Maybe we ought to break in the door." "Or git in through the window," suggested Mike Marcy. While they were deliberating they heard the sounds of carriage wheels on the road. The turnout was coming along at smart speed and all ran towards the road to see who was driving. To their surprise they saw the Widow Fairchild alight, followed by a farmer named Burr and a hired man called Sandy. "How do ye do, widder!" called out Farmer Brown. "Been away long?" "Why, what does this mean?" stammered Mrs. Fairchild, who was a woman of forty and weighed at least two hundred pounds. She often went out to do nursing throughout the Oakdale district. "We came here lookin' fer robbers," explained Mike Marcy. "We thought they was comin' to visit you." "By gum!" came from the farmer named Burr. "Reckon you are right, Mrs. Fairchild." "Right? How?" asked Dave, quickly. "I'll tell you," answered the widow. "About an hour ago somebody knocked on the door. I opened the window upstairs and asked what was wanted. A man was there muffled up in an overcoat. Says he, 'Is that you, Mrs. Fairchild?' 'Yes,' says I. 'Well,' says he, 'you're wanted over to Mrs. Burr's house right away. The baby is dying. I've got to go for a doctor,' says he, and runs away. I didn't hardly know what to do, but I hurried into my clothes and locked up and almost run to Mr. Burr's place. When I got there they was all to bed and the baby as healthy as ever. Then I got suspicious, for I've got four hundred dollars in the house that I got out of the bank at Rayfield to pay off on that new house I'm building in Oakdale. Mr. Burr hitched up at once and brought me over. So you know about the fellow, do you?" "I know two men started for this place to rob your house," said Dave. "Better go in and see if the money is safe," suggested Farmer Brown. "Did you leave that window open?" he added. "Window open? No indeed!" shrieked Mrs. Fairchild, and without further ceremony she brought forth her key and opened the front door. Then she lit the lamp and began to make a search of the premises. "They have been in here!" she wailed. "See how everything is upset!" She ran to a china closet. "Oh, dear, look at the dishes! Some of 'em broken! Oh!" She gave a wild scream. "The money is gone! They have robbed me of the four hundred dollars!" CHAPTER XII AT WORK IN THE DARK Dave had more than half expected the declaration the Widow Fairchild made, so when it came he was not surprised. The others, however, stared in bewilderment and dismay. "All gone?" queried Mike Marcy. "Every dollar!" groaned the widow. "Oh, the rascals, the heartless villains! To rob a poor widow in this fashion! And I worked so hard to save that money! Oh, where are they? I must catch them and get my money back!" And she stalked around the room wringing her hands in her despair. "What a pity that we got here too late," said Dave. "I wish you had hurried more," he continued to the Irish-American farmer. "I told you not to waste time." "Don't ye blame me for this!" replied Mike Marcy, half in alarm and half in wrath. "I hurried all I could." "Let us make a search for the rascals," said Joel Burr. "They may not be very far off." "It won't do any good," announced Farmer Brown. "We've been around here too long a-looking for 'em." "Yes, they're a long way off by this time," said his son Bill. "With four hundred dollars in their pockets they won't let no grass grow under their feet." "This is the third robbery inside of six weeks," was Joel Burr's comment. "Must say they be getting mighty free-handed." In spite of what had been said, all went outside and took a look around the grounds and up and down the highway. But it was useless; not the least trace of the burglars could be found anywhere about. While the others were outside, the widow inspected her house more thoroughly. She said a dozen silver spoons were missing and likewise an old gold watch and some old-fashioned gold and pearl jewelry. She placed her total loss at nearly five hundred dollars. Dave had to tell his story in detail, to which all of the others but Mike Marcy listened with interest. The widow blamed the Irish-American farmer for not having come to the house sooner, declaring that had he done so the robbers would have been caught red-handed; and quite a war of words followed. "What am I to do, now my money is gone?" she wailed. "I cannot pay that carpenter's bill and it must be paid by the end of this month." "You'll have to notify the constable, or the sheriff," answered Joel Burr. "What good will that do? They haven't done anything for Lapham, nor for Jerry Logan who was robbed in Oakdale." "Well, I don't know what you can do, widder." Mrs. Fairchild declared, when she had settled down a little, that the man who had spoken to her about the sick baby had had a hoarse voice, and all were satisfied that that individual was one of those Dave had heard talk near the smokehouse. But she had not seen his face, so she could not give any description of him excepting to say that he was rather tall. It was now nearly eleven o'clock, and as Dave had had no supper he was hungry. His tramping around had made him tired, and he said if he was not wanted any more he would go home. "Go as far as I am concerned," said Mike Marcy. "But don't lay the blame of this robbery on me. Remember, ye had no right to be trespassin' on my property." "I simply told the truth," said Dave; and a little later he withdrew and hurried forth into the night in the direction of Oak Hall. It was a lonely road and a less courageous boy might have been frightened. It was cold and quiet and he walked a full mile without meeting a soul. Then, as he was passing Mike Marcy's orchard, two figures sprang out in the darkness. "Dave!" "Hello, so it is you, Phil, and Roger! What brought you out again?" "We came to find you. We were afraid you had gotten into trouble with Mike Marcy," answered Phil. "Where in the world have you been?" asked the senator's son. "We reported that you had lost your watch, but didn't expect you'd stay away so long." "Well, I've had troubles enough," answered Dave, with a faint smile, and as the three hurried for the academy he told his tale from beginning to end. "Well, if this doesn't beat the Greeks!" exclaimed Phil. "Say, these robberies are getting serious." "Are you going to tell Dr. Clay?" asked Roger. "Certainly. I haven't done anything wrong, so why shouldn't I tell him?" "I guess you are right. But I shouldn't disturb him to-night. It will be time enough to go to him in the morning." Phil and Roger had gotten out of the Hall by a back way, leaving the door unlocked behind them. The three boys, as a consequence, entered easily, and then Dave took the chance of being discovered by going down to the kitchen for something to eat. In the pantry he found a pumpkin pie, some cold beans, and some milk, and on these made a hearty repast. Then he went to bed and slept soundly until the bell awoke him at seven o'clock. He felt that he should be reprimanded and he was not mistaken. Job Haskers strode up to him as soon as he went below. "Master Porter, where were you last evening?" he demanded, in harsh tones. "I lost my watch, Mr. Haskers, and went to look for it. Then something very unusual happened, which I am going to report to Dr. Clay." "Something unusual, eh?" said the assistant teacher, curiously. "Yes, sir. But I prefer to report to Dr. Clay." "Hum! Very well--I will talk to the doctor myself later. We cannot permit pupils of this institution to come and go at will." And with an air of great importance Job Haskers passed on. As soon as breakfast was over Dave went to Dr. Clay's private study. The worthy owner of Oak Hall was at his desk, looking over some letters which had just come in. He gazed at Dave in mild curiosity. "Dr. Clay, may I speak to you for a few minutes?" asked the youth. "Certainly, Porter. Come in and sit down." Dave entered and closed the door after him, for he had caught sight of Job Haskers close at hand, curious to learn what he might have to say for himself. Sitting down he told his rather remarkable story, to which the master of the Hall listened with close attention. "These robbers are certainly getting bold," said Dr. Clay. "It is a pity you could not get out of that smokehouse sooner." "That is just what I told the others." "You are certain you went over to Marcy's only for the kite and later for the watch?" and the doctor looked Dave squarely in the eyes. "That's it, sir. I did not touch his apples or anything else, and neither did Phil nor Roger." "Then he certainly had no right to lock you up. Do you wish to make a complaint against him?" "No, not that. Only I wanted to explain why I didn't get back to school last evening." "I see." "Mr. Haskers approached me about it and acted as if he wanted to punish me." "Ah! Well, you can tell him that I have taken the matter in hand and that you have been excused. I have but one fault to find, and that is----" The doctor paused and smiled. "That we didn't catch the robbers," finished Dave. "Exactly. The authorities must get after the rascals. Until they are caught nobody in this district will be safe." After a few words more Dave left the office and went to his classroom. As he did this Job Haskers entered the doctor's office. He must have asked the master of Oak Hall about Dave, for after he came away he said nothing more to the youth concerning his absence. The next few days went quietly by. From Lemond the boys learned that Mrs. Fairchild had appealed to the authorities and two detectives were at work searching for the robbers, but so far nothing had been learned about the rascals. "They'll keep quiet for a while," said Ben, and such proved to be the case. One afternoon a letter reached Oak Hall addressed to Roger Morr, Captain Oak Hall Football Club. It proved to be the expected challenge from Rockville Military Academy. The eleven of that institution challenged the Oak Hall team to play a game of football two weeks from that date, on some grounds to be mutually decided upon. Pinned to the challenge was a note stating a certain rich gentleman named Richard Mongrace had offered a fine gold cup to the winning team, providing the match was played on the new grounds laid out in his private park, located at Hilltop, six miles from the river. "Here is the challenge at last," said Roger, and he read it aloud. "I suppose there is nothing to do but accept." "Yes, we've got to give them the chance to even up," said Phil. "They haven't forgotten that we beat them last season by a score of 11 to 8," said another of the eleven. "I've heard something about their team this year," said Ben. "They have dropped three old players and have three A No. 1 fellows in their places. Two weeks ago, as you know, they beat the Hamilton eleven, 17 to 5, and day before yesterday they played White College eleven and won out by a score of 12 to 5." "Then they must be a heap stronger than they were last year," said Buster Beggs. "For last year White College beat them badly." "Yes, and Hamilton beat them too," added Dave. "I shouldn't wonder but that they've got a crackajack team this year." "Are we going to back out?" demanded the senator's son. "No!" came back in a chorus. "Oak Hall never backs out!" cried Ben. "Well, where are we to play? I suppose they would like to play at the Mongrace field," said Roger. "It's a dandy spot--I was up there on my wheel last Saturday," said Shadow Hamilton. "They've got a nice stand there, too." "And our field is all lumpy," said Phil. "The doctor is going to have it leveled off next spring." "Then let us go in for that gold cup!" cried Sam Day. And several others echoed the sentiment. A regular meeting of the football club was called that night, and it was decided, after consulting Dr. Clay, to accept the Rockville challenge to play on the Mongrace grounds. A letter was accordingly written and forwarded the next Monday. "Now we have got to brace up and practise," said the captain of the eleven. "I wish you could get rid of two of our poorest players and take on Babcock and Henshaw," remarked Dave. "Those two would help us wonderfully." "They both want to come in," answered the senator's son. "But I don't see how I can drop any of our present members after the way they have worked." "Yes, I know that wouldn't be fair." "I've already taken them on as substitutes. Maybe they'll get in the game after all," went on Roger. Practice began in earnest during that week and all did their best to follow the coaching they got from the first assistant teacher, Andrew Dale, who had been both a college player and a coach. The play was a trifle mixed at times, but the boys worked with a will and that counted for a good deal. But then came a letter calling one of the players home, to attend the funeral of an uncle. "I've got to leave the eleven," said Luke Watson. "You'll have to get somebody to take my place." "I am sorry to see you go," said Roger, sympathetically. "Take Babcock," went on Luke. "You couldn't do better." "I will," answered the senator's son. CHAPTER XIII IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY Paul Babcock was more than glad to get on the eleven actively, and that afternoon he showed it in his practice. The work was snappy from start to finish and gave Mr. Dale great satisfaction. "That is something like," declared the first assistant teacher. "Keep it up and you will surely win." After the practice was over Babcock left the field in company with Dave. As the two strolled across the campus they passed Gus Plum, who scowled deeply at his former player. "Plum doesn't like it that you've come over to us," observed Dave. "He looked like a regular thundercloud." "He has nobody to blame but himself," answered Paul Babcock. "Even if his team were still in existence I'd never play with him again. I want to act on the square, and that is more than he wants to do." "I've heard he wanted you to use foul play." "Yes, he was at both Henshaw and me to do some dirty work. But we declined, and I told him I had a good mind to punch his nose for suggesting it. That made him boiling mad." In due course of time came a letter from Mr. Richard Mongrace, stating he was glad to learn the match was to come off on his new grounds, and that he would do all in his power to make the two elevens and their friends comfortable. The golden cup he proposed to put up cost exactly one hundred dollars and was to belong to the school winning it twice in two or three games, one game a year to be played for it. Dr. Clay knew Mr. Mongrace well and one day drove over to see the new grounds. He came back in an enthusiastic mood. "Mr. Mongrace is certainly a fine man," said the master of Oak Hall. "He has with him a sick brother who cannot leave the estate. This brother used to be a famous football player on the Princeton team. For his benefit Mr. Mongrace has laid out the field, and he is going to have some of the best amateur teams in the country play there." "That will cost some money," said Roger. "Yes, but he is rich and can easily afford it. He has erected a fine grand stand and will also put up a big tent, where refreshments will be served to the visitors from both academies." After that the doctor spoke about the coming event before the whole school. He said he trusted that they would all act like young gentlemen while guests of Mr. Mongrace and thus do their institution credit. The only persons at Oak Hall who did not look forward to the match with favor were Plum, Poole, and Jasniff. At first they thought to remain at home during the contest, but afterwards changed their minds, the reason being a plan which Nick Jasniff proposed. Jasniff was thoroughly unscrupulous, and a year before had been dismissed from another boarding academy because of his dishonorable actions. He was a lad who was willing to do almost anything to accomplish his end. Jasniff's plan was nothing more or less than to play a trick on some members of Roger's eleven, so that they could not take part in the game. This would weaken the Oak Hall club to such an extent that they would be likely to lose. "Can we do it?" asked Poole. "Certainly we can," answered Nick Jasniff. "Why, such things have been done hundreds of times." "Well, what do you propose?" asked Gus Plum. "I'll tell you to-morrow. I've got to think it over." "I wish I was dead sure Oak Hall would lose," whispered the bully of the school. "We might make some money by the operation." "So we could!" cried Nat Poole. "All the Rockville boys are betting they will win." "And we could bet the same way," said Jasniff, with a leer. "Only we'll have to put up our money through some outsider." "I can fix that," said Gus Plum. "I know a fellow in Oakdale who will do it for us." The day set for the great football match dawned bright and clear. As soon as they could get away from their school duties Roger's eleven went out for a short practice and Henshaw and the other substitutes with them. Henshaw was sorry he was not on the regular team, but said little about it. While the practice was going on, Plum, Poole, and Jasniff watched all the players closely, trying to gain the knowledge of some tricks and signals, which they hoped later to divulge to the Rockville eleven. The practice at an end, Babcock announced that he wanted to go to a place called Leeton on an errand. Leeton was a small railroad crossing two miles from the school, where Babcock had a relative living. "Wouldn't you like to go with me?" he asked Dave. "We can go over on our bicycles and be back inside of an hour." Dave was willing, thinking the short spin on a wheel would do him good. They soon set off, and before long were well on the road. "There's our chance!" cried Nick Jasniff, as he and his cronies watched the departure. "Just what I wanted!" "Shall we go after them?" asked Plum. "Sure!" The bully and the others had bicycles--indeed nearly every youth at Oak Hall had one, for the craze was at its height. The three set off without delay, following the same road Dave and Babcock had taken. Unconscious of the fact that they were being followed, Dave and his companion spun along. There was a winding road, across a brook, then up a hill, and over another small hill to the railroad crossing. At several places pedaling was rather difficult, but they did not mind it, being fresh and with good wind. Arriving at the railroad crossing, Babcock stopped at the house for which he was bound and executed his errand. Then the two lads got a drink of water at the well and started on the return. "I'll race you back!" cried Babcock. "Better not race to-day," cautioned Dave. "We want to save our strength for the game." "All right, Dave, just as you say. But a little race wouldn't hurt me." Not far from Leeton the road made a sharp turn, coming up close to the railroad tracks. Here there was a steep down grade for three hundred feet. As the boys neared the turn they began to coast, thinking the way perfectly clear. They were almost to the bottom of the hill when something happened that filled them with alarm. Close to the side of the roadway stood a tall, slim tree. As they came up the tree fell directly in their path. "Look out!" yelled Dave, who was in advance, and then his bicycle struck the tree and he was pitched headlong over the handle-bars. Babcock also took a tumble, and both lads came down violently at the side of the road, where there was a gully filled with rocks and hard dirt. Both slid along, turned over, and then lay still. A full minute passed and neither Dave nor Babcock offered to get up. Then from out of the bushes near by Plum, Poole, and Jasniff emerged. "We caught 'em right enough," muttered Jasniff. "The tree came down just in time." "Ar--are they hu--hurt much!" faltered Nat Poole. His face was as white as death itself. "They are certainly knocked out," answered Nick Jasniff, coolly. "Oh, I hope they ain't dead!" gasped Poole, his knees beginning to shake. "They are not dead," announced Gus Plum, who was bending over the fallen youths. "They are stunned, that's all." And he breathed a short sigh of relief, for he had been fearful of serious results. "We had better get away, before they come to their senses and recognize us," went on Poole, who was the most timid-hearted of the unworthy trio. While they were deliberating they heard the whistle of a locomotive on the railroad and soon a long train of empty freight cars came into view. Then, when about half the train had gone by, the cars came to a sudden halt, brought to a stop because of a danger signal at the crossing. "What's the freight train stopping for?" asked Plum. "Don't ask me," answered Nick Jasniff. "But I say," he added suddenly. "The very thing!" "What?" "Let us put 'em both in one of the empty cars!" "Oh, don't bother!" answered Nat Poole, who, had he had his choice, would have wheeled away without delay. "They are only stunned--they'll soon come around," went on Jasniff. "If we leave them here they may get in the game anyway. We may as well send them off to parts unknown!" This plan appealed strongly to Gus Plum, and both he and Jasniff walked to the train and looked up and down the long line of empty cars. Not a soul was in sight. "The coast is clear," said Jasniff. "Come on, we can do it in a jiffy, and nobody will be the wiser." They went over to Babcock, raised him up, and carried him to the nearest of the cars. The sliding door was wide open, and they pushed the unconscious form half across the car floor. Then they ran back and picked up Dave. At that moment came the whistle of the locomotive. "Hurry up, they are going to start!" said Jasniff, and they lost no time in pushing Dave into the car. Then Jasniff rolled the door shut. "Might as well lock 'em in," he suggested, but before he could accomplish his purpose the train gave a jerk and went on its way. All three of the students stared at it and watched it out of sight. "They are gone, that's sure," murmured Gus Plum. His heart was beating violently. "Yes, and they won't come back in a hurry," chuckled Nick Jasniff. "Maybe they will be carried clear to New York," said Nat Poole. "If they are, so much the better." "You are sure they weren't seriously hurt?" "I guess not." "If they are, and we are found out----" "Who is going to tell on us?" demanded Nick Jasniff. "Don't you dare to open your trap, Nat." "Oh, I shan't say a word." "Nobody saw us," said Gus Plum. "So, if we keep quiet, nobody will ever know we had anything to do with it." "What about the wheels?" "Leave them right where they are. Somebody will pick them up sooner or later. Both are marked Oak Hall and have the initials on them." "Well, what are we to do next?" asked Gus Plum, after an awkward pause. "Get out of here and wheel over to Oakdale," answered Nick Jasniff, who had become the leader of the unworthies. "We can put our money in the hands of Lancaster and he can put it up on Rockville for us. We are now sure to win." "Morr will put Henshaw in Babcock's place," said Poole, as they rode away. "Will he? Not after Henshaw has had his dinner," and Nick Jasniff winked knowingly. "Do you mean to dose him?" asked Plum. "I guess I will. I sit close to him and I can drop a little powder in his food which will make him feel weak and dizzy all the afternoon." "Have you got the powder?" "I can get it from Lancaster. He told me about it several days ago." "It isn't poison, is it?" asked Nat Poole. He was beginning to grow afraid of Nick Jasniff's bold ways. "No, it won't hurt him a bit, only make him weak and light-headed for a few hours." "Then give it to him by all means," urged Gus Plum. "With Porter, Babcock, and Henshaw out of the game Rockville is bound to beat, and if we make the right kind of bets we ought to win a pot of money!" CHAPTER XIV CARRIED OFF When Dave came to his senses he found himself rolling around the floor of the freight car. The door was three-quarters shut and the train was winding its way around several uneven curves. He put his hand to his forehead. There was a big lump near his left eye and his left hand was bleeding from several scratches. The car was full of dust and he began to cough. "What a fearful tumble!" he muttered to himself, and then sat up and stared around him. "Where in the world am I?" He had expected to find himself beside the highway; instead he was boxed in and moving along at a speed of twenty or more miles an hour. He glanced through the open doorway and saw the trees and rocks flashing by. It took him all of a minute to collect his scattered senses, and then he gazed around the dust-laden car. Only a few feet away lay the form of Babcock. The youth was breathing heavily. "Paul!" he called out. "Paul! What does this mean? Did you bring me here?" There was no answer, and on his hands and knees he bent over his friend. Then he gave Babcock a shake, and the hurt one opened his eyes. "The tree--look out for the tree!" he murmured and struggled to a sitting position. "Paul, did you bring me here?" went on Dave. "Me? Here? What do you mean? Where am I?" stammered Babcock, and then he, too, stared out of the doorway of the freight car. "Well, I never!" It was not until several minutes later that the pair comprehended the truth of the fact that they were in a freight car that was moving along at a good rate of speed and that they had been put in the car by some party or parties unknown. "This certainly beats the Dutch!" cried Dave. "Are you hurt much?" "I am pretty well shaken up, and my shoulder is a little lame, Dave. How about you?" "I've got this lump and those scratches, that's all." "You went into that tree and so did I. Do you remember what happened after that?" "No." "Neither do I. Somebody must have put us in here. Who was it?" "Don't ask me, and don't ask me where we are going either, for I haven't the least idea." The two students talked the matter over for fully five minutes, but could reach no conclusion. At first they fancied that they might have been robbed, but nothing was missing but their wheels. "This is a mystery we must solve later," said Dave. "The present question is, How are we to get off this train and get back to the Hall?" A moment later the freight train passed through a small lumber town. They heard a mill whistle blowing. Dave pulled out his watch. "Why, Paul, it is twelve o'clock!" "Nonsense!" Babcock consulted his own time-piece. "You are right! And we were going to be back to the Hall by dinner time!" "Don't forget that to-day is the day for the great football match." "Creation! Do you know it slipped my mind for the moment! Why, Dave, we must get back!" "I agree with you." "Let us get off the train at once." "What, with the cars running at twenty-five or thirty miles an hour! No, thank you! We've had one bad tumble, I don't want a second." Babcock looked out of the doorway. The lumber town had been left behind and they were running through a dense woods. How far they were from Leeton and Oak Hall they could not tell. "I wish we could signal the engineer, I'd soon stop the train," said Dave. "Can't we crawl to the top of the car?" "We might if we were regular train hands, but as greenies we had better not risk it." Another mile was passed, and the train began to go around another curve. Then came a steep upgrade and the speed of the cars was slackened. "We're slowing up!" cried Babcock. "Maybe we can jump for it now." The locomotive was puffing laboriously, and presently the train seemed to do little but crawl along. The boys looked at each other. "Shall we go?" asked Dave. "Yes." "All right, here goes!" Dave swung himself down and made a jump in safety. Fifty feet further on Paul Babcock did the same. Then the long freight train rolled by, a brakeman on the caboose gazing at them curiously as it passed. "Well, where are we?" asked Babcock, gazing around with interest. "On the line of the D. S. & B. railroad," answered Dave, with a grim smile. "I know that well enough, but where on the line?" "Some miles from Leeton. The question is, Shall we walk back on the track?" "I don't know of anything else to do. We can find out where we are when we reach that lumber town where we heard the whistle blowing." They walked along the track for all of a mile and a half and then came in sight of the lumber town, which consisted of nothing but the mill, one general store, and a dozen frame houses. It was now nearly one o'clock and the men of the mill were preparing to resume their day's labor. "What town is this?" asked Dave, of a boy they met. "This town is Mill Run," answered the youth. "How far is it to Leeton?" "About twelve miles." "Twelve miles!" ejaculated Babcock. "Yes, and maybe more." "Do you know when we can get back to Leeton?" "Not till seven-thirty to-night. There are only two passenger trains a day on this line." "Well, we've got to get back before to-night," said Dave, decidedly. "We've got to get back right now." "I don't see how you are going to do it," said the boy. "Ain't no train, nor stage, nor nuthin." "Can't we hire some sort of a carriage?" queried Babcock. "We won't mind the expense." He came from a well-to-do family and had ample spending money. "Might git old Si Ross to drive you over." "Who is Si Ross?" "Used to run the stage from here to Leeton before the railroad went through." "Will you show us his place?" "Of course," answered the boy and took them through the lumber town and to a small shanty on the outskirts. Here they found Si Ross, a bent-over old man who was rather hard of hearing. "Hi, Si!" called out the boy. "These fellers want you to drive 'em over to Leeton." "They're arrivin' from Leeton?" queried the old man. "No, they want you to drive 'em over--_drive 'em over_!" shrieked the boy. "Me drive 'em over?" "Yes," said Dave and Babcock at the top of their voices, and nodded vigorously. "Cost ye two an' a half." "All right. Can you do it right away?" went on Dave. "O' course I know the way." "Can you do it _right away_!" screamed Dave. "Sure--soon as I kin hitch up." "_Hurry up!_" yelled Babcock. "We want to get there as soon as possible." "I'll git ye there soon enough, don't ye fear," said Si Ross, and hobbled off to his barn. He brought forth a bony horse and shoved out a rickety road wagon and began to hook up. The boy helped him. "That doesn't look very promising," remarked Babcock. "Is this the best turnout in town?" asked Dave, of the boy. "It's the only one you can git," was the answer. At last Si Ross was ready to leave and the two students got up on the rear seat of the wagon, Dave first giving the boy ten cents for his trouble, which pleased the urchin immensely. Then Si Ross pulled himself to the front seat, provided himself with a fresh chew of tobacco, and took up the reins. "Gee dap!" he squeaked to the bony horse and the animal started off on a walk. Then the driver cracked his whip and soon the steed was making fairly good time over the lonely country road. Again the boys consulted their watches and found it was now half-past one o'clock. The football game was scheduled to start at half-past three. "Two hours to get there in," said Dave. "We'll never make it." "I think we ought to start for Mr. Mongrace's place direct," said Babcock. "But we haven't our football togs." "Perhaps Roger will take them along, or we may be able to borrow some. One thing is certain, we haven't time to return to Oak Hall for them." "Do you know where Mr. Mongrace's estate is?" asked Dave, in a loud tone of the driver. "Yes--very fine place," was the answer. "Can you take us there?" "How?" "_Can you take us there?_" "Sure. But I thought you wanted to go to Leeton?" "We must get to Mr. Mongrace's by half-past three!" called out Dave. "I can make it--but we'll have to hurry." "Go ahead then." "Three dollars." "_All right!_" yelled Babcock, and felt in his pocket. "Oh, pshaw! I've only got a dollar and a quarter with me!" "Never mind, I've got it," said Dave, and brought out the necessary bank bills. The sight of the cash was inspiring to Si Ross, and he urged his bony nag along at a faster gait than ever. They passed over one small hill and then came out on a highway which was in excellent condition. "I'd like to know who put us in that freight car," said Dave, as they rattled along. "Do you know, I've half an idea the whole thing was a put-up job. That tree seemed to fall down right in front of us and I don't see what should make it fall. There was hardly any wind blowing." "It was certainly a curious piece of business all the way through," returned Paul Babcock. "We'll have to start an investigation after the game. And we must try to recover our bicycles too." "Do you think any of the Rockville fellows would be mean enough to play such a trick on us?" "I don't know. Whoever it was took big chances. Why, we might have been killed!" "Well, it wasn't done by footpads, otherwise we should have been robbed." "That is true. Well, the best thing we can----Whoa! What's the matter!" "The horse is running away!" "The back-strap is broken!" There was no time to say more, for the wagon was swaying from side to side. Then came a turn, and a second later the vehicle ran off into a gully. Crash! went one of the front wheels, and over went the body. The horse came to a standstill and Si Ross slid into some bushes, followed by the two students. "Smashed!" wailed the old driver, as he got up and surveyed the wreck. "And that ends our hope of getting to the football field in time," added Babcock dolefully. CHAPTER XV OFF FOR THE GAME "Where in the world can Dave and Paul be keeping themselves?" It was Roger who spoke. He and the others had had their dinner and were out on the campus doing a last bit of practising before starting for Mr. Mongrace's place. "They certainly should have been here long ago," returned Phil. "They won't have time to get their dinner." "I wonder if Gus Plum and his crowd met them on the road," said Sam. "They were out on their wheels." "I'll ask them," said Shadow, and ran off to do so. He met Nat Poole at the doorway to the Hall. "Say, Nat, did you see anything of Dave Porter and Paul Babcock when you were out on your wheel?" he asked. Nat Poole started at the direct question and his face changed color. But he quickly recovered. "No, I didn't see them," he answered. "What makes you ask?" "They are missing and I know you were out on your wheel and they went out too--over to Leeton." "We went to Oakdale," said Nat, and turned away, for fear of being questioned further. He, Plum, and Jasniff had arranged it between them to say they had been to Oakdale and nowhere else. Shadow Hamilton returned to his friends and related what Poole had said. Some of the students had already departed for the football field, going on their wheels and in one of the carriages belonging to the place. The football club was to take the carryall, and turnouts had been engaged for all who were to witness the game. Soon Andrew Dale came out to see if the team was ready. He was greatly surprised when he learned that Dave and Paul were missing. "It may be they have been delayed," said he, "and if that is so, they may have gone direct from Leeton to the Mongrace estate. I think there is a fairly good road." "Perhaps that is so," answered the senator's son, brightening a little. "But they ought to have come here--they knew I should be worried." "You had better take their suits along. We can leave word here about the suits--in case they come after we are gone." Swiftly the minutes went by until the club could wait no longer. Then into the carryall they piled, regulars and substitutes, taking the outfits of the missing players with them. Jackson Lemond was to drive, and with a crack of the whip they were off. Usually the boys would have been noisy and full of fun, but now they were sober. "Paul told me he would surely be back," said Henshaw. "I am afraid something has happened to him." "Maybe they got a tumble," suggested Buster Beggs. "But it would be queer if they both got caught at the same time." The boys had brought their horns and rattles with them, yet they made little noise as they rode along, much to the satisfaction of Jackson Lemond, who had been afraid they would scare the horses and cause them to bolt. Yet the Hall driver was sorry to see them so blue. "Ain't feelin' much like playin', I take it," he observed. "It is not that, Horsehair," answered Roger. "We are alarmed over the absence of Dave Porter and Paul Babcock." "Got to have 'em to play, eh?" "Well, they belong on the regular eleven." "Maybe they went ahead," said the Hall driver, hopefully. The roads were in good condition, and soon they reached the broad highway leading directly to the Mongrace estate. On this road they met a score of turnouts all bound for the football field. "Hurrah! There are the Oak Hall fellows!" "Hope you win, boys!" "You've got to put up a stiff game if you want to come out ahead this season. Rockville has got a dandy team." So the cries ran on, while horns were blown and rattles used. Then a big stage lumbered up, carrying a number of students from Rockville in their natty military uniforms. "This is the time we'll wax you!" "After this game Oak Hall won't be in it!" "Bet you two to one we beat you!" "Bet your small change on that, or you'll be a beggar!" cried one of the Oak Hall boys in return. "We'll race you to the grounds!" said a Rockville student. "Get up there!" he cried to the horses pulling the stage. The whip was used and the turnout bounded ahead. "Here, this won't do, Horsehair!" cried Phil. "We can't let them beat us on the road like this. Start up the team." Now, if there was one thing that Lemond took pride in, it was his horses, and seldom was it that he allowed anybody to pass him on the road. Dr. Clay kept good animals, and Horsehair saw to it that they were always in the best of condition. Moreover, he and the driver for Rockville were as bitter rivals as the students themselves. "Ain't goin' to pass us to-day!" said he, setting his teeth. "Git up!" and he snapped his whip in a manner that meant business. The horses understood, and in a moment more a race was on in earnest. Stage and carryall streaked down the broad road side by side, all of the students shrieking themselves hoarse. "Go it, Horsehair! Don't let them beat us!" "Send 'em ahead, Jerry! We can't take the dust of Oak Hall!" Faster and faster went stage and carryall and now the two drivers settled down to the race in earnest. Then came a turn and the Oak Hall turnout shot ahead. "Good for you, Horsehair!" yelled Phil. "Keep it up!" "Catch him, Jerry, catch him!" came from behind. "You can't catch us to-day!" flung back Buster Beggs. "Good-by! We'll tell 'em you are coming!" Then the carryall swept up to some private carriages, passed them, and left the Rockville stage in the dust of the road behind. The little brush served to brighten up Roger and his companions, and as they drew close to the football field they blew their horns and sounded their rattles. When they swept into the grounds they were greeted with cheers, and Oak Hall flags were waved everywhere. It was certainly a fine football field, as level as a house floor and well roped off. To one side was a neat grand stand, painted green and white, and decorated with flags and bunting. At the far end of the field was a big tent, where the refreshments were to be served, and opposite the grand stand was a special inclosure for any outsiders who cared to witness the contest. Each school was well represented by its followers, and there were fully a thousand spectators in addition. "We couldn't have a nicer day nor a better crowd," remarked Phil, as he gazed around. "Do you see anything of Dave and Paul?" questioned Roger, anxiously. All looked around quickly and then hurried to the dressing room under the grand stand. Not a sign of the missing players was to be seen anywhere. "We've got fifteen minutes yet," said Roger. "They may show up at any minute." "Are all the Rockville players here?" asked Ben. "Yes, and they look as if they meant business, too," answered Buster Beggs. The grand stand had been divided into three parts, the middle for the owner of the estate and his special friends, and either end for the two schools. In the best position on the stand was the sick brother of the owner of the estate, propped up in an invalid's chair. His face wore a smile, as if he enjoyed everything that was going on. In an extreme corner of the Oak Hall end of the stand sat Gus Plum, Nat Poole, and Nick Jasniff. They were awaiting the outcome of the game with deep interest, although sure that their school would lose. Through a friend in Oakdale they had placed practically all their spending money on bets in favor of Rockville,--in fact Gus Plum had gone into debt twenty dollars, borrowing the amount from a student named Chadworth. "Say, are you sure you fixed Henshaw?" whispered the bully of the Hall to Jasniff. "He doesn't look to be very sick or dizzy-headed." "Oh, I fixed him right enough," returned Nick Jasniff. "Maybe the stuff hasn't had time to work." "Or maybe you didn't give him enough," commented Nat Poole. "I gave him the dose called for. Of course I didn't dare to give him too much." "I don't see anything of Porter or Babcock," went on Poole, with a side wink at his cronies. "No, it's funny where they are," answered Gus Plum, in a loud voice. "Maybe they got afraid to play," added Jasniff, in an equally loud tone. It soon became noised around that Dave and Paul had failed to show themselves, and Dr. Clay himself came from the grand stand to see about it. But nobody could give him any information. "Something must have happened to detain them," said the owner of the Hall. "They would certainly get here if they could." At last it was time to go out on the field for practice. Henshaw was put in Babcock's place, as he was able to play the position almost as well as anybody, and a lad named Farrell took the position reserved for Dave. "There goes Henshaw out," said Nat Poole, in a low voice. "He seems to be all right." "Why shouldn't he be all right?" demanded a student sitting behind the speaker. "I wasn't talking to you, Dodd." "Well, why shouldn't Henshaw be all right?" insisted Dodd. "Why,--er--somebody said he wasn't feeling well, that's all," stammered Nat Poole. "He told me he was feeling bang-up." "That so? Well, I'm glad to hear it," said Poole, weakly. As a matter of fact Henshaw was feeling just a bit faint and dizzy, the drug not having had time to have its full effect. Luckily the lad was strong and with a good heart action, so he was bound to suffer less than had he been otherwise. There was a cheer for the Oak Hall players and another cheer when the Rockville eleven appeared on the field. The practice of each team was snappy and vigorous and brought forth applause. The umpire and the referee were college men, chosen by Mr. Dale and a teacher from Rockville, and the linesmen were others acceptable all around. The practice over, there was a five minutes' intermission. "Dave and Babcock are not here yet," sighed Phil, "I declare, it's too bad! If we have many accidents on the field we'll be more than short-handed." "They wouldn't stay away of their own accord," said Roger. "Something is wrong--I'm dead sure of it." It had been decided that the two halves of the game should be of thirty minutes each, with an intermission of ten minutes. Roger, Phil, Ben, and Buster Beggs occupied the positions they had filled the season previous, and the others of the eleven were placed to the best advantage. The center and the right guard were a little weak, but this could not be helped. On the other hand, the Rockville eleven appeared to be exceptionally well balanced. "Time to play!" cried Phil, presently, and the eleven at once took their positions. Then the Rockville men came on the field once more; and a minute later the great game started. CHAPTER XVI THE GREAT FOOTBALL GAME At the best it is next to impossible to describe all the plays made in a fast and snappy football game, and I shall not attempt to do so. From the very outset Rockville Academy demonstrated the fact that they had come to win or die trying, and they were alert to a degree that brought forth admiration even from their enemies. The toss-up was won by Rockville, and the center kicked off amid a breathless silence. The leather sailed in Sam Day's direction and he caught it and brought it back twelve yards. Ben Basswood was called to kick and sent it off to the forty-five-yard line. It was caught, but lost to Phil Lawrence, who managed to tear around the end for five yards. Then followed a mix-up, and the ball went back and forth four times, when it went out of bounds and brought a loss to Rockville of two yards. The whole crowd by this time was wild with excitement, and every advance by one side or the other was hailed with cheers, the tooting of horns, and the swinging of rattles. "Phew! but this is hard work, sure enough," whispered Phil to Roger. "They are pushing things for all they are worth." "I believe they think they can wind us," answered the senator's son. The ball was put into play a few seconds later. "Twelve, twenty-six, fifty!" was the signal, and it passed rapidly from one Rockville player to another. Then came a sensational run of twenty yards, the tackle with the ball rushing Oak Hall's left end. But the fullback was after him and brought him down just as it looked as if Rockville might score a touchdown. "Say, look at that run!" "I thought he was going to make it, sure!" "So did I!" "They'll get it anyway, see if they don't!" So the cries ran on as the two elevens lined up for the next scrimmage. The first half was now eighteen minutes old, and exactly two minutes later, despite the best efforts of Oak Hall, the leather was forced over the line by the military academy boys. "Hurrah! A touchdown for Rockville!" "That's the way to do it!" And then the crowd cheered harder than ever--that is, those who sympathized with the military academy. Oak Hall and its supporters sat silent, and a few shook their heads and sighed. "Didn't I tell you?" whispered Nick Jasniff, to Plum and Poole. "There's the first dose. That money is as good as won!" "It suits me right enough," answered the bully of Oak Hall. He did not add that he was very low on cash and that his father had written, stating that he could not supply Gus with any more spending money for a long time to come. As soon as the touchdown was made the leather was hurried to the field for a kick. It sailed directly between the goal posts, and at this another yell went up. "Six points for Rockville! That's the way to do it!" "Now then for another, fellows! Show 'em that is only a starter!" With eight more minutes of the first half left the ball was put into play and once more it was sent back and forth. Once Roger made a clever run of fifteen yards and at another time, when a Rockville player made a fumble, Phil snatched the ball, sent it to Ben, who turned it over to Henshaw. With the leather in his arm Henshaw made a brave attempt for a touchdown, but was stopped on the thirty-yard line. His run, however, was loudly applauded, and for the time being it gave Jasniff, Plum, and Poole a chill. "Phew!" muttered Plum. "I thought he was going straight over!" "He's the best player they've got," whispered Jasniff. "I can't understand why that drug doesn't work." But the drug was working, and it was that which prevented Henshaw from making the touchdown after covering twenty yards. He was growing more dizzy each moment. "I must be getting the blind staggers," he said to Roger. "Everything seems to be swimming in front of my eyes." "Maybe you ran too hard," suggested the senator's son. "No, I've been feeling that way for the past five minutes. I don't know what's the matter with me." "Do you want to quit?" "Oh, I'll try to play the half out," answered Henshaw. With the ball on the thirty-yard line, Oak Hall fought as never before to carry the leather on. It did go down to the twenty-yard line, but only to be lost on a fumble, after which a succession of brilliant rushes and end runs by Rockville brought it within striking distance of Oak Hall's goal line, when a drop kick sent it once more between the posts. "Will you look at that!" "A goal from the field! That gives Rockville 10 points!" The cheering and the general din were tremendous. Oak Hall had nothing to say. Plum and his cronies chuckled to themselves. "Rockville is rubbing it in, eh?" chuckled Nick Jasniff. "I hope they make it about 50 to 0!" "So do I," answered Nat Poole. Once more the ball went into play, and this time Oak Hall sent it into the Rockville territory in a grim, stone-wall way that could not be resisted. But when it lacked still ten yards of the goal line, the whistle blew, telling that time was up and the first half of the game had come to an end. "Hard luck to-day," said Phil, grimly. "They are certainly putting up a great game." "They have more weight than we have," answered Shadow. "And I must say, their tackling is first-class." "I think it is rough," said Buster Beggs. "I got a kick in the shin that wasn't pleasant." "That Hausermann is rather rough," said Phil. "I'd hate to have him come down on me." "Yes, and he plays off-side," said Roger. "I had to warn him twice, and the referee warned him too." Poor Henshaw was now so dizzy he could scarcely stand and two of the other players had to escort him off the field. Andrew Dale questioned the youth closely. "You didn't eat or drink anything unusual?" "Not that I know of, sir." "Did you ever feel that way before when playing?" "No, sir, it never affected me in the least." "It is odd. I will call Dr. Blarcom, who is present." The doctor came up and made a close examination. He was much puzzled. He also asked Henshaw about his eating and drinking. Then, when the lad complained of feeling sick at the stomach, he gave him an emetic. "He has certainly swallowed something that hasn't agreed with him," said the physician, and took Henshaw to the Mongrace mansion, where he might give the sick student every attention. With Henshaw, Babcock, and Dave out of the game, Roger hardly knew what to do for players. The lad who had taken Dave's place was only an ordinary player, and to put another ordinary player in place of Henshaw would be to weaken the eleven greatly. "It certainly looks like a walk-over for Rockville," said the senator's son. "I can't understand what is keeping Dave and Paul away." But four minutes of the intermission had passed when there came a sudden shout from outside of the grand-stand dressing rooms. Then with a whirr a big red automobile dashed up and two dusty-looking youths leaped out. "Dave and Paul!" ejaculated Phil, joyously. "Where in the world have you been?" "Is the game over?" asked Dave, anxiously. "The first half is." "What's the score?" questioned Babcock, quickly. "10 to 0 against us." "Is that so!" "But where have you been?" demanded Roger, and added, almost in the same breath: "Can you play?" "Certainly we can play--that is what we are here for," returned Dave. "Will somebody lend me a football suit?" "We have your suits here," said Shadow, and brought them forth. "Climb right in." Dave and Babcock did "climb in," and while doing so briefly related their adventures. "When the old wagon went to smash we thought we were surely out of the game," said Dave. "But a few minutes later a man came along in that automobile, and we stopped him and got him to promise to bring us here. We would have gotten here in time for the first half only something got the matter with the auto's batteries." "Dave, some enemies played that trick," said Phil. "No doubt of it." "They wanted us to lose the game." "Of course," said Babcock. "Do you suspect any of the Rockville fellows?" "Not yet. I am going to investigate after this game is over." "And I am going to investigate, too," added Dave. "Why, we might have been killed!" The youth who had taken Dave's place on the eleven was perfectly willing to retire, feeling that Oak Hall was going to lose anyway. Babcock took his old place. "I am sorry for Spud," he said, referring to Henshaw. "It appears to me that something is wrong all around." With the appearance of Dave and Babcock the spirits of Roger, Phil, and the others arose wonderfully. "Now, boys, play for all you are worth," said the senator's son. "Make every scrimmage count, and if you get hold of the ball run like all-possessed. We must get something this half, or we'll never hear the end of it." "It will certainly make Gus Plum and his cronies crow," answered Dave, grimly. "I suppose they are here?" "Yes, in a corner of the stand," answered Buster Beggs. "They were out on their wheels this morning," said Sam Day. "Did you see anything of them?" "They were out?" repeated Dave, in surprise. "Did they follow us?" "They said they went to Oakdale." Dave looked at Paul Babcock, who pursed up his lips meditatively. "What do you think of that, Paul?" "I think it will stand investigation," answered Babcock. "Somebody played us the trick, and it certainly wasn't a friend." "Last year Plum and Poole were against us." At that moment came a call from the doorway of the dressing room. "Time for the second half, boys. Come out on the field." It had become noised around that Dave and Babcock had arrived. A number believed this, but others did not. "Do you think it is true?" demanded Plum of Jasniff. "I don't see how it can be," whispered Jasniff in return. "They must have been carried miles and miles on that freight train." "Oh, it's only talk," grumbled Nat Poole. The eleven were now pouring into the field. Among the first to show themselves were Dave and Paul, and a roar of welcome went up from the Oak Hall supporters. "There are Porter and Babcock!" "Now for some real playing!" "Where in the world have they been?" "They are here, sure enough!" whispered Gus Plum, hoarsely. "Nick, what can it mean?" "Don't ask me," growled Jasniff. "It beats anything I ever heard of!" As soon as they came on the field Dave and Babcock reported to the referee, as substitutes for the two players that had dropped out. Then the whistle blew, and the second half of the great game was on. CHAPTER XVII HOW THE GAME ENDED There was another spell of breathless silence as the ball went into play on the second half of the great game. The kick-off was clean and clever, and for several minutes the leather remained close to the center of the field, each eleven struggling desperately to force the line of the other. Rockville had had one man slightly hurt and another player had taken his place, one who was light and very wiry. He took the ball for a run around the left end, but was brought down. Then in the scrimmage that followed the ball came to Dave and he made a gain of ten yards, breaking through and dodging in a manner that brought forth much favorable comment. "That's the way to do it," was the cry. "Carry it over the line!" But alas! for the hopes of Oak Hall. In the very next mix-up Buster Beggs made a bad fumble and the wiry substitute on the Rockville eleven secured the leather. Before anybody could stop him he made a sensational run to the end of the field. "Another touchdown for Rockville!" How the supporters of the military academy did cheer and yell! Horns tooted madly and the academy colors went waving in all directions. Gus Plum grinned silently, while Nick Jasniff winked at him. "Say, we're all right, after all, eh?" whispered Nat Poole. "Hush!" muttered the bully of the school. "If our fellows should hear you they'd kill us! This defeat will make them ugly." The touchdown was turned into a goal, giving Rockville 16 points as against 0 for Oak Hall. Things certainly did look blue. "Come, fellows, we've got to do something!" urged Roger. "Everybody play for all he is worth. Don't let a single chance escape you!" "I am going to do something if I die for it," said Babcock, and went in with a vigor that nothing could resist. Inside of two minutes he secured the ball, dove to the left, turned, and started for the right. Two Rockville players tackled him, but Dave and Buster Beggs came between and Babcock went on. Then Roger took a hand, and in the struggle the ball went over the Rockville line amid a yelling from Oak Hall that could have been heard half a mile. "A touchdown for Oak Hall!" "Now wake up, boys, and show 'em what you can do!" Dave held the ball and Roger made the kick. The ball went through the posts fairly, scoring 6 points for the Hall. Again came a cheer. "Well, it's only 6 to 16," whispered Nat Poole. "How much longer to play?" asked Plum. "Fourteen minutes." The six points gained put increased vigor into Oak Hall, and now Roger gave the signal for a certain mass play which had as yet not been tried. Like a living wedge Oak Hall struck against Rockville, and although the academy eleven carried more weight they could not withstand such an onslaught. They separated, and in a twinkling the leather was carried up the field and across the line a second time, within three minutes after the first touchdown was secured. "Whoop! Hurrah! Look at that!" "Another touchdown! Keep it up, fellows!" "Oak Hall has struck her gait at last!" And then the Oak Hall colors were waved wildly, while horns tooted and rattles were swung on every side. It was now Rockville's turn to remain silent. "Be careful, fellows, don't get excited," warned Roger. "Watch your chances." The goal was kicked, making the score, Rockville 16, Oak Hall 12. There were but eight minutes more in which to play. Once again the leather came into the field. Rockville was now on guard against another mass play and it was decided to try the left end. The ball went to Ben, who passed it to Dave. Dave made a short run and doubled, as if turning back. Then he plunged forward, hurdled (it was the old style of playing), and tore up the field for twenty yards. Then he was brought to earth with a thud that made his ears ring and caused him to see stars. "Are you hurt, Dave?" he heard Roger ask, and sitting up he shook his head. Time had been called, and he learned that for two minutes he had been dead to the world. "I--I guess I am all right," he said, and with a mighty effort pulled himself together. "Did--did I gain anything?" "Did you gain anything? Well, rather!" answered Phil. "It was a dandy play!" Again the ball was put into play, and it went back and forth in a manner that was heartbreaking, first for one side and then for the other. Then came a warning cry: "Three minutes more to play!" It nerved all of the players up as never before and the struggle was the most bitter yet. But with less than a minute and a half to play Dave secured the ball and made a clever pass to Phil, who started up the field. Babcock guarded him on one side and Roger on the other, and in a trice another sensational run was on. "Down him! Down him!" was the frantic yell from Rockville, and just as Phil, panting for breath, reached the goal-line he was caught and thrown with tremendous violence, his head striking the ground with great force. "Another touchdown!" "Oak Hall wins the game!" It was true, the touchdown had been made, fairly and squarely. With drooping hearts Rockville came out of the mix-up. There was nothing more to be done, for all but quarter of a minute of the time was up. Phil lay on the ball motionless, his face buried in the grass. "He's hurt!" cried Dave, bending over his chum. "Phil!" There was no answer, and now Roger and some others came to the aid of the fallen one. They turned Phil over. His face was pale and his eyes closed. He made not the slightest sound. "Call the doctor!" said Dave, in as steady a voice as he could command. "I--I hope he isn't hurt very much." Water was brought and Phil's face was bathed, but still he made no sound nor did he open his eyes. Then the doctor came up and took charge. "He has received a severe shock," said the physician, after an examination. "As yet I cannot tell how badly he is affected. His head is bleeding, and it is possible he may have fractured his skull. We had best remove him to the house." A barn door was procured and a blanket thrown over it, and on this the hurt student was placed and six others carried him to the mansion. In the meantime there had been a great cheering over Oak Hall's victory, but this soon came to an end when it was known that Phil Lawrence had been seriously hurt. "I hope his skull hasn't been fractured," said Dave. "He certainly came down hard. I heard the thump plainly." "So did I," answered Babcock, and then he ran off to see how Henshaw was faring. He found the latter sitting up in an easy-chair, as pale as death itself. "Won out, eh?" said Henshaw, weakly. "Good enough!" "How do you feel now?" questioned Babcock. "Oh, my stomach is better and the dizziness is gone. But I am as weak as a rag." Through an attendant Henshaw had heard of the arrival of Dave and Babcock and of the progress of the great game. He was shocked to learn that Phil had been seriously hurt. "This will put a damper on the celebration," said he, and he was right. Only a few cared to celebrate with Phil, for all they knew, lying at death's door. The sufferer was still unconscious, and a messenger had been sent off for another physician who was also a surgeon. "This takes the edge off the victory," said Dave. "I'd rather lose than have anybody seriously hurt." "Morr, we are mighty sorry for this," said the captain of the Rockville eleven, coming up. "I am sure you know it wasn't done intentionally." "I know that," answered Roger. "But the play was pretty rough, especially towards the end." "It was a fair tackle," said the Rockville captain, and moved off. Those from the military academy felt their defeat keenly. Just when they had thought victory certain all their hopes had been dashed to the ground. They had to admit that Oak Hall had played fairly from start to finish. "Boys, you did splendidly," said Dr. Clay. "The one dark spot is the fact that Lawrence has been hurt. I sincerely trust it does not prove serious." While the doctor was doing what he could for Phil, the two schools were entertained in royal style by Mr. Mongrace. But Dave and Roger could eat little, their thoughts being constantly with Phil. Three others who did not enjoy the feast were Plum, Poole, and Jasniff. "Hang the luck, anyway!" growled the bully, as he and his cronies walked away from the table. "Jasniff, this is the worst yet." "Who would have thought that they could pull themselves together like that," grumbled Jasniff. "Why, I never saw such work on any field. They went at the play like demons--nothing could stand before them." "Yes, and Phil Lawrence got a broken head for his pains," said Poole, in a tone more of satisfaction than regret. "I don't care a continental for Lawrence," pursued the bully of Oak Hall. "What I am thinking of is the money I have lost." "And the money I've lost, too," added Poole. "Well, we'll have to pocket our losses, that's all," answered Jasniff. "With Porter, Babcock, and Henshaw off the list I thought we'd make a sure thing of it--but we didn't, and there you are." "I don't know what I am going to do about the money I put up," said Gus Plum. "Write to your old man for some," suggested Jasniff. "Tell him you lost your money, but don't say how." "He won't let me have any more just yet--said so in his last letter." "How about you, Nat?" "My old man won't give up a cent until next allowance day, and that's two weeks off. I'll have to live on air till then." A little later Poole was called away by one of the students, and Gus Plum and Nick Jasniff were left to themselves. Plum was in a quandary, for he had borrowed from several parties and now did not know how to pay the amounts back. Jasniff noticed his uneasiness. "Don't take the loss so hard, Gus," he said. "Let us go off and have a smoke--it will settle your nerves. If we were in town we might get a drink. But we can't get it around here." "Let's go back to the Hall, I am sick of it here," answered the bully of the school; and a few minutes later he and Jasniff started off, leaving Poole behind, in the company of several girls who had driven in to witness the football match. Poole always dressed very fastidiously, and sought the company of the girls whenever the opportunity offered. Halfway to Oak Hall, Plum and Jasniff determined to ride on their wheels to Hampton, a small village south of Oakdale. Here they put up at the tavern, and Jasniff spent his last twenty cents for some liquor. Then they sat down in the back room, to smoke cigarettes and talk over their future plans. "It don't feel nice to be dead-broke," said Jasniff. "Wouldn't you like to earn a little pile, Gus?" "How?" questioned the bully eagerly. "Oh,--I don't know exactly," drawled Jasniff, looking up at the ceiling. "But it might be done, you know." "Well, I've got to get money somehow," answered Plum, desperately. "I am not going around without a cent in my pocket, and in debt, too." "Will you stand by me if I show you a way to get a little pile?" asked Jasniff, lowering his voice. "Yes, I will," answered Plum, boldly. "All right, then; I'll let you know what I can do in a few days. I've got to consult somebody else first, though." CHAPTER XVIII A FUNNY INITIATION The celebration to follow the grand victory was a rather tame affair on account of the accident to Phil Lawrence. The ship-owner's son was a prime favorite with many of the Oak Hall students and they asked about him constantly. "He cannot be moved at present," said the doctors. "He must remain here." And after that the sufferer was made as comfortable as possible in one of the spare chambers of the mansion. A telegram was at once sent to his parents, and they came on the following morning. Poor Phil was still unconscious but came to his senses that evening, and by the following day seemed a trifle improved. "Oh, I do hope he gets over it entirely," said Dave to Roger. "It would be awful to think of his suffering all his life." "That is true, Dave. I'd rather we hadn't played at all." "And to think it came at the very end of the game," broke in Buster Beggs. "It will stop football for this season," announced Sam Day, and he was right. Dr. Clay issued orders that very day that no more games should be played until it was certain that Phil was out of danger. Even as it was, a number of the students received word from their parents and guardians forbidding their playing any more. Dave wrote to his uncle and to the others about the game, and received several letters in return, including one from Jessie Wadsworth which he kept to himself and prized very highly. In it the girl wrote that she was glad they had won and was sure Dave had done his full share to gain the victory, but she was sorry to learn Phil had been hurt and that Dave must be sure to keep out of harm. "We cannot afford to have anything happen to you," wrote Jessie, "for we all think so much of you." And this made Dave's cheeks flush and his heart beat with keenest pleasure. The letter from Dunston Porter was also interesting, but one paragraph made Dave's heart sink. In this Mr. Porter stated that as yet no word of any kind had been received about Dave's father and sister. "It certainly is queer you don't hear from them," said Roger, when he learned of this. "If they are in Europe or in America at least one of your letters must have followed them up." "It's a mystery to me," answered Dave, and heaved a long sigh. He was more than impatient to meet his father and sister, and who can blame him? The two bicycles belonging to Dave and Babcock had been brought in by a farmer of that vicinity, who had found them near the fallen tree. This man was rewarded for his trouble, and Dave, Roger, and Babcock went to the spot hoping to find some clew to the mystery. They saw that the tree was decayed near the roots but that it had undoubtedly been broken off by force. "It was surely the work of some enemies," said Dave. "The question is, Who is guilty?" "Perhaps we'll learn some day," answered the senator's son; and there, for the time being, the subject was dropped. As my old readers know there was a secret society at Oak Hall known as the Gee Eyes, this mysterious appellation standing for the initials, G. I., which in their turn stood for the words, Guess It. This society had its officers and its secret password, and met "semi-occasionally or oftener" as the by-laws had it. It was gotten up mostly for fun,--the said fun being largely due to the initiation of new members. Dave had joined and so had his chums, and they had aided in initiating a number of others. For various reasons Plum, Poole, and Jasniff were out of this society. When Jasniff had wanted to join--as a newcomer to the Hall--he had been rejected with scant ceremony. This had angered him, and as a consequence he and his cronies, along with several other students, had organized a new society, called the D. D. A. Club, the initials standing for Dare Do Anything. This was supposed to meet once a month, and all sorts of inducements were offered to get the other students to join. "I hear the Gee Eyes are going to meet soon," said Nat Poole, one day to his cronies. "Ain't it about time the D. D. A. met too?" "Have you found a new member?" asked Jasniff. "Frank Bond wants to join." "Oh, he's only a little fellow," sneered Jasniff. "Never mind, we can get some fun out of him," said Gus Plum. "I'd like something to do. Things are dead slow." The Gee Eyes met the very next night, and hearing of this the D. D. A. Club did the same. A new student named Sultzer--a German boy--wanted to join the Gee Eyes, and Dave and Ben Basswood were appointed as a committee of two to make ready for the occasion. "We'll have to give 'em something brand-new," said Ben. "That will not be so easy--since we have tried nearly everything," answered Dave. [Illustration: Carl was made to bow until his nose touched the floor. _Page 167._] "They are building a new house over near the Grislow place. Can't we do something there?" "Maybe we can," said Dave. "Let us look over the ground." By the time the Gee Eyes met everything was in readiness, and Ben Basswood brought Carl Sultzer to the meeting, which was held in an old boathouse down the river. In the meantime the other members had attired themselves in cotton robes of red, with black hoods over their heads and a yellow tassel dangling over one ear. Some had wooden swords, one a wooden hammer, and others stuffed clubs. As Carl Sultzer, a fat boy with a round, ruddy face, was thrust into the room, he was surrounded and all present began to chant: "Hoopra! hoopra! Dilly duddy! Here he comes so fat and ruddy! Hoopra! hoopra! Dilly dee! Stranger, stranger! Bend your knee! Hoopra! hoopra! Dilly dud! Do you want to join this club? If you do, down to the ground, Make to us a bow profound!" As the chant went on Carl Sultzer was forced to his knees and was made to bow until his nose touched the floor. "Vot is dis ding, annahow?" he asked, in a trembling voice. "Is dis der Chee Eyes Club, I ton't know?" "This is the renowned Gee Eyes Club," came in a solemn tone. "Wouldst thou join us, base stranger?" asked another voice. "Yah, sure, I choin," answered Carl. "Put vot I got to to alretty?" "Thou shalt soon see," was the answer. "Numbers Three and Six, blindfold him." "Look here, I ton't like dis!" cried the German student, as a bag was thrown over his head and fastened around his neck. The bag had a hole in the back, so that he could get air. But he could not see a thing. "It must be done," was the answer. "For particulars see Section 45, rule 917 of the by-laws. Are you ready to learn the by-laws?" "Der py-laws? Vot I got to puy py der py-laws?" asked the German student, cautiously. "You haven't got to buy anything. You must learn them." "Which puts me in mind of a story," came in another voice. "A man once----Oh, excuse me, I forgot!" And the story came to a sudden end, as the speaker received a whack over the ear from a stuffed club. "I believe Shadow would want to tell a story if he was at a funeral," whispered one hooded figure to another. "Lo! the march begins!" cried a loud voice, in Carl Sultzer's ear. It made the German boy jump. Then he was caught by the arms and his hands were tied behind him. In this fashion he was marched from the old boathouse and in the direction of the new building previously mentioned. "Vere you been daking me?" asked Carl. "Wait, and thou shalt see." "How I vos going to see of I got mine eyes blindfolded alretty?" To this there was no answer, but several of the hooded figures snickered. The new building reached, several of the boys caught up the German lad in a blanket. "Vot is dis now?" he asked, in fresh alarm. "Be careful now while you carry him to the top of the building," whispered one boy, but loud enough for the German lad to hear. "Hi! vot is dis, annahow?" yelled Carl. "A new house they are building. We are going to take you to the top," answered a member of the secret society. "Maype I ton't vos vant to go py der dop alretty," pleaded Carl. "It won't hurt you. Come on, fellows!" In a twinkling the German youth was lifted up and carried along, over some wooden horses and lumber piles. He thought he was going up--he knew not where. "Hi! ton't you trop me town," he wailed. "No, Carl dear, we'll drop you up," came in a cheery voice, and this brought forth another snicker. Presently the boys came to a halt, and the victim was placed on his feet on a narrow board. "Don't lose your balance," said one boy, cautiously. "It's about thirty feet to the ground," added another. "Oh, my! I ton't vos vant to dumble, ain't it!" shrieked Carl, in terror. "You won't if you are careful. Now you must walk over the beams from one end of this building to the other." "I can't vos do dot! I vos dumble town sure!" wailed Carl. "You have got to do it if you want to join this society. Here, let me place your foot on the next beam," and Carl's right foot was caught up and put on a beam a foot and a half in front of that upon which he had been standing. "Look out! I vos dumble me town!" he shrieked. "Steady now and you'll be all right," was the answer. "Forward you go!" But poor Carl did not go forward, instead he remained standing on the two beams, his knees shaking visibly. "Forward!" was the cry again, and now he was tapped on the back with the wooden swords and stuffed clubs. "I dumble me town! I dumble me town sure as I vas porn!" he shrieked. "Ton't douch me!" "Then move on. We won't let you fall," said one student, and still trembling the German lad started to walk across the beams to the other end of the building, as he thought. He passed over seven beams when, of a sudden, one fell over. Down he went, yelling wildly and clutching at the beam he had just left. Then he struck the ground, which was just under the beams, and rolled over. In another moment the sack was taken from his head and his hands were unloosened. "Vell, I neffer!" he ejaculated, gazing around in a sheepish way. "I dink me sure I vos der top of der puilding on alretty! Und I vos on der groundt all der vile! Now ain't dot funny!" And all at once he set up a roar of laughter. The other students joined in, and the general merriment lasted for fully five minutes. "Now, Carl, you are a full-fledged member of the Gee Eyes," said Dave, coming forward. "Let me congratulate you." And he gave Carl's hand a tight squeeze. "Dank you," said the German lad. Then the others shook hands, each giving Carl's hand the tightest squeeze possible. Soon the youth began to dance around. "Hi! somepody stop dot!" he roared. "I ton't vont mine hand squashed to a jelly alretty! Let go, I told you!" And after that he would do no more handshaking. It was rather cold and soon one of the students suggested that they go back to the Hall. But the others demurred. "Let us take a trolley ride," said one. "Just the thing in this moonlight. We can get back in plenty of time." So it was agreed, and off the crowd set, in the direction of the trolley line, upon which they had had so much sport the previous summer. Nobody dreamed of the surprise in store for them. CHAPTER XIX ALMOST SCARED TO DEATH While the Gee Eyes were having their sport with Carl Sultzer quite another scene was being enacted some distance away, in the vicinity of the trolley tracks. Little Frank Bond, a pale and highly sensitive youth who had come to Oak Hall two weeks before, was being initiated into the mysteries of the D. D. A. Club by Plum, Poole, Jasniff, and several of their cronies. Frank did not care for clubs, being a lad of a retiring disposition. But he had been "talked into it" by Plum, who thought he saw some keen sport in scaring the little fellow half to death. "You must join by all means," said the bully of the school. "Why, life at Oak Hall won't be worth living unless you're a member of the D. D. A. Club." And very foolishly Frank agreed to submit to an initiation. "We'll scare him out of his seven senses," chuckled Plum. "It will be a barrel of fun." "What will you do?" questioned the others of the club. When the bully of Oak Hall unfolded his plan several demurred, stating it would be rather severe on a lad of Frank's temperament. But they were overruled, and in the end the so-styled initiation was carried out as the bully planned it. After a good deal of ceremony, which was great fun and rather enjoyed by the small boy, Frank was blindfolded and marched out in the direction of the trolley tracks. The club members took to a side road, where there was a single track running to a town several miles distant. On this track was a new turnout, which had been put down only a short while before. "Where are we going?" asked Frank, timidly, as the others hurried him along. "To the trolley tracks," was the answer. "We want to test your nerve." "How?" "Oh, we'll put you on the tracks and let the trolley run over you," answered Plum, brutally. "Oh, please don't put me on the tracks!" cried Frank. "I--I know you don't want to hurt me, but a trolley car might come along, and I might get struck." "Oh, it's all right," said Jasniff. "If you're ground up we'll pick up the pieces and give you a decent burial." This sort of talk was kept up until the trolley line was reached, and the effect was to completely unnerve the young victim. He was allowed to see the single track and then blindfolded once more, and his hands were tied behind his back. "Now put him on the tracks," commanded Plum, roughly. "And don't forget to chain him fast," added Jasniff, rattling a dog chain he had brought along. "Oh, we'll chain him good and hard," said Nat Poole. "No! no! Please don't!" cried Frank, and now he tried to break away from his tormentors. A struggle ensued, but in the end he was subdued and dragged along the track to where was located the turnout just mentioned. Here he was thrown on his back, and his hands were fastened down to one of the rails. "Don't! Let me go! Please let me go!" he shrieked. "I don't want to be tied to the track! I don't want to join the club! If a trolley should come along I'd surely be hurt! Let me go!" And he started to struggle again. "See here, aren't we going a little too far?" whispered one of the students. "He's too sensitive for this sort of sport," added another. "Oh, pshaw! it's all right," interrupted Plum. "The little beggar won't be hurt in the least." "But he'll be scared to death." "Well, that's the fun of it," came from Jasniff. In the meantime Frank Bond continued to cry out to be released. He was so frightened now that he know not what to do. He struggled madly to break his bonds. "I'm going to let him go," began one boy, a lad named Messmer. "Don't you touch him," answered Plum, roughly. "It's only fun." "But, Gus----" "Here comes the trolley!" shouted Jasniff. "Now, Bond, take it easy when they run over you!" "Don't throw the trolley off the track," added Plum, brutally. The trolley came along swiftly in the semi-darkness, and as it approached Frank Bond let out a piercing scream for help. He was now completely beside himself with fear. "Don't, don't! Help!" he screamed. "Save me! Save me!" And then he began to foam at the mouth. With a rush and a roar the trolley car came on. The poor boy on the turnout track thought sure it was going to run over him and struggled madly to get free. Then, just as the trolley swept beside him, he broke his bonds, leaped to his feet, and stepped blindly toward the car. His arm struck the back platform and he was hurled backward. Then the trolley, with its gleaming headlight, swept on its way, the motorman taking no notice of what had happened. "He's hurt!" was the cry from Messmer. "It's the little beggar's own fault," said Gus Plum, but his voice trembled as he spoke. "Oh, I am killed! I am killed!" cried Frank, struggling to his feet and throwing the bandage from his eyes. He was foaming at the mouth, and bleeding both at the head and on the hand. "Don't let the trolley go over me again! Save me! Save me!" And then, with a bound, he turned and disappeared into the bushes and trees which lined the trolley road at this point. "He has gone mad!" whispered one of the boys, hoarsely. "As mad as a March hare," was the comment of another of the students. "Come back, Frank! It's all right!" he called out. "The little fool!" muttered Jasniff. "He wouldn't have been hurt at all if he had remained quiet." He raised his voice: "Come back here, Bond, it's all over!" "I said he couldn't stand it," said Messmer. "It was a shame to go so far." "Oh, don't preach to me," returned Jasniff. "Bond, are you coming back?" he cried, in a louder tone. The only reply was a distant scream, so cold and uncanny it made all of the students shiver. Then came other screams, gradually growing fainter and fainter. "He is going deeper and deeper into the woods!" "Say, we'll have to get him out of that!" "He has gone crazy, just as sure as fate," said Messmer. "Come, we must bring him back and do what we can for him." The wood was a long one and some distance from the trolley turnout was another road, leading down to the main line. Dave and his chums were coming along this road when Ben came to a sudden halt. "Listen!" "What did you hear, Ben?" Before Ben could answer Dave's question a blood-curdling scream rent the air. It was followed by another and then another. "My gracious! is that a ghost?" queried Sam Day. "It's somebody in trouble perhaps," came from Roger. "Of dot peen a ghost I dink I go me pack to der Hall alretty now!" said Carl Sultzer, in alarm. "There are no ghosts," said Dave. "All so-called ghosts are make-believes--humbugs, in fact." "Which puts me in mind of a story," said Shadow, as the crowd came to a halt, listening to a repetition of the cries. "A lot of college students wanted to play a joke on their professor, so they put together the body of one bug, the wings of another, the legs of another, and the horns of another. Then they went to the old professor and said: 'Here is a wonderful new bug we have found. What family does it belong to?' The old professor looked the thing over for a minute. 'A well-known family,' he said. 'A very large family.' 'What?' asked the students, all ready to laugh at the old fellow. 'The family of humbugs,' answered the professor." "That's all right," said Roger, laughing, while the others joined in. "Say, vot has dot hum-pug to to mit dot ghost?" asked Carl, innocently. He had been the only one unable to appreciate the joke. "Nothing, but--listen!" Buster Beggs broke off short, as another scream rent the air. Then the members of the Gee Eyes saw a wild-looking youth rush across the road and disappear among the trees beyond. "Did you see that?" "It was a boy!" "He acted as if he was crazy!" "Yes, and do you know who it was?" demanded Dave. "It was little Frank Bond!" "So it was," added Roger. "Boys, what can this mean?" "He must be in trouble," said Buster Beggs. "Perhaps some wild animal scared him," was Ben's comment. "But what can he be doing out here alone this time of night?" "Bond! Bond!" cried Roger. "Come back here! What's the matter?" But the only answer that came back was another scream, as the half-crazed lad plunged deeper and deeper into the wood. Soon he was completely out of hearing. "I don't like this," was Dave's comment. "Listen, I hear somebody else coming," said Ben, and soon they heard Plum and his crowd approaching through the woods. They were hunting in several directions for Frank Bond. "Hullo!" cried Roger to the other crowd, and soon the D. D. A. members and the Gee Eyes confronted each other. "What brings you out here?" demanded Plum, suspiciously. "We might ask the same question of you?" returned Dave, coldly. "Oh, I say, Porter, have you seen anything of little Frank Bond?" asked Messmer, stepping forward. "Yes, we saw him a minute ago. He ran across this road as if he was crazy. What's the trouble?" "Don't say a word!" burst out Jasniff, confronting his fellow club member. "Bond got scared and ran away from us," went on Messmer, ignoring Nick Jasniff completely. "Did he--er--did he look hurt, or--er--crazy?" "He looked both," put in Roger. "What have you been doing, hazing him?" "That's our affair," broke in Plum, warningly. "Look here, Plum, and you too, Jasniff, I won't stand for any more of your talk!" cried Messmer, wrathfully. "You went too far, and I said so from the start." He turned again to Dave and Roger. "We were initiating Bond into our club. We had him down to the trolley track and--well, he got badly scared and bumped into a trolley that was passing. Then all at once he seemed to go crazy and ran off into the woods. We don't know how badly he is hurt or where he has gone to." "If that's the case, one thing is certain," said Dave. "We must find him, and do it as soon as possible." CHAPTER XX A STUDENT'S STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE Much against the wishes of Plum, Poole, and Jasniff, Messmer told many of the details of what had been done to poor Frank Bond. He did not attempt to shield himself. His story was corroborated by a student named Jardell, who was disgusted by the attitude taken by the bully of Oak Hall and his intimates. "I like fun as well as the next one," said Jardell, "but I don't want to see it carried too far." "Oh, you needn't blame us for everything," sneered Plum. "You're tarred with the same brush." "There is no use in discussing the matter now," said Dave. "What we want to do is to find poor Frank. Why, he may be seriously hurt!" "I trust not," answered Messmer, turning pale. The students walked into the wood and a search was begun that lasted the best part of an hour. Nobody got on the trail of the missing boy and no more cries were heard. It was so dark that but little could be seen, and at last the whole crowd came out on the road again. The thoughts of a trolley ride had been abandoned by the members of the Gee Eyes, and they decided to get back to the Hall as soon as possible. "But Dr. Clay ought to be told about Frank," said Dave, to Messmer and Jardell. "I'll tell him," answered Messmer, promptly. "I'll tell him the truth, even if I'm dismissed from the school for it." "So will I," added Jardell. "Going to get us into trouble, eh?" growled Gus Plum. "Better go slow." "I'll not mention any names," said Messmer. "Neither will I," added Jardell. "I am not that kind." Presently all of the students returned to Oak Hall by the shortest possible route. The Gee Eyes went in a crowd by themselves, and because of an open back door had small difficulty in entering without being noticed. A little later Plum and his cronies came in, followed by Messmer and Jardell. "Do you think Messmer and Jardell will really go to the doctor?" questioned Sam Day. "I do," answered Dave. "They are good, honest fellows, both of them. After this I reckon they'll give Plum and his crowd the go-by." And in that surmise Dave was correct. The boys listened in the upper hallway, and soon heard Messmer and Jardell enter the Hall. The two held a whispered talk for a minute and then walked boldly to Dr. Clay's room and rapped on the door. "They are certainly going to face the music," whispered Roger. "I admire their grit," was Ben's comment. The knock on the doctor's door was answered by a voice from within, and presently Dr. Clay appeared, clad in his dressing-gown. Then the owner of the Hall and the two students went down to the office. Exactly all that passed between the doctor and Messmer and Jardell was never known to the school at large. But it was known that the boys told a straight story and utterly refused to mention any names but their own and poor Frank Bond's. As soon as the meeting in the office was over Dr. Clay summoned Jackson Lemond and Swingly the janitor, and all three went out, taking Messmer and Jardell with them. "They have gone on a hunt," said Dave. "Oh, I do hope they find that poor lad!" It goes without saying that some of the students did not sleep well that night. Plum, Poole, and Jasniff were particularly restless, fearing they would be called to the bar of justice. They were sure Messmer and Jardell would "blab" on them, as the bully expressed it. "But if they do, I'll hammer the life out of them," said the bully. "And so will I," added Jasniff. In the morning it was easy to see that something was wrong. The teachers and hired help went around whispering to themselves, and there was a good deal of quiet talking among the boys. It was soon learned that Frank Bond was still missing and nobody knew what had become of him. As soon as the school was assembled Dr. Clay addressed the students. "Young gentlemen, a most deplorable thing occurred last night," he began. "One of the younger students was taken out and 'initiated,' as it is called, into one of your secret societies. The strain was too great on his nerves, and after being hurt by a trolley car, he became half-crazy and disappeared into the North End woods. Two students have already told me about the affair. I want to know the names of the others connected with this occurrence. Anybody who had anything to do with it, stand up." There was a full minute of silence and the students looked keenly at one another. "Does anybody in this assembly room know anything about this at all?" went on the master of Oak Hall. "Remember, young gentlemen, it is a serious matter, and I want to learn all there is to know of it." As the doctor ceased speaking Dave arose in his seat. He was promptly followed by Roger, Ben, and half a dozen others of the Gee Eyes. The other students looked at those who had arisen in astonishment, while Plum, Poole, and Jasniff were dumfounded. "Is he going to blab too?" whispered Jasniff to Plum, indicating Dave. "Looks like it." "Porter, what have you to say?" questioned Dr. Clay. "Not a great deal, sir, but I am willing to tell what I can. I had nothing to do with the hazing, or whatever you may call it. But I was out near the woods last night and I saw Frank Bond run across the road and plunge into the woods at the North End. A whole crowd of us searched for him, but we could not find him." "And what have you to say, Morr?" "I was with Dave Porter, sir," answered the senator's son. "So was I," "And I," came from the others of the Gee Eyes. "You had nothing to do with Frank Bond previous to his becoming frightened and running away?" demanded the master of the Hall, sharply. "No, sir, I was not near him, nor were any of my companions," answered Dave, indicating his friends. "Then you were not with Messmer and Jardell?" "Not until after we met on the road and started to hunt for Bond, sir." "We were with an entirely different party, Dr. Clay," said Messmer, rising in his seat. "The party that 'initiated' Bond, is that it?" "Yes, sir." "Are those students in this room?" Messmer remained silent. "Messmer, answer me." "Dr. Clay, they are in this room, but I--I cannot tell you who they are." "Porter, what have you to say?" There was a moment of breathless silence. "Dr. Clay, I would rather you would not ask me to mention any names," said Dave, slowly but firmly. "I think every fellow ought to speak up for himself. He will if he has any honor about him." "Then you decline to speak?" "I am very sorry to say that I do, sir." There was another pause, and then a rather stupid boy arose and began to shuffle his feet uneasily. "What is it, Seabold?" asked the doctor. "I ain't going to hang back no longer, Dr. Clay," stammered Seabold. "I was in that--er--that mix-up with Messmer and Jardell. Porter and Morr and that crowd didn't have anything to do with it. I don't like to be a sneak, but I can't stand up for such a sneak as Gus Plum, nor Nat Poole, nor Nick Jasniff neither. We were all in it together, and as Porter says, they ought to have honor enough to speak up and take their share of the blame. We didn't mean to hurt Frank Bond, only to scare him. When he ran away I got scared myself and so did the others. We began to hunt for Frank, and then Porter and his crowd came along and helped us. But it was no use, we couldn't find the boy. I ain't slept all night thinking of Frank. I'd give all I'm worth to find him." "Who got up the plan to tie Bond to the trolley track?" "Gus Plum spoke of it first." "It ain't so!" yelled Gus Plum, leaping up, his face very red. "I didn't have anything more to do with it than anybody else." "He spoke of it to me," added Seabold. "Poole, what have you to say?" "I--er--I didn't have hardly anything to do with it," said Nat, lamely, his knees shaking beneath him. "I--er--looked on--mostly." "Jasniff, did you propose the plan?" "No, sir," answered Jasniff, boldly. "I reckon Messmer and Jardell and Seabold hatched it up between them." "So they did," put in Plum, maliciously. "That is positively false," declared Messmer. "As a matter of fact I said I didn't want to go so far, because Frank seemed to be so frightened. If I had had my own way I should have released him long before the trolley car came along. He was too nervous to stand such fun." "If the truth is to come out, Gus Plum is the one who proposed tying Bond to the trolley track," said Jardell. "I wasn't going to say a word, but I am not going to stand here and let him throw the blame on Messmer and me, or on Porter and his crowd, or anybody else. I have told the exact truth so far as I am concerned, and I am ready to take any punishment that is coming to me." After this a long talk followed, and in the end the master of the Hall said he would take up the matter later, when it was learned what had become of Frank Bond. In the meantime, so great was the excitement, the school was dismissed for the day, and those who wished to do so were told that they might go out until sundown in a search for the missing pupil. "I am certainly going out," said Dave, to Roger and Ben. "I think we ought to do our best to find him, or else find out about him." "Maybe he jumped into the river and drowned himself," suggested Ben. "Or fell over some cliff and got killed," added the senator's son. "A fellow so scared as he was might do almost anything. But I agree with Dave, we ought to go out." The matter was talked over, and in the end Dave, Ben, Roger, and Beggs set off in a little party, taking a lunch with them. In the meantime others went out too, so that the woods known as the North End were alive with boys and men, all searching for the missing student. CHAPTER XXI THE CAVERN IN THE WOODS The four students remembered the part of the big woods which had been gone over before and consequently they did not attempt to search for Frank Bond in that direction. They struck out over a small hill and then along somewhat of a hollow, though which ran a small creek that flowed into the Leming River. The way was rough and uncertain, and several times they had fairly to force their progress through the bushes. Once Buster Beggs got caught so thoroughly that the others had to turn back to aid him. "Do you think Frank could have come in this direction?" questioned Roger. "How could he get through?" "A fellow who is half crazy will do all sorts of queer things," answered Dave. "And as we couldn't find him in the other part of the woods, it appears to me as if he must have come this way." Over an hour was spent in searching along the creek, but without avail. They called Frank's name a great number of times, but not a sound came back save the call of the birds. "I shouldn't like to run across any snakes," said Buster Beggs. "I don't believe there are any very bad snakes in this woods," answered Ben. They now made another turn and came up to the face of a rocky cliff. Suddenly Dave leaped forward. "Look! look!" he cried, and held up a handkerchief covered with blood. In one corner were the initials, F. A. B. "Frank A. Bond," said Roger. "We must be on the right track." "Oh, if only we don't find the poor fellow dead!" murmured Dave. Further on the rocks were very rough, and then came a cleft leading into a small cavern. The entrance was dark and partly covered with brush. "See, the bushes are torn and broken," was Ben's comment. "Somebody has been walking in and out." They gazed into the cavern, but for a few seconds could see nothing. "Frank!" called out Dave. "Frank Bond!" "Help!" came back, in a faint voice. "Help me!" "He is here!" exclaimed Dave. "Has anybody a match so we can make a light?" Buster Briggs had some matches, which he used for his bicycle lamp, and with one of these the four boys set fire to some dry brushwood they pulled up. The glare from the flames lit up the interior of the cavern, and they gazed inside, to behold poor Frank Bond lying in a corner on some leaves. The young student was utterly exhausted and lay with his eyes closed. "Frank, are you hurt?" asked Dave, bending over him. "I mean, are you hurt very badly?" At the sound of Dave's voice the youth on the leaves opened his eyes for a moment. "Take me back to school!" he gasped. "Don't--don't let the trolley run over me!" "Frank, you are safe now--nothing is going to hurt you," said the senator's son. "Tell us where you are hurt." "I--I----" Frank Bond stared around him. "I thought it was the Plum crowd after me! Whe--where did you come from?" "From the school. We came out to look for you." "Oh!" "What about your hurts?" asked Ben. "Oh, I got my arm hurt, and my leg, and I fell down and cut my face," answered the sufferer. "I--I don't know how I got here, and I didn't know the way home, and I got hungry and sleepy, and--and----" Frank Bond could not go on, but burst into tears. "We'll fix you up," said Dave, kindly. "We've brought some lunch with us and you shall have all you want. Start up that fire briskly, fellows." The fire was built up in good shape, and two torches were brought into the cavern. Then Frank Bond was propped up against a wall and given something to eat and to drink. He was very hungry and ate up fully half of what the four boys carried. Water was then brought in from the creek and his several wounds were washed and dressed. Fortunately none of them was serious, although they had been very painful. The small student was still in a highly nervous state and the others did all they could to quiet him. He remembered being tied to the trolley track and running away, but could not tell how he had reached the cavern or how long he had remained there. "I guess I was plumb crazy," he declared. "I thought sure the trolley car was going to run over me!" At last the others managed to get him to his feet. But he was too weak to walk more than a few steps at a time. "I--I can't do it," he gasped. "Oh, how will I ever get back to the Hall?" "Let us take turns at carrying him," suggested Dave. "Frank, you can hold on to my back, can't you?" The small student said he would try, and putting out the fire the whole party quitted the cavern, the hurt lad on Dave's back. It was quite a load for Dave to master, but he managed it for several hundred yards, when each of the others took a turn. Thus, after hard work, they got Frank to the roadway. A loud yelling brought some other boys and Andrew Dale to the scene. One of the boys had his wheel and, riding on this, he went back to the academy and had Jackson Lemond come for Frank with a carriage. Then a pistol was fired off three times,--this being the signal showing that the missing one was found. Soon pupils and teachers came trooping back to Oak Hall, all anxious to listen to Frank's story. As soon as he arrived at the Hall, the small student was taken to a private bedroom and a doctor was sent for to attend him. In the meantime he was given something hot to drink and rolled in blankets, that he might not take cold. Not until that evening did Dr. Clay attempt to get the details of his story from the sufferer. When the physician arrived he said that Frank's hurts were not of a serious nature. "He has been more frightened than anything else," said the doctor. "He must be kept very quiet for at least a week, and after that, Dr. Clay, you had better let him go slowly with his studies for a month or so." "I'll do it," answered the master of Oak Hall. "This lad is of a high-strung temperament and he has been under an unusual mental strain." "You do not think he will suffer permanently?" asked the good doctor, anxiously. "Oh, no, but he must be kept quiet." In an easy kind of way Dr. Clay drew from Frank Bond his whole story of the initiation into the D. D. A. Club. From the lad he learned that Plum and Jasniff had been the prime movers in the so-called fun, and that Poole had backed them up. He at once sent for the three to come to his private office. "I reckon we're in for it now," growled Plum, on receiving the summons. "Deny everything," advised Nick Jasniff. He thought nothing of telling a falsehood whenever it suited him. When the three entered the office Dr. Clay faced them sternly. "I want to have a talk to you three young gentlemen," said the master of Oak Hall. "I have learned the truth of the Frank Bond affair and I want to know what you mean by such conduct." The three tried to excuse themselves, but it was to no purpose. The doctor read them through and through, and then gave each a lecture that was never forgotten. "Fun is fun, but this was not fun," said he. "Bond is a delicate and highly nervous boy, and to do what you did was to make him suffer most horribly. It is a wonder that you did not drive him insane. As it is, he will suffer for a long time to come, and if his parents see fit to prosecute you it will be your own fault if you are sent to jail. More than that, you have disgraced this school, and for that I intend to punish you myself. Each of you must remain inside of the academy grounds for the next two weeks, and in addition I will give you some extra lessons in history to learn, and I want them learned thoroughly. And more than this, if you are ever concerned in such a disgraceful proceeding again I shall dismiss you from Oak Hall." When the three students left the doctor's office Nat Poole was so cowed that he trembled in every limb. Plum, too, was subdued, but Jasniff was boiling with inward rage. "I didn't come here to be bulldozed," he declared. "If I want some fun I am going to have it. If old Clay sends me away, I guess I'll find some other school just as good." Jasniff was certainly a bad youth, but the others were still to find out how really bad he was. After this a week slipped by rather quickly. During that time Dave got word from the Lawrences that Phil was a trifle better physically, but that his head hurt him a great deal. He was still in bed and there was no telling when he would get around again. "I trust it doesn't hurt his head permanently," said Dave, for at least the fiftieth time. He had heard of a boy who had had his head hurt by a water-wheel and had become silly in consequence. "Let us hope for the best," answered Roger. "Poor Phil! It would certainly be awful if he didn't get around all right again!" The injuries received by Phil and Frank Bond put something of a damper on the school and for some time matters ran along very quietly. Plum was troubled in more ways than one. He was afraid he was going to hear from Frank Bond's father or the police, and he was also worrying over his football wagers. He had lost all his spending money and he owed about thirty dollars, and his friends were pressing him to pay up. He had gone to Poole for a loan, but Nat had all he could do to pay his own losses. Jasniff had promised to do something, but since the Bond affair had said nothing more on the subject. "Say, Nick, I thought you were going to help me get some money," said he one day to his crony, when he could keep silent no longer. "Haven't you got some money from home?" asked the other boy, with a leer. "No, my dad can't spare any just now," answered the bully, bluntly. He was growing desperate. His father had written that he must get along without spending money for at least a month more. "Well, I'll let you know what I can do in a week or so," answered Jasniff, slowly. "You said that before--right after the football game." "Well, I haven't been able to see those fellows yet." "What fellows?" "Those I want to talk to." "Can't you hurry it up, Nick? I want some money the worst way--ten or fifteen dollars at least." The two were alone, down at the old boathouse, and Jasniff was smoking a cigarette on the sly. He blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. "Wonder if I can trust you to keep mum?" he said, slowly and deliberately. "About what?" "About a little plan I've got to make some money." "Haven't you always been able to trust me, Nick?" "Certainly, but--this is out of the ordinary." "I never went back on you yet." "Will you promise to keep silent if I tell you something?" "Yes." "I've got a scheme to get hold of several hundred dollars." "That's good." "It will take some--er--quiet work on the part of both of us to do the trick." "Well, as I said before, I am with you." "Can I trust you absolutely?" demanded Jasniff, looking Plum closely in the face. "You can." "Then take a walk and we'll talk the matter over. But remember, if you say a word to anybody about it--well, you had better not, that's all!" They walked to a secluded spot and there, slowly and cautiously, Nick Jasniff unfolded a plot to get money which filled Gus Plum with curiosity, fear, wonder, and fascination. CHAPTER XXII A BOY AND A MOTOR CYCLE With all the excitement Dave had not forgotten his studies and each day he spent all the time that was necessary in preparing his lessons. He had a faculty of concentrating his mind upon what he was doing and this made learning easy. "Going in for the medal of honor, I suppose," said Roger one day, as he observed Dave grinding away at a Latin exercise. "Well, if you win it I guess you'll deserve it." "I am going to do what I can, Roger. I didn't come to Oak Hall just to cut up." The medal of honor had been promised by Dr. Clay to the pupil who should stand highest in lessons and deportment at the end of the term. It was a beautiful medal of solid gold, and many students secretly hoped to win it. So far Polly Vane was in the lead, with Dave, Buster Beggs, Sam Day, Roger, and a student named Langdale close behind. "Langdale says he is going to win or die in the attempt," went on the senator's son. "He is studying day and night, and so far his deportment has been about perfect." "Well, mine hasn't been--at least, not according to Job Haskers," answered Dave. "He marks me down whenever he can." "He does that to all of us," said Sam Day, who was near. "I wish he'd mark us up once." "Which puts me in mind of a story," came from Shadow Hamilton, who was resting on the end of a bed. "A clothing dealer was going to have a fire sale. So he lit some damp paper in his stove and turned off the draught, so that his stock got all smoked up. Then he called his son Moses up. 'Make out new brice tickets,' says he to Moses. 'All right, fader,' says Moses, and goes to work, and the next day he put out suits of clothing labeled like this: 'Great Fire Sale! Suits marked down from $9.00 to $7.98.' Soon a man came along to buy a suit. 'Why,' says he, 'that suit was only $5.50 two days ago.' 'Yes,' says Moses. 'Vos it? Vell, ve haf der fire since, and now der suits vos all moth-broof!'" "Phew! that's enough to drive all the lessons from a fellow's head!" cried Dave, after a short laugh. "Where did you get it, Shadow?" "Maybe he picked it out of the Old Farmers' Almanack," said Buster Beggs. "Which puts me in mind," began Shadow calmly. "A boy----" "Not to-day!" interrupted Roger. "That's the fiftieth you've told this week. I'm going out for a spin, boys." "Going to try that new motor cycle?" queried Dave, looking up. "Yes." "Well, don't let it run away with you," and Dave smiled broadly. "No fear," said Roger, with a laugh, and left the dormitory. The senator's son had received a new motor cycle the day before. It was a beautiful nickel-plated affair and Roger was very proud of it. He knew a little about motor cycles, so it did not take him long to get the machine in trim for use. He took a spin up and down the road, and let Dave and some others try it, and all pronounced it a beauty. Roger was soon on the motor cycle and speeding in the direction of Oakdale. In the town he made a few small purchases, and then came away for a spin in the direction of Rockville, taking a side road which he thought in better condition than the main road. The senator's son had covered a mile when he saw two boys on bicycles approaching him. He reduced his speed, and as the pair came closer he recognized Plum and Jasniff. "Got your motor out, eh?" said the bully of Oak Hall, rather sourly. "Yes," returned Roger, briefly. "Can you get it to work?" "The machine works perfectly." "I'd rather have my bicycle," sneered Jasniff. "That thing makes too much noise for me." "So would I," added Gus Plum. "Too much noise and too much smell." "I'd rather have the motor cycle, so there you are," answered the senator's son, and moved on again, while the others did the same. "I guess it's a case of sour grapes," he told himself. Roger had just passed a bend of the road when something happened to the battery which supplied the electric spark to ignite the gasoline. He set the motor cycle against a rock, and it was a full quarter of an hour before he could make the battery work. During that time somebody came through the bushes near him and looked at the youth, but Roger took no notice. The motor cycle ready for use once more, the senator's son hopped on the saddle and turned on the power. All seemed to go well and presently, to make up for lost time, he put on all speed. "It won't do to be late for supper," he reasoned. "Haskers will catch me sure." He passed another turn, between some high bushes. The way was now downhill, leading over a small stream flowing into the Leming River. The motor cycle took the down-grade at a rapid rate of speed, and fearing an accident, Roger attempted to turn off the power and put on the brake. To his horror he could not move the power lever, which had become caught in some manner. The motor cycle was now bounding down the road at a terrific rate of speed. Just ahead was the little bridge. Roger gave a vain tug or two. Then the machine struck the rough boards of the bridge, made a turn against the stone wall, and heels over head the senator's son went sailing over the stone wall to the rocks and water below! It was a terrible fall, much worse than that experienced by Dave and Babcock when they had run into the fallen tree, and no sooner did Roger land than his senses forsook him. His legs and part of his body went into the water, while his head and arms rested on some sand. The short autumn day drew to a close and Roger did not appear at Oak Hall. The other students went to supper and then for the first Dave learned that the senator's son had not gotten back. "Where is Master Morr?" demanded Job Haskers, severely. "He went out on his new motor cycle," answered Dave. "Perhaps he had a breakdown." "If he was not sure he could get back in time he should not have gone out," snapped the disagreeable teacher. Supper over, some of the students retired to their dormitories while others sought the library and the gymnasium. Dave and Ben looked around for Roger, but as he did not put in an appearance they obtained permission from Andrew Dale to go out on their bicycles and make a hunt for the missing one. "He must be somewhere in this vicinity," said Dave. "He said he was going to Oakdale and would then come back by the Cass Brook road," returned Ben. "Let us take to the Cass Brook road then, Ben. Maybe we'll meet him." With their bicycle lamps lit and turned up brightly, the pair set off, and were soon out of sight of Oak Hall. The road was smooth and they made rapid progress. Ben took to one side of the road while Dave pursued the other. All was dark and quiet, not a breath of air stirring the almost leafless trees. A mile covered, they slowed down, to peer into the bushes beside the road. They were now within half a mile of the bridge where Roger had taken the tumble. "Hello! here comes somebody!" cried Dave, presently, and looked ahead. The rays of the bicycle lamp fell on a figure covered with dirt and dripping wet. "I declare, it's Roger!" Dave had scarcely uttered the words when the figure tottered and fell. Riding up, the two boys dismounted and rushed forward. Roger lay in the middle of the road, his face resting on one arm. "Roger what is it?" asked Dave. "Are you badly hurt?" "I--I took a header--over the bridge!" gasped the senator's son, when he could speak. "I--fell in th--the water!" His teeth began to chatter. "My, but it was co--co--cold!" "Any bones broken?" "I--I reckon no--not. But I am awfully we--weak!" "Where is the motor cycle?" asked Ben. "I--I do--don't know." "Here, put on my sweater," said Dave, and hastened to take off that which was wet. "We must get him to the Hall somehow," he added. "If he isn't hurt he had better walk," returned Ben. "It will help to get his blood in circulation." "Maybe I can walk if you'll help me," answered Roger. The two bicycles were hidden in the bushes and Dave got on one side of the senator's son and Ben on the other. Thus supported, the sufferer started again for Oak Hall. He was hurried along as fast as possible, and arrived there feeling somewhat warmer than when discovered by Dave and Ben. Under Dr. Clay's directions he was put to bed and given some hot tea to drink. Only his left hand was bruised and this was washed and plastered up. Having gotten Roger to Oak Hall, Dave and Ben received permission to go back to the brook road for their wheels. They found the bicycles where they had left them, and then went on a hunt for Roger's motor cycle. "It certainly ought to be at the bridge," said Ben. "If it didn't blow up," answered Dave, "or run off of its own accord. Roger said he couldn't shut off the power." "If it ran off alone I don't think it would go very far, Dave." The bridge reached, they looked around in all directions but could see nothing of the motor cycle. They went down to where Roger had landed and saw the impression of his body and feet in the wet sand. "He can thank his stars that he didn't break his neck," said Dave. "This beats the fall Paul and I took." "It's queer you never got to the bottom of that accident, Dave." "Maybe I will, some day. I am certain that tree didn't fall of itself." Having spent fully a quarter of an hour in looking for the motor cycle without success, there seemed to be nothing to do but to return to Oak Hall. This they did, and stored their wheels in the room set apart at the gymnasium for that purpose. "Didn't find the motor cycle, eh?" said Sam Day, who was practising on the rings. "That is certainly queer." "Maybe the motor cycle was stolen," suggested Shadow. "Who would steal such a machine?" asked Ben. "Very few know how to run them." "They might have taken it away in a wagon. Some people are mean enough to steal anything they lay hands on." Dave and Ben spent some time in cleaning their bicycles and in oiling them. Then they left the gymnasium in company with Sam Day and several others. As they approached the Hall, Macklin came running out. "Did you hear the news?" cried the younger student. "News?" queried Dave. "What news?" "About Roger Morr?" "We know he had a bad tumble, and we know we can't find his motor cycle," said Ben. "Oh, so the machine is gone too," went on Chip Macklin. "Well, that certainly beats all!" "What beats all?" asked Dave. "This whole affair about Roger. When they put him to bed they didn't give his clothing much attention. Now they have just found out that he either lost everything he had or else he was robbed." "Lost? Robbed?" cried Dave. "Are you sure of this?" "Yes. You can go up yourself if you wish." "I will," said Dave, and ran up to the dormitory. Several boys were present and also Dr. Clay and Andrew Dale. "This is remarkable and must be investigated," Dr. Clay was saying. "Ah, here is Master Porter now. Did you find the motor cycle?" "No, sir, it wasn't in sight anywhere. Ben and I looked high and low for it." "Then that must have been stolen too," said Andrew Dale. "They tell me Roger was robbed," said Ben. "What did he lose?" "Lost a whole lot of things," replied Roger himself. "My watch and my diamond stickpin, and a gold ring, some loose change, and forty dollars that father sent me for some new books I've been ordering! Somebody cleaned me out for fair!" And the senator's son spoke very disconsolately. CHAPTER XXIII WHAT A RUNAWAY LED TO The news that Roger had been robbed while unconscious spread rapidly, and many were the speculations as to who had done the wicked deed. "I suppose it was somebody who just happened to come along," said Dave. "But what a mean thing to do! That person did not know but that Roger was dying, and made no effort to assist him!" Roger's story was a brief one. How long he had remained unconscious he did not know. He came to his senses with a shiver, to find himself lying on some rocks under one end of the stone bridge. The lower portion of his body was wet and the chill had aided in reviving him. When he felt strong enough he had crawled up to the road and looked for his motor cycle. Not finding the machine, he had started for Oak Hall on foot. He felt himself growing weaker every step and fell prostrate, as already described, just as Dave and Ben discovered him. "I am awfully glad you came along," said the senator's son to his two chums. "I don't know what I should have done if you hadn't." "And you didn't know a thing about being robbed, then?" queried Ben. "No, all I knew was that I was cold and as weak as a sick cat," was the answer. A hunt was made for the robber, and the students spent several hours in searching around the spot. Nothing was found, and the local authorities were notified. This robbery, coupled with those that had gone before, aroused the whole community. Many felt that they were no longer safe in their homes, and a meeting was held in Oakdale and a reward of two hundred dollars put up by the citizens for the capture and conviction of the offenders. "I will get a private detective to look into this," said Dr. Clay and did so. The detective, a quiet-looking individual named Merivel, arrived the next day and went to work immediately. But the task proved too much for him, and inside of a week he gave it up. "I reckon I am out my machine and my valuables," said Roger, who was around once more and as well as ever. "But I do wish I could lay hands on the rascal who went through me!" The days slipped by, and again Dave and his chums devoted themselves to their studies. It was now growing colder and there was a suggestion of snow in the air. "It won't be long before we have snow and ice," said Sam. "Hurrah for some fine skating!" "And snowballing," added Buster. "Don't forget the fun we had last year." "How we did pelt Pop Swingly!" "And old Haskers!" "You've got to be careful what you do to Haskers," said Shadow. "He is just watching for a chance to get somebody into trouble." "Do you remember how Dave beat Plum in that race on the ice?" said Roger. "That was great!" "By the way, Plum is cutting quite a dash again," said Buster. "His father must have sent him a lot of spending money." "Then he can pay up those bets I heard about," said Macklin. "He has paid them up, so I was told," replied another student. "But I'll wager it made him mad to do so." "He had no business to bet against his own school," said Sam. "It was a mean piece of business. I've cut him dead for doing it." What was said about Gus Plum having money was true. He had paid all his debts and in addition had spent several dollars in having a so-called "good time" with Jasniff and Poole in a tavern on the outskirts of Rockville. But he was not particularly happy, if one was to judge by the worried and scared look that often showed itself on his face. At times it looked as if he wanted to draw away from Nick Jasniff, but that student clung to him closer than ever. One Friday afternoon Dave, Roger, and Ben got out of school a little early and resolved to walk to Oakdale, just for the exercise and to buy a few things of trifling importance. They were soon on the way, and arriving at the town lost no time in making their purchases. In Oakdale they met Mrs. Fairchild and asked her if she had heard anything concerning the robbery at her house. "Not a thing," said the widow; "and I suppose I never shall." With their purchases in their pockets, the students left the town and started on the return to the academy. As it was nipping cold, they walked rapidly, only stopping on the way to pick up some chestnuts which were handy. Each had his pocket filled with chestnuts, when all heard a commotion around a bend of the road. "What's that?" questioned Dave, looking ahead. "Sounds like a runaway!" exclaimed Ben. "If it is we had better be getting out of the way," said Roger. "I have no desire to be run over." The noise came closer and from a distance they heard a man shouting wildly. "Sthop! Sthop, I said! Vot you vants to run avay for, annahow?" "It's Zumm, the baker!" cried Dave. "His horse must be running away!" The sounds of hoofs could now be distinguished, and in a moment more the steed came in sight, dragging a baker's wagon behind him. The vehicle swayed from side to side, threatening to go over any instant. "Look out!" "He is running away and no mistake!" "Where is Zumm?" "He must have been thrown out!" Nearer and nearer came the frightened horse. He was less than a hundred feet away when he swerved to one side, running two of the wheels of the wagon into some low bushes. "I am going to stop him if I can!" cried Dave, with sudden determination. Before Ben or Roger could stop him he was out in the road and leaping for the head of the frightened horse. He caught hold of the bridle and hung fast. "You'll be killed, Dave!" "Don't go under his feet!" "Sthop him, sthop him!" came from the German baker who owned the outfit. He was running after the horse and wagon as rapidly as his somewhat bulky form permitted. Dave paid no attention to the cries but clung fast. The horse did a good deal of dancing and prancing but it was of no avail. Finally he backed into the bushes until the back of the wagon struck a tree, and there he remained, trembling violently in every limb. "Good for you, Dave!" sang out Ben, in admiration. "I must say, you know exactly how to handle a horse." "Pick up those lines," panted Dave, and stepping forward, Roger did so. Then Ben came up on the other side of the frightened animal and soon they had the horse completely subdued and standing quiet. "Is he--is he all right, yes?" panted the German baker, coming up all out of breath. "I think so," answered Dave. "He had a big scare, though." "Yah, dot's so." "What made him go off?" "Noddings but a biece of baber in der road. Ven he see dot, he got so oxcitements like neffer vos alretty!" "Did he throw you out?" asked Ben. "No, I vos got out to bick up some chestnuts, and I let him valk along py himselluf. Den all to vonce he kicks up his heels and runds avay kvick! Next dime ven I go avay I ton't let him alone a minute!" The German baker was anxious concerning his stock in trade, and while the boys continued to hold the horse he climbed into the wagon to look after his bread, and pastries. "Chust vot I dink!" he groaned. "Dem nice cakes vos all cracked alretty! Now vot I got to do, tole me dot?" "Cracked cakes?" queried Roger, with a grin. "Yah. You see, I vos make some nice cakes for Mrs. Dill's barty. Da vos sphoiled and now I haf to make more." "Don't throw them away," said Dave. "We'll eat a cracked cake any day." "So? All right, my poys. You do me a favor to sthop mine horse, I vos gif you der cakes, yes," answered Mr. Zumm. He was a liberal-hearted man and without delay brought out several large cakes, somewhat crushed and broken but still well worth eating. The sight of such good things set Dave to thinking. "Fellows, I've got an idea!" he said. "Let's buy Mr. Zumm's cakes and pies and have a feast to-night!" "Just the thing!" came from both Ben and Roger. "I not sell you dem cakes," said the baker, when the matter was explained to him. "You vos goot poys, yes, and I like you. I gif you four pig cakes, mit der pastepoard poxes to carry dem in." "Thanks, you are very kind," said Dave, and the others said the same. They insisted, however, upon purchasing several pies, and also some chocolate éclairs. The goodies were put into several pasteboard boxes, and then the boys hurried off towards the Hall and Mr. Zumm resumed his journey to town. The three boys had some little difficulty in getting into Oak Hall with their pasteboard boxes. They were going up a back stairs when Nat Poole caught sight of them. "Hello, something doing, I'll be bound!" said Poole to himself. "Guess I'll watch and see what it means!" He crouched out of sight in a dark angle of the hallway and allowed Dave, Roger, and Ben to pass him. Then, when the dormitory door was closed, Nat Poole tiptoed up to it. "Put the cakes on the top shelf," he heard Dave say. "The pies can go over in that corner." "A spread!" murmured Nat Poole to himself. "I don't think we ought to start too early," came in Ben's voice. "Let us make it exactly midnight just for the fun of the thing." "That suits me," answered the senator's son. "Who is to be invited?" This was talked over, and it was decided to ask all the inmates of Dormitories No. 11 and 12 and also a few of the students in No. 8, including Henshaw and Babcock. "But we want to be very quiet about it," cautioned Dave. "If Haskers should hear of it, he'd make all the trouble he could for us." "Mum's the word, and I'll tell the other fellows so," answered Roger. "Don't let Plum, or Poole, or Jasniff get an inkling of this," cautioned Ben. "They would like nothing better than to spoil our fun." "Yes, we certainly must be careful of that crowd," answered Dave. The three boys remained in the dormitory for quarter of an hour, talking matters over and making their arrangements for the midnight feast, and Nat Poole took in every word that was said. Then, as Dave, Ben, and Roger started to come out into the hallway, Poole ran off and managed to get down into the dining hall ahead of them. "I've got news," he whispered to Gus Plum, who sat beside him. "I'll tell you all about it after supper." "What kind of news?" questioned the bully. "About a feast. The Porter crowd expects to pull off something big to-night, and I know exactly how we can block their game and land them in all kinds of trouble!" CHAPTER XXIV MORE PLANS THAN ONE Dave and his chums waited impatiently for bed-time and in the meanwhile the invitation to participate in the coming feast was extended to all who had been mentioned as possible guests. All accepted with pleasure, and Babcock said he expected to have a "whang-bang time," whatever that might mean. About nine o'clock Dave and Roger got ready to retire to the dormitory. They were just going upstairs when Chip Macklin came rushing up to them. "Come with me," cried the small student, in breathless tones. "Where to?" questioned Dave. "Never mind--come on, and be quick about it." Seeing that something unusual was up, Dave and Roger followed Macklin to a back hallway. Here the small student looked around cautiously, to make sure that they were not being observed. "It's all off!" were Macklin's first words. "The sooner you get rid of that cake and stuff the better!" "What makes you say that?" demanded Dave. "I just overheard Nat Poole talking to Plum and Jasniff. They mentioned your name and something about breaking up a feast, and I made up my mind something was in the wind. I don't like to play the sneak any more"--Macklin got red as he said this--"but I felt I had to in this case. Poole told his cronies all about the stuff hidden in our dormitories and about the feast to be had at midnight, and they planned to go to old Haskers and to Dr. Clay and have us all caught red-handed!" At this announcement the faces of Dave and Roger fell for a moment. "So you'd better get the stuff out of the way at once," went on Chip Macklin. "Tell me just what was said," said Dave, after an awkward pause, and Macklin did as requested. As he proceeded Dave's eyes lit up in sudden merriment. "So that is their game," he said. "Well, we'll pay them back,--just wait and see!" "One thing is certain, the feast is off," said Roger, with a sigh. "Not a bit of it," answered Dave. "Didn't you hear what Chip said? They are going to rouse up Haskers and Dr. Clay about eleven o'clock, so as to catch us red-handed. What's the matter with having our little jollification before that time?" "Good for you, Dave! But we'll have to be careful----" "Leave it to me, and I'll fix the whole thing," replied Dave. It was not long after that when all the pupils of Oak Hall retired to their dormitories. In the meantime Dave lost no time in going among his chums and acquainting them with the new order of things. Dave's plan worked like a charm. He rightfully guessed that Nat Poole would be listening at one of the dormitory doors. Accordingly he spoke in a loud voice after the door was locked. "We'll have to wait until twelve o'clock before we touch a mouthful," he said. "In the meantime let us fix that lemonade and those other things. All of the other fellows will come in at exactly quarter to twelve. The feast is to last from twelve to one o'clock." "I'm sorry I've got to wait until twelve o'clock," said Ben, in an equally loud tone. "But if that is the rule of this club, why, I'll have to obey." "Those other good things won't arrive until quarter to twelve," said Roger. So the talk ran on until the boys were undressed and ready to retire. Then the lights were put out and all became quiet. In the darkened hallway Babcock was on guard. Soon he came in with a broad grin on his face. "You've fooled 'em completely," he whispered. "They have arranged to call up the doctor and old Haskers at exactly half-past eleven, and they are going to pounce in here just a few minutes after twelve,--when they expect everything to be in full blast. Plum says he will help smash down a door, if it is necessary." "Well, it won't be necessary," answered Dave, dryly. As soon as all was quiet, the good things were brought forth and all the invited guests lost no time in "making themselves at home," as Buster Beggs expressed it. Growing boys always have tremendous appetites, and it did not take long for the larger portion of the cakes and pies to disappear. "Ah!" sighed Sam Day, at last. "I must let up, I am too full for utterance." "I can't eat another mouthful," said Polly Vane, as he finished a chocolate éclair. "It was delicious, though." "Which puts me in mind of a story," said Shadow, who sat on the edge of a table eating a quarter of a pumpkin pie. "A poor boy went to a Sunday school picnic, and when eating time came he filled up on sandwiches and cake and lemonade until he was ready to burst. Then they brought around some ice-cream. 'Johnny,' says a lady, 'you'll have some ice-cream, won't you?' Johnny looked at her for a minute, his face full of sorrow. 'Can't,' says he. 'Why not?' says the lady. 'Because,' says he, 'I--I kin melt it, ma'am, but I can't swaller it!'" And a laugh went up. "What are you putting away?" asked Roger of Dave, who was filling two large paper bags with cake crumbs and pie crusts. "Going to feed the birds?" "No, I've got a little plan. Won't these do more good in Plum's dormitory than in ours?" "Eureka!" shouted Buster, and then checked himself. "It's a splendid plan!" he whispered. "Wait till they go off to rouse up the doctor and old Haskers," said Ben. "That's what I had in mind to do." The boys assembled went over the dormitories with care, cleaning up every evidence of the feast. Everything that was left was put in paper bags, which Dave had provided. Then came a rather tedious wait on the part of the majority, Dave and Roger meanwhile slipping out to learn what the enemy was doing. At last came the opportunity for which Dave was waiting. He saw Poole, Plum, and Jasniff leave their dormitory and hurry towards the rooms occupied by the master of the Hall and his second assistant. "There they go, Dave!" "I see them, Roger. Quick! back to the room with you!" They ran to their own dormitory and in a minute reappeared with the bags of broken cake and pie crusts. With these they rushed to the dormitory occupied by the bully of the school and his cronies. The door was ajar and all was dark inside, the students not in Poole's plot being sound asleep. With deft hands Dave and Roger distributed the broken cake and the pie crusts, putting some on a table, some on a desk, a portion in the beds occupied by Plum, Poole, and Jasniff, and the remainder on the window sill and the floor. Then they overturned a chair, and shoved one of the beds partly against the door, so that it could not be readily closed. "Now for the alarm!" cried Dave, and lit several gas jets. Then he and Roger set up a sudden yell and ran with might and main for their own room. Dr. Clay and Job Haskers had just been awakened by Poole and his cronies when the alarm sounded. This aroused Andrew Dale and fully two score of students, and all rushed into the hallways to learn what it meant. "A feast in Dormitory 12, eh?" said the worthy master of Oak Hall. "I'll see about this!" And he donned his dressing gown. By the time he reached Dormitory 12 the whole school was in an uproar. Some thought there might be a fire, and there was great excitement. "If the place is on fire, I want to get out!" cried one student. "There is no fire!" answered Dave. "I think it's a false alarm." "Didn't the alarm come from Plum's room?" asked one pupil. "I think it did," answered another. "Let us go see what is up!" Many rushed in that direction, followed by Andrew Dale. Then came a cry of astonishment from the first assistant. "What does this mean? A feast, I declare." "A feast!" said Dr. Clay, who was in the rear. "I was told there was a feast going on in Dormitory No. 12!" "You can see for yourself, Doctor." "I do see," answered the master of the Hall, severely. "Plum, what does this mean?" "I--er--I don't know," stammered the bully. He was so amazed that he could not collect his senses. "Poole, can you tell me what this means?" "N--no, sir. I--I haven't had a thing, sir." "Jasniff, what about this?" Nick Jasniff shrugged his shoulders. "I thought there was something going on in Porter's room. Poole said so." "Well, who sounded that alarm here?" thundered Dr. Clay. To this question there was no answer. "We had better look in No. 12," suggested Job Haskers, who had just come up, wrapped in a flannel robe and wearing slippers. The doctor and his assistants turned to the dormitory occupied by Dave and his chums, and then looked into the bedroom adjoining. Everything was as clean and orderly as could be. The boys were up, but they were not dressed. "What's the row?" asked Buster Beggs, sleepily. "Oh, Doctor, is that you? I thought I heard some noise." "Didn't you hear the alarm?" asked Dave. "I thought it woke up everybody." The doctor said little but looked around the rooms with care, and so did Job Haskers. "Some mistake evidently," muttered the assistant. "I am going to find out what the crumbs in that other dormitory mean," answered Dr. Clay. He passed out, and meeting Poole in the hallway caught the pupil by the shoulder. "Just come with me," he said, and led the way back to the room Nat occupied with his cronies. "Now, explain this!" he demanded. Of course poor Nat Poole could not explain, and neither could Plum nor Jasniff. They tried to tell their story, but for once the doctor was too impatient to listen. "As there was no cause for that alarm, I want you all to go to bed," said he, after listening to a few words. "It is midnight and I want all of you to get your night's rest. In the morning I'll make an investigation." "What of this muss?" faltered Poole. "Clean it up, every bit of it!" thundered the doctor, and passed out and to his own room once more. "I won't touch the stuff!" snarled Nat Poole. "Neither will I," came from Plum. "Nor I," added Jasniff. "Are you going to disobey?" demanded Job Haskers, who had remained on the scene. His manner was so menacing that the three students shrank before him. "It wasn't our fault----" began Plum. "Enough. I can see through your doings. You tried to get others into trouble to hide your own tracks. This plot will not work with me. In the morning you must clean this apartment thoroughly, or I will punish you severely!" And having thus delivered himself Job Haskers stalked off, leaving Plum, Poole, and Jasniff the maddest students Oak Hall had ever known. CHAPTER XXV THE FIGHT IN THE GYMNASIUM "This is some more of Porter's doings," growled the bully of Oak Hall, when he and his cronies found themselves alone. "That's it," agreed Jasniff. "Confound him, I'd like to wring his neck!" "I suppose they had their feast on the quiet," grumbled Poole. "We were foolish that we did not watch them more closely." The three went to bed and in the morning set to work to clean up the dormitory. Then they had to go downstairs, to be interviewed by Job Haskers, who gave them some extra lessons to learn, as a punishment. He would listen to no explanation from them, happening to be in a thoroughly bad humor himself. The next few days proved unusually cold, and then came a snowstorm which covered the ground to the depth of several inches. The students got as much fun out of the downfall as possible, snowballing each other with great glee. They also took shots at Pop Swingly and Horsehair while the pair were engaged in cleaning off the walks. "Hi! hi! stop that!" roared Swingly, as a snowball from Ben took him in the back. Then one from Roger knocked off his hat. At the same time Dave, rushing by, threw some loose snow down Jackson Lemond's back. "Whow!" spluttered the driver, dropping his broom and working at his neck. "Who did that? Birr! it's as cold as a cake o' ice!" And he began to shiver and dance around. "This weather will surely make ice," said Sam, and he was right, for that night several inches of ice formed on the river, and this made all the students look forward eagerly to the time when there would be skating. Frank Bond had quite recovered from the shock he had received at the hands of Plum and his cohorts. But he was still the pale, delicate, and nervous boy as of old and shrank from contact with the more boisterous students. He appreciated what Dave and his chums had done for him and did his best to give the bully of the Hall a wide berth. He was a studious lad, and soon a warm friendship sprang up between him and Polly Vane and they often studied their lessons together, Polly giving the younger lad all the assistance he could. During those days Dave looked eagerly for letters from the Wadsworths, Caspar Potts, and his Uncle Dunston. The letters came and were full of kind words and best wishes, yet the communication from his uncle filled him with anxiety. In part this letter read as follows: "Strange as it may appear, I have not yet received a line from your father or your sister Laura. I cannot imagine where they can be that they do not send word of some kind. If they had received even one letter from me concerning you, I feel sure your father would not lose a moment in answering. I have sent to a dozen places for information, but all in vain." "This is certainly a mystery," Dave said to Roger. "What do you make of it?" "Oh, I shouldn't worry too much," answered the senator's son, hopefully. "Your father and sister are probably traveling in some out-of-the-way place in Europe where the letters and cablegrams haven't reached them." "Waiting is very hard, Roger." "I know it must be. I suppose you want to know what your father and sister are like." "That's it, and I want to be with them, too," answered the former poorhouse youth. Dave wanted to find Ben, to get a book the latter had been reading. He was told that Ben was down to the gymnasium and so strolled in that direction. The building was almost deserted, not more than half a dozen students being present. In one corner was Gus Plum and not far away Jasniff lounged on a bench. Between the pair stood Frank Bond, his face having a white and scared look upon it. "Please, Plum, I don't care to do such things," Frank was saying. "I'd rather you'd excuse me." "You'll do what I want you to do!" answered Plum, brutally. "You can't back out now." "But I don't want to----" began the small boy, when of a sudden the bully of Oak Hall caught him by the ear. "See here, you imp, you listen to me!" snarled Plum. "I haven't forgotten what trouble you got me into before. Now you mind me----" "Oh, let go, please let go!" screamed Frank. "Don't pull my ear off!" He tried to break away, but the bully held him fast. The next moment, however, Dave stepped between. "Plum, I want you to let Frank alone," said Dave, quietly but firmly, and at the same time looking the bully squarely in the eyes. "Look here, this is none of your affair," blustered Plum. "Let him go, I say--and at once," and now Dave clenched his fists. "You want more trouble with me, eh?" growled Plum, releasing the small boy and sticking his chin in Dave's face. "No, I do not want trouble, but I am able to meet it if it comes," answered Dave, not budging an inch. "You ought to be ashamed to bulldoze such a small chap as Frank. Why don't you leave him alone, as the doctor told you to do?" "See here, I don't want you to preach to me!" roared Plum. "I know my own business and I don't want you to put in your oar!" "That's the talk," came from Jasniff. Instantly Dave swung around on his heel. "This is certainly none of your business, Jasniff," he said, coldly. "Ain't it? Well, Gus is my particular friend, and what concerns him concerns me," blustered Jasniff. "Oh, Dave, let us go away," whispered Frank, growing more frightened than ever. "You can go away if you wish, Frank. I am not afraid of these two bullies; Plum knows that, even if Jasniff does not." At this home thrust Gus Plum winced, for he had not forgotten the drubbing received from Dave in times gone by. Jasniff, however, was undismayed, and striding closer, he pushed in between Plum and Dave. "I've heard of the unfair advantage you once took of Gus, but you can't take such an advantage of me," he said, loudly. "I am not afraid of anybody in this school, and I want you to know it." His manner was so offensive that it caused the quick blood to rush to Dave's face. Plum fell back and so did Frank Bond. There was a moment of suggestive silence. "Jasniff, I never took any unfair advantage of Plum, and everybody in this school knows it," said Dave, steadily. "Plum is a bully,--and you appear to be built the same way." "So I'm a bully, eh?" stormed Nick Jasniff, putting up his fists. "You are." "Do you want me to fight you?" "No, I'd prefer not to dirty my hands on you." "Maybe you think you can lick me?" "I am not doing any thinking on that subject." "You can't talk to me like this--I won't allow it," stormed Jasniff, putting up his fists again. "If you want to fight, say so!" So speaking, he gave Dave a sudden shove that sent him up against Frank Bond. "Oh, Dave, don't let him hit you!" gasped the little lad. "He is so big and strong----" Dave did not answer--indeed, it is doubtful if he heard the words. With a quick leap forward, he caught Nick Jasniff by both arms and backed him against the side of the building. "Let go!" screamed Jasniff, in a rage. "Let go, I say!" "Listen to me, Jasniff," returned Dave, still holding the squirming student. "I don't want to fight, but if you attack me, I'll not only defend myself, but I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had in your life. I understand you thoroughly. You are not only a bully but worse. Why Dr. Clay allows you to remain here I don't know. I want you to understand once for all you can't bulldoze me." "That's the talk!" said Shadow, who had walked up. "Make him keep his distance, Dave," added Buster, who was with the youth who loved to tell stories. "Bulldoze you?" stormed Nick Jasniff. "I'll show you what I'll do--you poorhouse rat! I'll make mincemeat of you!" So speaking, he tore himself loose from Dave and backed away a few steps. Then, with clenched fists, he rushed in and aimed a heavy blow at Dave's face. The fist struck Dave's ear, for the latter did what he could to dodge. Then came another blow on the shoulder and one on the chin, all delivered with lightning-like rapidity. Nick Jasniff was a boxer, and could use his fists better than he could learn his lessons. "Good!" shouted Gus Plum, gleefully. "That's the way to do it, Nick!" "Knock him out!" added Nat Poole, but keeping safely in the background. Dave backed away a step or two and again Jasniff came at him, hitting him a light blow in the arm. Then the boxer struck out again for Dave's face. But this blow did not land. Instead, Dave leaped to one side and struck out himself, hitting Jasniff in the left ear. This was followed by a tap on the chin and another in the ribs. Jasniff tried to land on Dave's chest, but failed, and Dave came back once more with a crack on his opponent's nose that caused the blood to spurt. "A fight! A fight!" "Look at that blow!" "Jasniff is quick, ain't he?" "First blood for Dave Porter!" Again the two boys went at it, and for several minutes blows were given and taken with remarkable rapidity. With his skill as a boxer, Jasniff had anticipated an easy victory; he was astonished at the manner in which Dave parried some of his blows. Around and around the gymnasium floor circled the two boys, and as the shouting grew louder the crowd increased. The blood was now flowing not alone from Jasniff's nose but also from a scratch on Dave's chin. A few more passes and the two clinched, Jasniff getting Dave's head under his arm. But with a sudden turn Dave cleared himself, and hit his opponent in the teeth, again drawing blood. Wild with rage, Jasniff threw prudence to the winds and leaped forward literally to crush the youth who dared oppose him. To him who loses his wits in such a situation as this, all is lost. Blinded by rage Jasniff forgot to guard himself and in a trice received a blow in the left eye that made him see stars. Then, as he plunged forward again, another swift and heavy blow hit him squarely on the chin. His head went up and back with a jerk, his form swayed from side to side, and down he went on the floor with a thud, and lay there like a log. "My! what a blow!" "Jasniff is knocked out clean and clear!" "I never saw anything like it in my life!" So the cries ran on, while Nick Jasniff lay where he had fallen. For the moment nobody approached the prostrate youth, then Plum stepped to his side, shaking, he knew not why. "Nick! Nick!" he called, softly, as he raised the fallen one's head. "I say, Nick!" "Sh--shall I get some water?" faltered Nat Poole. He too was shaking. "Yes." While the water was being brought, Jasniff was helped to a sitting position. He was still all but overcome. His cronies bathed his face and did what they could to bring him around. In the meantime Dave and his friends withdrew to another corner of the gymnasium. "So he knocked me out, eh?" snarled Jasniff, when he was able to speak. "Just wait, I'll fix him yet!" "What, you're not going to fight again?" asked Plum, in astonishment. "Ain't I?" snarled Nick Jasniff. "I'll either lick him, or he'll kill me!" CHAPTER XXVI THE DISAPPEARANCE OF NICK JASNIFF "Here comes Jasniff again!" exclaimed Shadow. "He looks mad enough to eat you up, Dave!" "I thought he was done for," said Ben, who had been wiping the blood from Dave's chin. The crowd parted as the boy who had been knocked out strode forward. His gait was unsteady and from his eyes there gleamed a wild fire awful to behold. "Thought you had got rid of me, eh?" he cried. "Well, I am not done for yet!" And with this he struck Dave in the shoulder. "If you want more you shall have it, Jasniff!" retorted Dave, and struck out in return. Then the blows came as rapidly as before. Dave was hit twice in the chest and came back with a crack on Jasniff's ear and one in the right eye that made the youth see more stars than ever. Then, as they circled around the floor, Dave watched his chance and hit his opponent once more in the nose, causing him to slip and pitch over on his side. "Another knockdown!" "Jasniff, you had better give it up." "Porter has the best of you, Nick." If ever a boy was mad that boy was Nick Jasniff. Half blinded from the blow in the eye he rolled over and got up on his knees. Then he leaped to his feet and ran to the wall of the gymnasium. "I'll fix you! I'll fix you!" he snarled, and pulled from its resting place a wooden Indian club weighing at least three pounds. "You shan't crow over Nick Jasniff, not much!" "Hold up, what are you going to do?" cried Ben, who stood near. "I'm going to smash his head for him!" answered Jasniff, and before anybody could stop him he made a dash for where Dave was standing. He swung the Indian club around so recklessly that the crowd parted right and left to let him pass. Dave saw him approach and for the moment hardly knew what to do. He had not dreamed of such unfair play. It was easy to see that Jasniff was in a frame of mind fit for any foul deed. "Don't!" he cried, as the half-crazed lad leaped before him. "Stop, I tell you!" And then as the Indian club was swung over his head, he leaped to one side and caught the other boy around the waist with both arms. "Drop that club, you brute!" "Drop the club! Drop the club!" came from all sides, and in a twinkling Ben and Shadow leaped in and wrenched the Indian club from Jasniff's grasp. "What an outrage!" "Jasniff, you ought to be lynched for that!" "This is a young gentlemen's school, not a resort for toughs." So the cries ran on. Jasniff tried to speak, but nobody would listen to him, and even Plum and Poole knew enough to keep silent. Dave retained his hold a few seconds and then pushed his opponent from him. "I am done with you, Jasniff," said he, in a clear, hard voice. "Done with you, understand? I'll never dirty my hands on you again. If you dare to molest me in the future, I'll hand you over to the police. They are the only ones to handle such a coward and brute as you." Everybody heard the words and many applauded them. Plum and Poole fell back and the face of each grew scarlet. Nick Jasniff stood stock still, breathing heavily. He wanted to do something terrible,--but he did not dare. Dave was pale and his jaws were firmly set. The tension all around was extreme. Then Jasniff moved, turning his back on Dave. He looked at Plum and Poole, but they cast their eyes to the ground. The crowd parted and Jasniff walked away, slowly and unsteadily. In a minute he left the gymnasium, slamming the door after him. There was a long sigh of relief over his departure. "Dave, I really think he meant to kill you!" said Ben, coming up and clutching his chum by the arm. "That's what he did!" said Buster Beggs. "His eyes had a terrible look in them." "Perhaps you are mistaken," answered Dave, in an odd voice that sounded strange even to himself. "But I--well, I don't propose to fight a fellow with Indian clubs." "He ought to be bounced out of this school," said Luke Watson. "I'll never speak to him again," asserted Babcock. "Wonder what Dr. Clay will say when he hears of this fight?" said Roger, who had come in during the wind-up. "I suppose he won't like it at all." "He can't blame Dave," answered Ben. "Porter started the quarrel by interfering with me," said Gus Plum. "What, Gus, do you stand up for Jasniff?" demanded Shadow. "Well, I--er----" "I don't see how anybody can stand up for Jasniff," said Messmer. "I used to go with him, but I am glad now that I cut him." "I am not standing up for that Indian club affair," said Gus Plum, lamely, and walked away, followed by Nat Poole. "Oh, Dave, you did fight him most beautifully," cried Frank Bond, his delicate face glowing. "Oh, I wish I was as strong as you!" "Perhaps you will be some day, Frank. Go out in the fresh air all you can, and take plenty of exercise here in the gym. Do you know what made me strong? Working on a farm,--cutting wood and plowing, and things like that." Dave retired to the washroom and there bathed his face and hands, and combed his hair. The blood soon stopped flowing from his chin and the scratch showed but little. Many wanted to congratulate him on his victory, but he motioned them away. "Thank you, boys, but I don't want you to do that," he said, quietly. "I want to tell you plainly that I don't believe in fighting any more than Dr. Clay does. It's brutal to fight, and that is all there is to it. But every fellow ought to know how to defend himself, and when he is attacked as I was he has got to do the best he can for himself. If Jasniff hadn't pitched into me roughshod I should never have fought with him." "Do you really mean that, Porter?" asked a voice from the other side of the washroom, and Andrew Dale stepped out from behind a high roller-towel rack. The first assistant teacher had come in just as the encounter was ending. "Oh, is that you, Mr. Dale? Yes, sir, I do mean it," answered Dave. "Did you see the fight, may I ask?" "I saw Jasniff attack you with the Indian club, but I was too far off to take a hand. You say he attacked you first?" "He did, and some of those here can prove it." "That's right," said several of the students. "What was the quarrel about?" "It began between Plum and myself. Plum was browbeating Frank Bond and I told him to stop. Then Jasniff put in his say, and I told him it was none of his business. Then he wanted to know if I wanted to fight, and I told him I preferred not to dirty my hands on him. Then he shoved me and struck me two or three times. Then--well, then I sailed in and knocked him down twice. Then he got the Indian club, and you know the rest." "That's the truth of it, Mr. Dale," said Frank. "Absolutely," added another student, who had seen the whole affair. "Well, Porter, you had better come to the doctor's office and we'll investigate further," said the teacher, and a little later Dave found himself confronting the master of Oak Hall. He told his story in a straightforward manner and mentioned the names of several who had witnessed the affair. Then he was told he could go, and Frank was called in, and then Ben, Shadow, Buster, and later still Plum and Poole. The doctor questioned all closely, and finally sent Andrew Dale after Jasniff, but the youth could not be found. "Has he left the school grounds?" questioned Dr. Clay. "I could not find that out," answered the assistant. "Nobody seems to have seen him since he left the gymnasium." "Well, as soon as he shows himself, send him to me." "I will, sir." "From what I can learn, he is a thoroughly bad boy," went on the master of Oak Hall, beginning to pace the floor of his office. "I must confess I hardly know what to do with him." "He is a bad boy, no doubt of that," answered the teacher. "And he has a bad influence on some of the other boys." "You mean Plum and Poole?" "I do." "I believe you are right. Do you think he ought to be sent from the school?" "Yes, unless he will make an earnest endeavor to mend his ways, Doctor." "There is one trouble in the way, Mr. Dale. His folks are now in Europe for the benefit of Mrs. Jasniff's health. If I send him off, he will have no place to go to." "You can write to his father explaining the situation. He may write to his son and that may help matters." "I have already determined to send a letter. But Mr. Jasniff knows his son is wild--he wanted me to tame him down. But I don't see how I can do it. Supposing he had brained Porter!" Dr. Clay shivered. "I should never have gotten over it, and it would have ruined the school!" "There is another thing to consider, sir," pursued the assistant. "It may be that Porter will write to his uncle about this, and his relative may be afraid to let the boy remain here while Jasniff stays." "No, I questioned Porter about that. What do you think he said?" The master of Oak Hall smiled slightly. "He said he could take care of himself and he could make Jasniff keep his distance. He certainly has courage." "He is the grittiest boy in the school--and one of the best, too," answered Andrew Dale, heartily. And there the conversation came to an end. The fight between Jasniff and Dave was the sole topic discussed that evening at Oak Hall. The boys who had not witnessed the encounter could scarcely believe that Dave had knocked the other student down twice and blackened his eyes, and they could scarcely credit the fact that Jasniff in his rage and humiliation had attacked Dave with the heavy Indian club. Some went to Jasniff's dormitory, only to learn that the student was missing. In the dormitory Plum and Poole sat in a warm corner, talking the affair over in a low tone. To do them justice, both were horrified over the club incident. Each had seen that awful look in Jasniff's eyes and each had expected to see Dave stretched lifeless on the gymnasium floor. "I--I didn't think it of Nick!" whispered Poole. "He certainly went too far." "He was so wild he didn't know what he was doing," answered Plum. "It doesn't pay to get that way. If he had really killed Porter----" "Oh, don't say it, Gus! Why, it makes me tremble yet," whined Nat Poole. "If Nick is going to act like that, I'm going to have nothing more to do with him. What if something had happened? He might have dragged us into it somehow--we've been so thick with him." To this Gus Plum did not answer, but a far-away, thoughtful look came into his eyes. "It doesn't pay to be too thick with a fellow like that," pursued Nat Poole. "He'll get you into a hole some time or other." "Maybe you're right, Nat." Gus Plum drew a long breath. "I wish----" The bully of Oak Hall suddenly checked himself. "What do you wish?" "I sometimes wish I had never been thick with Nick. But he----" Again Plum checked himself. "By the way," he resumed, "did that new allowance come in yet?" "No. My dad wrote he wouldn't allow me a cent until next month. Why?" "Oh, it doesn't matter." The bully drew another long breath. "I thought perhaps you'd lend me a little." "Why, I thought you had what you wanted!" cried Poole, in astonishment. "I did have, but I----Well, it doesn't matter, Nat. I'll get along somehow." And then Gus Plum heaved a deeper sigh than ever. Evidently there was something on his mind which worried him considerably. CHAPTER XXVII WHAT HAPPENED AT ROCKVILLE "Boys, how is this for weather!" called out Roger, the following morning. "Isn't it cold enough to freeze the hind leg off a wooden horse?" "I guess the bottom has dropped out of the thermometer," answered Dave, as he followed Roger in rising. "How do you feel, Dave?" "Oh, pretty good. My chin is a little swollen and my shoulder is somewhat stiff, that's all." "Wonder if Jasniff is back yet," said Ben. All the boys wondered that, and Luke Watson took it upon himself to dress in a hurry and go out for information. "Nothing seen of him yet," announced Luke, on returning. "Perhaps he has run away for good!" cried Buster. "He's afraid the doctor will punish him severely," said Polly Vane. "It was such a--er--outrageous thing to do, don't you know." "He's a tough boy," was Roger's comment. "Oh, say, speaking of a tough boy puts me in mind of a story I heard yesterday," said Shadow, who sat on the edge of his bed, lacing his shoes. "A young married lady----" "Gracious, Shadow, how can you tell stories on a cold morning like this?" interrupted Dave. "Shadow would rather tell stories than keep warm," said Roger, with a smile. "Maybe this is a hot one," said Ben, grinning. "Now you just listen," pursued Shadow. "A young married lady went and bought a barrel of best flour----" "Four X or Not At Home brand?" questioned Buster, innocently. "If you interrupt me I'll throw the soap at you, Buster. This was a barrel of guaranteed flour. Two days later she came back to the grocer with a very indignant look on her face. 'That flour is no good,' says she to Mr. Grocer. 'Why not?' says the grocer. 'Because it is tough,' says the lady. 'I made doughnuts with it yesterday and my husband thought they were paperweights!'" "No well-bred lady would say that," came softly from Dave. "O my! what a pun!" cried Roger. "Well, she wasn't well-bred, she was poor-bread." And then a general laugh went up. It was indeed cold, with the sun hiding behind a gray sky and a keen north wind blowing. When they went below they ran into Babcock, who had been down to the river. "The ice is coming along finely," said Babcock. "I think we'll be able to skate by to-morrow." All the boys hoped so, and as soon as they could went down to the river to look at the ice. It was moderately firm and some lads were already sliding on a stretch of meadow. But Dr. Clay would not let them go on the river proper until it was safe. That day the master of Oak Hall sent out Andrew Dale and Swingly the janitor to look for Nick Jasniff. But the search proved of no avail. Wherever the student was, he managed to cover up his tracks completely. By Monday of the following week skating was at its best, and many hours were spent by Dave and the others on the ice. They skated for miles, and also had half a dozen races, including one between Dave, Roger, and Messmer, in which the two chums came out even, with Messmer not far behind. During those days came word that Phil was slowly but steadily improving. This news was greeted with satisfaction by all his friends, who hoped that he would soon be able to come to school again. "We can't get along without him," said Dave, and Roger echoed the sentiment. The senator's son had received word from two of his friends, who were now students at one of the leading colleges. Both belonged to a glee club which was to give an entertainment at Rockville Hall on Tuesday night. "I'd like to go to that entertainment and hear Jack and Joe sing," said Roger. "I wonder if the doctor will let me off?" The matter was explained, and in the end it was agreed to let the senator's son go to the entertainment, taking Dave and Shadow with him for company. As skating was so good, the students decided to go by way of the river, walking the distance from Rockville Landing to the hall where the entertainment was to take place. It was a bright moonlight night when the three started and all were in the best of spirits. There were a few skaters out, mostly grown folk, so the way was by no means lonely. They had plenty of time, so did not hurry. "We don't want to overheat ourselves," said Roger. "Perhaps the hall will be warm, and then we won't be able to stand it." Arriving at Rockville Landing, they took off their skates and left them at one of the boathouses. Then they walked through the town, past the brightly lighted shops, and stopped at one place for some candy and glasses of hot chocolate. "Well, I never!" cried Dave, suddenly, as they were leaving the shop. "What's up?" queried Shadow. "Did you know that Gus Plum was coming here?" "I certainly did not," answered the senator's son. "Where is he?" "I just saw him over there. He passed around that corner." "Maybe you were mistaken in the person," ventured Shadow. "I think not." "He may have come over,--to go to the entertainment, just as we are doing." "He doesn't care for music." "I know that." The three boys walked to the corner and looked down the side street. Nobody resembling the bully of Oak Hall was in sight. Five minutes later found them at the place where the entertainment was to take place. Roger took his chums around to the stage door and in, and introduced Dave and Shadow to his friends, and then the students from Oak Hall went around to the front and secured seats near one of the boxes. The programme was a light and varied one--such as are usually given by college glee clubs--and Dave and his chums enjoyed it thoroughly. One bass singer rendered a topical song, the glee club joining in the chorus. This was wildly applauded, and the singer had to give at least a dozen verses of the effusion. "This is all right!" whispered Dave. "I wish our glee club could do as well." "Maybe it will--when the boys are as old as these fellows," answered Shadow. "These fellows are the best singers at the college," said Roger. "They can't get into the club unless they have first-class voices." The concert came to an end about half-past ten o'clock, and Roger waited for a while, in order to talk to his friends again. Then he, Dave, and Shadow started on the return to Oak Hall. Their course took them past the railroad station and a row of small dwellings. Just as they were between the station and the dwellings a light from a street lamp fell full upon two persons standing some distance away. "Look! there is Gus Plum again!" cried Dave. "Yes, and that is Nick Jasniff with him!" said the senator's son, in a tone of great surprise. "Let us go over and make sure," suggested Shadow. The three started across the street, and as they did so Plum and Jasniff moved away in the direction of one of the dwelling houses. Before they could be stopped they had mounted the porch, opened the door, and gone inside. Those outside heard the door locked, and then all became quiet. "Well, I never!" came from Dave. "This is certainly a mystery." There was good cause for his words. The front of the dwelling was entirely dark and the lower windows had the solid wooden shutters tightly closed. "Shall I ring the bell?" asked Roger, after a pause in perplexity. "There is no bell to ring," answered Shadow. "I wouldn't knock," advised Dave. "What's the use? We may only get into a row." "The doctor ought to know that Jasniff is here," said Roger. "We can tell him that, even if Plum won't," added Shadow. "I agree with Dave, it will do no good to knock." "I'd like to know if they saw us," said Dave, as he and his chums continued on their way up the street. "If they didn't it's queer why they should get out of sight in such a hurry," replied the senator's son. "Perhaps Jasniff is going to get Plum to smooth matters over with the doctor," was Dave's comment. "He may be sick of staying away from the Hall." "Dave, what are you going to do if he does come back?" asked Shadow, curiously. "Do? Nothing." "Aren't you afraid of him in the least?" "Oh, I shall keep on my guard, for fear he may play me some foul trick." "I'd rather he'd go away for good." "So would I," added Shadow. "Oh, I don't know. He may reform. If he wants to reform, I'd like to give him the chance." "He'll never reform," said Roger, decidedly. "He is a bad egg through and through." "Just what I think," said Shadow. "To my mind, he is much worse than Plum or Poole." "Oh, I know that," returned Dave. Arriving at the boathouse, they got out their skates and put them on. While they were doing this, two men, wrapped up in heavy overcoats, walked up over the ice and passed down the street in the direction from whence the students had come. "There's the long and the short of it," said Roger, with a laugh. He had noticed that one man was unusually tall and the other unusually short. "Well, men can't all be of a size," laughed Dave. "That little man had all he could do to keep up with the big fellow," he added. The skate to the school was a fine one and they arrived at Oak Hall just as the silvery moon was sinking behind the distant hills. Swingly let them in, and inside of quarter of an hour the boys were in bed and in the land of dreams. The next day was a busy one for Dave. He had some extra hard lessons, to which he applied himself with vigor. An examination was soon to take place and he was determined to come out at the top if it could possibly be accomplished. "Gracious, I can't grind like that," said Roger, but half in admiration. "Dave has his eye on that medal of honor," said Ben. "Well, it is certainly well worth working for." The weather had changed and by noontime it was snowing furiously. Dave had not seen Gus Plum in the morning, but the bully was at the dinner table as usual. Shadow had reported seeing Nick Jasniff in Rockville to the doctor, but had given no particulars. Dr. Clay had said he would look into the matter, and sent Andrew Dale to Rockville for that purpose. It was not until evening that the assistant teacher returned from the neighboring town. He had seen nothing of Nick Jasniff, although he had hunted thoroughly and even visited the house Shadow had mentioned. "The house was locked up, and when I knocked on the door nobody came to answer my summons." This was as much as Andrew Dale could tell concerning the missing student. But he brought other news, which was flying over the country-side like wildfire. During the night thieves had broken into the railroad station at Rockville, opened the old-fashioned safe, and stolen nearly three hundred dollars in money, some checks, and several bundles of railroad tickets. CHAPTER XXVIII AN ICE-BOAT RACE "What do you think of that?" cried Roger, when the news was circulated among the boys. "I think the deed was done by the same fellows who robbed Mrs. Fairchild and Mr. Lapham," said Ben. "The authorities are dead slow that they don't catch the rascals. They must certainly be hanging out somewhere in this district." "Boys, I've got an idea!" cried Dave. "Mrs. Fairchild said the man she saw was rather tall. Don't you remember the tall man we saw last night?" "To be sure, and the short fellow with him," exclaimed Roger. "They may be the very rascals!" "Let us tell the doctor of this," said Shadow, and forthwith they went to Dr. Clay, who listened to their story with interest. "I will notify the authorities," he said. "How did the men look in the face?" "I didn't see their faces," answered Roger. "One had a beard, I think," ventured Shadow. "Both had reddish beards," answered Dave, "and they had reddish mustaches, too." This was as much as the boys could tell. Later it was learned that the tall and the short man had been seen before and it was pretty clearly established that they had had something to do with all of the robberies throughout that district. But the men were missing, and what had become of them nobody could tell. The local papers came out with a full account of the robbery and not only mentioned the money that had been taken but also the names on the checks, and the lists of stolen railroad tickets. These accounts Dave and his chums read with interest. "Say, I saw a funny thing just now," said Ben, coming to Dave and Sam Day a little later, while both were doing some sums in algebra. "I was in the library and so were a lot of fellows, including Plum and Poole. Plum has been on the sick list to-day and wasn't downstairs when the news came in about that Rockville affair. He took up one of the papers and began to read about the robbery, and all at once he staggered back. I thought he was fainting. He grabbed the paper with all his might and his eyes almost started out of his head. He would have gone over, only Poole caught him and led him to a chair. Then he said his head hurt him and he went to his dormitory." "That was certainly queer," said Dave, thoughtfully. "He acted just as if that news was some kind of a blow to him," went on Ben. "I don't see how it could affect him," said Sam Day. "I guess it was just his sickness." Sam did not know that Gus Plum had been seen in Rockville the night the robbery occurred, and Dave did not feel called upon to enlighten him. But Ben knew, and he and Dave walked away to talk the matter over, being joined a moment later by Roger and Shadow. "Plum was certainly in Rockville," said Shadow, "but I don't see how that connects him with the robbery." He was voicing a thought that had come to the minds of all. "I don't believe he was connected with it," said Dave. "It's an awful thing to think a fellow is a thief." He looked at Shadow, who understood him thoroughly, as my old readers will understand. "But--he was there with Jasniff," he added, slowly. "Do you think Jasniff had anything to do with it, Dave?" "I should hate to think any boy was a thief." "I don't believe a fellow like Jasniff could open that safe," came from Roger. "Those robbers must have had regular burglars' tools." "But what made Plum so afraid, or dumbstruck, or whatever you may call it?" asked Ben. "It was no small thing, I can tell you that." "Perhaps he got scared, thinking he was at Rockville with Jasniff at the time of the robbery," answered Dave. "He knows Jasniff is a kind of outcast just now. Perhaps he himself suspects Jasniff." The students speculated over the affair for some time. At first Dave thought it might be best to let Dr. Clay know, but finally concluded to keep quiet and see what the next few days would bring forth. The bully of the school was certainly ill at ease that day and also the next. He missed nearly all his lessons and was sharply reprimanded by Job Haskers. "I've got a headache," he said. "It has ached for several days. I wish you would excuse me." And this getting to the ears of the doctor, he was told to take some headache tablets and retire. Some of the students who were of a mechanical mind had built themselves ice-boats and these were now being used on the river whenever the opportunity afforded. Messmer and Henshaw had a boat, and one afternoon after school they asked Roger and Dave to go for a sail down the river. Ice-boating was something of a novelty to Dave, and he accepted the invitation gladly and so did the senator's son. The ice-boat built by Messmer and Henshaw was about twenty feet long, with a single sail, and was named the _Snowbird_. It was by no means a handsome craft, not being painted, but under favorable conditions developed good speed, and that was all the builders wanted. "We didn't build her for beauty, we built her for service," Henshaw explained. "Well, as long as she'll go that's all we want," answered Roger. "I shouldn't give a cent for a boat that was good-looking and couldn't get over the ground." "Did you ever see a boat get over the ground, Roger?" asked Dave, quizzically. "Well--er--not exactly, but you know what I mean, Dave." "So I do, and I agree with you." The start of the trip was made in fine shape, and for a little while they sailed along in company with two other ice-boats belonging to other students. But then the others turned back, and the _Snowbird_ continued on the course alone. "This is certainly grand!" cried Dave, enthusiastically. He was sitting at the bow, holding fast with one hand and holding on his cap with the other. "My! but we are rushing along." "It's just the right kind of a breeze," said Henshaw. "Beats skating, doesn't it?" came from Roger. "We must be making about a mile a minute!" "We won't dare to go too far," said Messmer. "Remember, we've got to get back, and that will take longer." "Maybe the wind will change." "No such luck, I am afraid." On they went, the runners of the _Snowbird_ making a sharp skir-r-r on the smooth ice. They were passing an island and as they reached the end they came in sight of another ice-boat, carrying a number of boys in military uniform. "Hello! there is an ice-boat from Rockville Military Academy!" exclaimed Dave. "That's a pretty good-looking craft." This was a deserved compliment, for the ice-boat was gayly painted and decorated with a small flag. "Hello!" yelled one of the Rockville students, as the other craft came closer. "Where did you borrow that old tub?" "From the fellow who swapped it for that barn-door you're riding on," retorted Dave, quickly. "I'll give you ten cents for it," went on another Rockville cadet. "Thanks, but we don't want to rob you," answered Roger, merrily. "Maybe you think you can beat us," said Henshaw, who had been eying the other ice-boat critically. "We don't think so--we know it," was the quick rejoinder. "Come ahead then, and prove it," exclaimed Messmer. In a moment more the race was on. There was a straight course of two miles ahead and over this the rival ice-boats flew, at first side by side. Then an extra puff of wind took the Rockville craft ahead. "What did I tell you!" cried one of the cadets. "You're too slow for us. Good-by!" "You're not leaving us yet," answered Henshaw, who was steering, and he threw the _Snowbird_ over a bit from the shore. The wind was coming over the top of a hill and now both craft got the full benefit of it. On they rushed, with Rockville slightly ahead. Then, slowly but surely, the Oak Hall boat began to crawl up. "We are gaining!" cried Dave. "Oh, if I only had a bellows, to help make wind!" sighed the senator's son. They had still half a mile to go when of a sudden the _Snowbird_ shot ahead. Those on the Rockville craft were amazed and their faces fell. "Here is where we beat you!" cried Henshaw. "Good-by! We'll tell 'em you are coming." "Oh, go to grass!" growled one of the Rockville cadets, and then the _Snowbird_ continued to forge ahead, leaving the rival ice-boat far behind. "They feel sick," said Dave. "I must say I didn't think this ice-boat could do it. You've certainly got something worth having." "Even if we are not all painted up and haven't a flag," added Messmer. They continued on the course for quarter of a mile further. Then they came to a number of islands, and rounding one of these started to tack back. Meanwhile the rival ice-boat passed on down the river. "Not so much fun in this," observed Roger. "I like to rush right before the wind." "That's like the small boy who wanted to go down hill on his sled all the time and never wanted to walk back," answered Henshaw. "But going back will not be so much of a hardship as you think." "Oh, I'll like it well enough," answered the senator's son, quickly. They were soon opposite one of the islands not over a mile from Oak Hall. It was a lonely and rocky spot and one seldom visited by any of the students. "Somebody is out skating here," said Dave, and he pointed out two persons who were close to the island. A moment later the ice-boat was thrown over on the other reach and came close to the island. Then Roger uttered an exclamation: "The tall man and the short man!" "Can they be the robbers?" queried Dave, quickly. He watched the pair, and saw them disappear behind some bare bushes which fringed the shore of the island. "Roger, I think we ought to try to find out something about those fellows." "I think so myself." "If those are the rascals who robbed the Rockville railroad station, we ought to try to capture them," said Henshaw. "How can we do that?" asked Messmer. "We are not armed." "Let us follow them up anyway," said Dave. This was agreed to by all on board the _Snowbird_, and in a few minutes the craft was run close to the shore and the sail was lowered. "I am going to arm myself," said Roger, and suited the action to the word by picking up a heavy stick that lay handy. Seeing this, the others also procured sticks, and thus armed, all made their way to the spot where the two men had last been seen. "Here are their tracks in the snow," said Dave, pointing to the drift which the wind had swept up from the river. "It will be easy enough to follow their tracks." "We had better go slow and make no noise," cautioned Roger. "If they hear us they'll be on guard and may run away." Slowly and silently after that the students followed the trail, through the snow and over the wind-swept rocks. They passed under some tall trees, crossed a frozen-over gully, and then came to where a pile of rocks appeared to bar their further progress. "They passed along this way!" whispered Dave, pointing to the footmarks, close to the base of the rocks. "Go slow now, or----" "Hush!" interrupted Roger. "I hear voices." "I see a cabin, just beyond the turn of these rocks," said Henshaw. "The two men must be there." CHAPTER XXIX THE CABIN ON THE ISLAND The four boys came to a halt, to consider what they should do next. They did not know but that the two men might be desperate characters and ready to fight hard if cornered. They might even be ready to do some shooting. "I'll go ahead and take a look around," said Dave. "You others had better remain here for the present." This was agreed to, and with extreme caution Dave made his way around a corner of the rocks and along some bushes, to one side of the cabin. The building was of logs, very much dilapidated, having been erected by some campers many years before. As Dave came close to one of the windows of the cabin he saw a man cross the floor in the direction of a rude fireplace. Then a match was struck, and some paper lit. Soon a fire was blazing in the room, casting a ruddy glare over all. Both men were present, each still wrapped in his overcoat and with his hat pulled down over his forehead. That they were the individuals he had seen in Rockville the night of the concert and the robbery the youth was quite sure. Dave was anxious to hear what the two fellows might have to say, and so crept closer to the window, which was wide open. Near the window a log was loose, leaving quite a crack, and by putting his ear to this the boy made out nearly all that was being said. "We were simple, I think, to come here, Pud," said the tall man, as he threw some more wood on the fire. "We ought to be miles away by this time." "I ain't going away yet, Hunk," was the reply from the short man. "You know what I came for. Well, I am going to stick it out." "But it is getting more dangerous every day," pleaded the man called Hunk. "Oh, you only think so." "No, I don't. Didn't I read the papers,--and didn't you read them too? They are after us, I tell you." "Well, they haven't got us yet." After that there was a pause, during which one of the men put some water in a pot to boil and brought out some provisions in a flour bag. "Who is next on that list of yours?" asked the man called Hunk, presently. "Paul Barbridge, and I want to do him up good. He was the foreman of the jury that sent me up for two years." "Has he got money?" "I think so--leastwise, I am going to find out," and the speaker gave a low chuckle. "Oh, I ain't going to let up until I run through the whole twelve or their families. And then I am going to strike the judge--and strike him good and hard. I'll show 'em that they can't send Pud Frodel to prison and not get paid back! I said I'd get square when I was sentenced and I am going to keep my word. Fairchild died on me, but I reckon I fixed his widow for it." There was another pause, during which both men prepared to eat some of the provisions they had brought with them. Dave was on the point of rejoining his companions, when the men began to speak again and now their words filled him with amazement. "You're a queer one, Pud," said the man called Hunk. "A queer one, I must say. Sometimes I wonder to myself how I can stick to you." "Well, you haven't got to stick if you don't want to." "I know that. But you want me, don't you?" "I like to have somebody, and--you like your share, eh?" And the short man laughed harshly. "I've been square, haven't I?" "Yes, to the cent--and that is why I stick to you. But you do such queer things. Now, for instance, those schoolboys----" "Oh, don't bring that up again, Hunk. I know just what I am doing. I told you that before." "Well, one of those boys may be all right, but I shouldn't trust the other." "Both of 'em want money--want it just as bad, almost, as we do. One of 'em up and told me so." "Yes, but----" "When fellows like that want money--actually want it--they get desperate. At such a high-toned school they have to keep up a front, and they can't do that unless they have got the coin in their pockets." "When are you going to see them again?" "To-morrow." "Where?" "At the old mill, near Nabill's." "Well, if you----What's that?" The speaker broke off short, as a sound from outside reached his ears. Tired of waiting for Dave, Roger and the other students had come closer and Henshaw had stumbled over a loose stone and gone crashing into a hollow among some bushes. "Somebody out there!" ejaculated Pud Frodel, and caught up a club that stood handy. "Maybe they're following us!" returned his companion. "Come on and see. We don't want to be cornered in a place like this." "Oh, my ankle!" came in a painful cry from Henshaw. He had given that member a severe wrench. "Some of the schoolboys!" cried one of the men. "Let us get out," added the other. "Are those two fellows we know in the crowd?" "No, these are all strangers." After having run out of the cabin, the two men went in again. Then they seemed to suddenly disappear. "Hullo, Dave!" sang out Roger. He could see but little in the gloom of the coming night, for it was now nearly supper time. "I am here, Roger." "Where are the men? And what kept you so long?" "I don't know where the men are," answered Dave, ignoring the other question. "They just stepped back into the cabin." "Look out that somebody isn't shot," said Messmer, nervously. "Are they the fellows we are after?" asked the senator's son. "I am pretty sure they are," whispered Dave. "But I want to talk to you about it later," he added, giving Roger's arm a knowing squeeze. "There is something of great importance in the air." "I should think there would be--if these are the thieves, Dave." "It's more than that. But don't ask me about it just now." After some hesitation, the four boys entered the cabin. The fire was burning brightly, so that they could see with ease. All looked in consternation. Not a sign of the two men was to be seen anywhere. "Where are they?" "They certainly came in here!" "That is true--they did come in here," said Dave. "Perhaps they are in hiding." The boys began to search around the cabin and presently the senator's son found a piece of a log that was loose. He gave a push and it rolled away, showing a dark hole, leading through some thick bushes and past some rocks. "This is the way they went!" he shouted. "It's a clever outlet." The passageway was so dark the boys hesitated for a moment about entering it. Then Dave caught up a firebrand and went in. Soon the others heard him shout from some distance behind the cabin. "Come right through!" he called. "It's all right." They went through and next found themselves under some tall trees. Beyond was an open space, and here the tracks of the two men were plainly to be distinguished. They led to the shore of the island and disappeared on the ice beyond. "They've gotten away from us," said Henshaw, disappointedly. He was limping badly. "How's the ankle?" asked Dave. "I gave it a bad twist, but I guess I can walk to the ice-boat." Nothing could be seen in the fast-gathering darkness, and after remaining at the shore for a few minutes, the four retraced their steps to the dilapidated cabin. Here the fire was replenished and the students looked around for evidence against the two men. "They are certainly the two men who committed the robberies in this district," said Dave. "They as much as admitted it themselves. The short, stout fellow is the leader and he is doing the work for a particular reason. He was once sent to prison for two years. He vowed he would get square on the twelve jurymen and the judge who convicted him. So now he is going around robbing one after another of the thirteen." "Mrs. Fairchild wasn't a juryman," said Messmer. "No, but her husband was--the fellow mentioned that." "It's a pity we didn't catch them," said Roger. "We got tired of waiting for you and were afraid you had gotten into some kind of trouble," he added, to Dave. They looked around the cabin with care, but could find little outside of the provisions previously mentioned. There were some evidences that the men had been there a number of times, but that was all. "This is not their regular hanging-out place," said Dave. "They must have another resort--where they have at least some of their plunder." "I think the best thing we can do is to get back to the Hall and notify Dr. Clay," said Roger. "He can then set the authorities on their track." This was considered good advice, and putting out the fire, so that it might not destroy the cabin, they left the place once more and started for the spot where they had left the _Snowbird_. To Henshaw the walk was a difficult one, and the others had to help him over the trying places. Consequently, when they at last reached the shore it was pitch dark. A cold north wind caused all to shiver. "It will be no easy job steering back to the Hall in this darkness," said Messmer. "A fellow can't see fifty feet ahead of him." "Oh, I know the course well enough," answered Henshaw. The ice-boat was found exactly as they had left it, and soon the craft was shoved out on the lake. Then all got aboard, the sail was hoisted, and off they started for Oak Hall. "Phew! but it is getting cold!" was Dave's remark, as he buttoned up his overcoat. "Those men will have a cold walk, wherever they may be going," returned Messmer. "They said something about the old mill," answered Dave. "I'll tell you the story after I've seen Dr. Clay." On and on sped the _Snowbird_ with the wind shifting in her favor. It was so cold the tears streamed down the cheeks of all the boys and Roger declared that his ears were about frozen. They tried to look ahead, but could see next to nothing. "Henshaw, are you sure of your course?" asked Dave, presently. "I think I am," was the hesitating response. "But it is dark, no two ways about it." The wind now took another turn and the ice-boat bore away to the left bank of the river. Henshaw did what he could to bring the craft about, but two minutes later came a grating jar and everybody was pitched off into a snowbank, some heels over head. "I guess we've landed!" spluttered Roger, as he pulled himself to his feet. "Henshaw, what did you do that for?" "I--I didn't know we were going ashore," replied Henshaw, who had gone head first into the snow himself. "Anybody hurt?" One after another got up. Fortunately nobody had been hurt. Messmer had some of the snow down his back and Dave had some up his coat sleeve. The ice-boat was as good as ever. "Now we want to be more careful," said Dave, as they hauled the craft on the lake once more. "One such spill is enough." "That's true," said Roger. Then the journey was resumed, nobody dreaming of the accident so close at hand. CHAPTER XXX DAVE'S HEROISM As the ice-boat swept along Dave revolved in his mind all that he had heard at the old cabin. He could place but one meaning on the words spoken by the two criminals regarding two schoolboys. They must refer to Nick Jasniff and Gus Plum. "Can it be that those two are in with such rascals?" he asked himself. "I might think it of Jasniff, but I never dreamed Plum could be quite so bad. And yet last season he did some pretty crooked work with the valuable postage stamps that disappeared." On and on swept the _Snowbird_, through the darkness of the night. It was growing colder each moment, and the cutting wind made each of the lads shiver. Dave wanted to tell Roger his tale in full, but now was no time for connected conversation. Suddenly out of the darkness loomed a strange object, moving in almost the same direction as the _Snowbird_. It was the ice-boat belonging to the Rockville cadets. "Look out!" yelled Henshaw, while Messmer gave a scream of fright. Then both ice-boats appeared to turn toward each other, there came a grinding, rending crash, and in a twinkling Dave found himself spinning on his back over the ice with Roger beside him. Fortunately for Dave he landed in such a fashion that he received little more harm than a thorough shaking up. He slid a distance of two hundred feet and then came to a stop in a small ridge of snow. "Hello, I wonder if anybody is hurt?" he asked himself, and got to his feet as quickly as possible. He walked back to the scene of the collision and soon ran into the senator's son. "Are you all right, Dave?" "Yes, Roger; how about you?" "Got shaken up, that's all." "Help! help!" came faintly from one of the ice-boats, and running back Dave and Roger saw Henshaw on the ice, with the overturned _Snowbird_ on top of him. Close at hand lay the second ice-boat, and it was plain to see that both craft were much damaged. Messmer was near, suffering from a cut on his hand, yet he was willing to go to Henshaw's assistance. The bow end of the _Snowbird_ was raised and Henshaw dragged himself forth. "Are you badly hurt?" asked Dave, anxiously. "My left leg got a pretty good squeeze," answered Henshaw, trying to limp around on the member. "I am afraid I can't walk on it." And he sat down on the edge of the overturned ice-boat. In the meanwhile the Rockville cadets were pulling themselves together. All had been bruised and scratched a little, but that was all. Their ice-boat, too, had gone over, and the runners were partly broken. "That was your fault!" growled one of the cadets, striding over to the students of Oak Hall. "No more our fault than yours," answered Dave. "You ran right into us." "You did as much of the running in as we did," answered Roger. "Do you suppose I got my leg hurt for fun?" growled Henshaw. "Are you hurt?" questioned another of the cadets. "I am." "Well, I am sorry for that." The fact that Henshaw was hurt caused the Rockville boys to become a little more friendly, and two of them said they would do what they could for the sufferer. No more was said about the cause of the accident, which was in reality the fault of both parties equally. Nothing much could be done for Henshaw. It pained him to stand on the injured leg and so he remained sitting down. The other boys began to inspect both ice-boats. It was found that they were badly broken at the bow and both masts were loosened. As a consequence, while they could be used, progress on the river, even before the wind, would be slow. "This is too bad," observed Dave. "We ought to get back to Oak Hall as soon as possible, and tell the doctor what we have learned." After a good deal of tugging both ice-boats were righted and each party boarded its own craft. On they went in the darkness and soon separated, the craft from Rockville doing a little better than that containing our friends. "I don't think we'll get back to the Hall much before midnight," said Dave, and this proved to be the case. It lacked just ten minutes of that time when they tied up at the boathouse. Henshaw's leg was now stiff and the others had to carry him to the door. "Ha! so I have caught you!" exclaimed Job Haskers, as he suddenly showed himself. "What do you mean by coming in at this late hour?" "We've had an accident--Henshaw is hurt," answered Roger. At this announcement the teacher's face took on a sour look. "An accident, eh? You are quite sure?" he demanded, with a suspicious look at Henshaw. "Yes, I'm sure," grumbled the hurt one. "We had a collision with another ice-boat, and when our craft turned over I was caught underneath." "What is the trouble there?" came in Dr. Clay's voice, and he showed himself at the top of the stairs and then came down. After asking a few questions he had Henshaw taken to a private bed-chamber, where the injured limb was carefully examined and then bathed with liniment. "I wish to see you in private, Dr. Clay," said Dave. "Perhaps Morr and Messmer will want to see you too." "Very well, come into the office," answered the master of Oak Hall, and led the way. He made a light and then faced the three students who had followed him. In a plain, straightforward manner Dave told of the visit to the rocky island and the old cabin, and of what the two men had said. He did not mention the talk about the two schoolboys, although strongly tempted to do so. He said the two men expected to go to the old mill, near Nabill's farm, the next day. "This is very important," exclaimed the doctor, when he had finished. "I must notify the authorities at once, and we must do everything we can to capture the rascals." "Can I do anything?" asked Roger. "I think not. As you say one man is very tall and the other very short, it ought not to be a very difficult matter to recognize them if they show themselves. The old mill is also well known, so there can be no mistake." "Of course, they may not go to the mill now," went on Dave. "That is true. But I will have the authorities keep a close watch all around this district and also at the railroad stations. As he has been in prison this Pud Frodel must be known." After that the doctor told the boys they had better go to bed, and they did so. But it was an hour before Dave could get to sleep. Once he thought of getting up and visiting Gus Plum's dormitory, but gave up the idea, knowing that all the others would want to know what was doing. In the morning the weather changed. It was not so cold, but the snow was coming down thickly and the wind sent it swirling in all directions. Already the ground was covered to a depth of several inches, and there was no telling when the storm would cease. "This will make it hard to track those men," observed Roger, as he and Dave came down for breakfast. "Roger, I want to tell you something," said Dave, and as the pair walked to a secluded corner of a hallway Dave told his chum what had been on his mind since the visit to the lonely cabin. "Oh, Dave! can this be true?" cried the senator's son, in horror. "Can Jasniff and Plum really be mixed up in this?" "It looks like it to me, Roger," was Dave's slow reply. "And yet I shouldn't want to say a word until I was certain. Jasniff I know is bad,--and so is Plum, for the matter of that. But there is a difference between them." "I know it, Dave. Jasniff is wicked at heart, while Gus is more a bully and headstrong." The senator's son paused. "What do you propose to do?" "I've been thinking of having a straight talk with Plum. Of course, if he is really in with those robbers I'll have to expose him." The chums talked the matter over for several minutes and then went in to breakfast. Plum was there, but Dave noticed that the bully ate little. Soon Plum arose and left the dining room abruptly. Dave followed, why he could hardly tell. But he had a feeling that he must follow Plum then and there. The bully of Oak Hall passed from the hall to the coat room, and there donned his overcoat, hat, and rubbers. Then he walked to a side door, and opening it cautiously, stepped out into the howling storm. Dave was now certain something unusual was in the wind, for the school session would begin in twenty minutes and he knew Plum would not go out in such a storm without good reason. Quickly he donned his own coat, hat, and rubbers and followed to the outside of the school building. He saw Plum running across the campus and he followed. Then the bully leaped the boxwood hedge and came out on a road leading to a village called Bagor, a short distance from Rockville. "Perhaps he is going to meet Jasniff," Dave reasoned. "He must be pretty well upset. I don't believe he even got permission to leave." The road led through a wood and then up a long hill. The snow was so thick that Dave had all he could do to keep Plum in sight. The bully of the Hall walked rapidly, his head bent low and his hands rammed well down in his overcoat pockets. The high ground at the top of the hill gained, Plum struck off to the southeast, in the direction of the railroad tracks. Inside of five minutes he reached a point where the tracks ran through a deep cut. On either side were tall trees, and the sloping banks of the cut ran down almost to the rails, now covered with snow. At the edge of the cut Plum paused again. He looked up and down the opening, as if undecided in what direction to turn. Far away a locomotive whistle sounded and a freight train appeared in sight, rolling forward rapidly on a slight down-grade. As the freight train came closer Plum prepared to climb down the steep slope of the cut. All was covered with ice and snow, and he had taken but a dozen steps when he lost his footing and his hold and rolled over and over. Then he struck a projecting rock and the next instant pitched forward on his head, rolled over and over once more, and landed squarely on the tracks below! Dave was close to the edge of the cut and saw the whole occurrence. When Plum struck on his head he uttered a deep groan, showing that he was injured. Then, as he lay on the tracks, he did not move. "He is unconscious!" thought Dave, and a chill of horror swept over him. He looked along the cut. The freight train was sweeping forward, directly for the unconscious youth. In half a minute more it would reach Plum and run over him. He heard a fierce whistle, as the locomotive engineer gave the signal for brakes, and the engine itself was reversed. But the grade was too great and the train too heavy for a sudden stop. Dave's heart leaped into his throat. Was Plum to be ground up under his very eyes? He had no great love for the bully, but at that moment his heart went out to him as if he were a brother. "I must save him--if I can!" he told himself. "He must not be killed if I can help it!" And then, throwing himself face downward, he slid over the ice and snow to the bottom of the cut. His hands and face were scratched, but he paid no heed. As he touched the bottom he leaped up. The train was less than fifty feet away, the wheels grinding sharply on the tracks. He made one wild leap forward, caught Plum by the feet and dragged him out of harm's way. Then the train rolled on, coming to a stop a few seconds later. [Illustration: He made one wild leap forward.--_Page 288._] CHAPTER XXXI GUS PLUM'S CONFESSION "You did this for me, you! Oh, Dave Porter, how could you do it? How could you?" It was Plum who spoke. He sat on a fallen tree not far away from the railroad cut. His forehead was swollen and there was a cut on his cheek, but otherwise he had quite recovered from the shock received. The train, after stopping for a few minutes, had gone on, and the two youths were alone. Plum's voice was choked with emotion. He had come to his senses to find Dave and the fireman of the train bending over him. It was the fireman who had told of Dave's brave deed. "Pluckiest thing I ever see in my born days," the fireman had said. "He came down the slope pell-mell and hauled you off the track just as we hit the spot." Then the fireman and the train had gone on and Dave had done what he could for the bully. Plum was trembling like a leaf and found it next to impossible to control himself. Twice before he had tried to speak but his voice had failed him. "You are sure you are not hurt?" asked Dave. He himself hardly knew what to say. The excitement of the occasion had put him in a dripping perspiration. "Oh, I don't care if I am!" replied Plum. "I--I wish--I wish I was dead!" "Plum!" "Yes, I do! I--I--but I can't talk about it. And to think you did this for me, you! Why, I thought you hated me!" "Perhaps I did, Gus. But I didn't hate you when I saw you on the tracks unconscious." "You did more for me than I should ever have done for you." "Maybe not." "I know it, Porter, for--well, you know how I have hated you. But I am not going to be that way any more--I couldn't!" After this there was a silence. Each boy wanted to say something, but hardly knew how to get at it. Finally Dave broke the ice. "Gus, what brought you to this spot this morning?" he questioned. "Oh, don't ask me! I was crazy, I guess. I wanted to get away--I never wanted to see Oak Hall or anybody again!" "Were you going to run away?" "I guess so--I don't know. I didn't sleep last night nor the night before." "Gus, tell me the truth, will you?" went on Dave, boldly. "Are you working with those fellows who robbed the Rockville railroad station and those other places?" "No! no! Oh, Porter! Dave! What do you know about this--about me?" Plum's face grew as white as the snow around them. "I--I heard what you told Dr. Clay last night--I was listening at the door. Do you--do you know anything more?" "I do and I don't, Gus. Those men said something about two schoolboys, and I and some others saw you in Rockville the night of the robbery. More than that, I know what sort of a fellow Nick Jasniff is, and you and he are always together." "Dave, I didn't steal any money, I give you my word I didn't! I was led along by Jasniff. I was in debt and I needed money badly. Jasniff said he knew where he could borrow some for me, and he did get me fifty dollars. Then he introduced me to that short man, who went by the name of Sloan, and to the tall man, who went by the name of Carson. It seems Jasniff knew Sloan, or Pud Frodel, years ago, before he was sent to prison. The tall man isn't over-bright and he is simply Pud Frodel's tool. One day I was talking to the tall man and I soon found out what sort of a crowd they were, although the tall fellow didn't say so in so many words. Then I wanted to cut them, and cut Nick Jasniff too, but Jasniff said if I did, he'd write a letter to Dr. Clay exposing me. Jasniff, after he ran away from the Hall, went right in with the robbers and he wanted me to go in, but I up and told him I wouldn't have anything more to do with him and with those rascals." "Good for you, Gus!" cried Dave, heartily. "I am glad to hear that." "Wait, I am not done yet. Jasniff tried to smooth matters over and asked me to meet him at Rockville. I did so, as you know, and I met the men too. We had a meal together and I was drugged. After that I don't know what I did. When I was myself again Jasniff said I had helped to rob the railroad station." "But did you?" "I don't think so, although I remember being taken to somewhere in a carriage and seeing the lights of the station. After that, I had some hot words with Jasniff and came back to the Hall. Then Jasniff sent a letter, stating he would surely expose me if I opened my mouth to anybody. Then came your news to the doctor. If those men are captured, and Jasniff with them, they will surely drag me into the affair! How am I going to face it--especially after what happened last summer? Oh, I wish I was dead!" Gus Plum's lips began to tremble and the tears stood in his eyes. His better nature was struggling to the surface, and he was a most miserable object to behold. Dave pitied the lad from the bottom of his heart. "It certainly does look black, Gus," he said. "But if you are not guilty I'd face the music if I were you. If those men are brought into court you can turn witness against them, and against Jasniff too. I know it will hurt you in school--but if you don't want to stay here you can go to some other academy." After this Dave talked to Gus Plum for a full half-hour, giving the other boy his best advice. Both lads were so excited that neither minded the snow and the cold. Plum was in a deeply penitent mood and during the course of the conversation told how he and Jasniff and Poole had cut down the tree and let it fall on the roadway, so that Dave and Babcock had been pitched off their wheels, and he also told of how Henshaw had been drugged previous to the football game, and of several other mean things that had been accomplished. "And then to think that on top of it all you saved my life," Plum went on. "Oh, Dave, I can't understand it! You're the best boy alive!" "Oh, no, I am not," answered Dave. "I've got lots of faults of my own, Gus, lots of them!" "But you're not mean like me--and not dishonest. I don't wonder the fellows like you." At last they started back for the school, the snow pelting them in the face as they journeyed along. Each boy was busy with his thoughts and but little was said. When they came in sight of the Hall Gus Plum halted. "Oh, I can't do it! I can't!" he almost sobbed. "Come, I'll go with you to Dr. Clay," answered Dave, and linked his arm in that of the other youth. Thus they entered a side door and passed directly to the office. Here, when confronted by the master of Oak Hall, Gus Plum burst into bitter tears and it was several minutes before he could utter a word. When the confession had been finally made Gus Plum's face wore a more peaceful look than it had for many a day. He kept nothing back, nor did he try to defend himself in the least. He wanted Dave to remain in the office and addressed his words quite as much to his fellow student as to the master of the Hall. "I know I am not fit to remain here, Dr. Clay," he said at last. "And if you send me home I shall not complain. But please don't hand me over to the police! Anything but that!" It was then that Dr. Clay spoke, and never had Dave seen him more stern and at the same time dignified. In well-chosen words he told Plum what he thought of his pupil's meanness and baseness. "By your own confession, you acknowledge doing things of which I did not dream a pupil of mine could be guilty. You have endangered the very lives of Porter and Babcock, as well as the life of little Frank Bond. More than this, you have been guilty of drinking and gambling, and you have been the companion of common criminals. And this on top of what happened last year! Plum, I do not see how I can forgive you. You have been a discredit to this school, and if I hand you over to the police it will serve you right." "Dr. Clay!" It was Dave who spoke. He was filled with emotion that he could not suppress. "Please don't do that! For my part, I am willing to forgive Gus for what he did to me. Please give him another chance, just one! If you hand him over to the police you'll blast his reputation forever!" The doctor turned to the speaker in surprise, and as Dave went on, pleading the cause of his former enemy, the master's face gradually relaxed. He sat back in his chair, folded his arms, and cast a searching gaze on Gus Plum's pale, haggard features. "Plum, listen to me," he said, and now there was a trace of kindness in his tones. "If I give you one more chance----" "Oh, Dr. Clay, if you'll do that!" sobbed the boy, "I'll--I'll try to be better! I'll try to give up my bad habits! I never realized until now how really bad I have been! Just give me the chance, and I'll be better! I'll do as Chip Macklin is doing. Chip was never as bad as I've been, but you know how he has changed. I want to do better--I want to make something of myself, as Porter is doing. Please give me one more chance!" "I'll do it!" said the doctor, softly, almost fatherly. CHAPTER XXXII THE MEDAL OF HONOR--CONCLUSION Throughout Oak Hall there was an air of mystery that day. Gus Plum did not show himself and Dave did not come to his class until after dinner. When Dave did appear many wanted to question him, but he evaded the crowd and took no one but Roger into his confidence, although later he told Babcock and Henshaw how Plum had confessed to what had been done previous to the football game. "That was dastardly," said Babcock. "I know it," said Dave. "But believe me, Plum is suffering for it. He has a great deal on his mind, and it will be a real act of charity on your part if you forgive him. He has promised Dr. Clay that he will reform, and I think we ought to help him to do it." "He can't reform--it isn't in him," said Henshaw, promptly. "I can't believe you," answered Dave. "If you had seen what I saw you'd think better of Gus. He has a good side to him as well as a bad side. I am going to give him a chance and I hope all the other fellows will too." "But what is it all about?" insisted Buster Beggs. "Jasniff?" "Yes, Jasniff is mixed up in it, and he did his best to get Plum into a lot of trouble. Perhaps you'll hear all about it some day. I have promised to keep quiet, so I can't say anything,--and I don't want to speak about it anyway," added Dave, with feeling. The snowstorm lasted for three days, and during that time no word came in from the authorities who were trying to catch Pud Frodel and his companion in crime. The doctor had notified the representatives of the law of the proposed meeting at the old mill, and some officers had gone there, only to find that the evildoers had changed their plans. It was hard for Dave to settle down to his lessons, yet he did his best, for the examinations were now close at hand and he still had his eye fixed on the medal of honor. Plum came back to his class and was a changed person. Whenever he recited he did so in a low voice, and the minute he was dismissed he disappeared, where, none of the pupils seemed to know. He was occupying a small room by himself and kept the door locked. At last the storm cleared away and then came in word that one of the men, the fellow called Hunk, had been caught. He was closely questioned, and being rather simple-minded, as previously mentioned, said that Pud Frodel had gone to New York, in company with Nick Jasniff. He said that Jasniff was now hand-in-glove with Frodel, and that the two were planning more mischief. Upon this news Dr. Clay sent a cablegram to Mr. Jasniff, who was in London, that Nick had run away from school and also sent a letter of particulars. Later word came back that Mr. Jasniff would have a relative look for Nick and would be back himself as soon as he could arrange certain business matters. At last came the day for the school examinations. Dave was fully prepared for them, and when he came out three points ahead of everybody else nobody was surprised. Polly Vane stood second, Roger fourth, Ben sixth, and Shadow eighth. Gus Plum stood tenth, much to the surprise of many who had imagined he would come out close to the end. "Dave Porter wins the medal of honor!" said a dozen. "Hurrah for Dave!" cried Roger, and the cheers were given with a will. The medal was presented to Dave by the doctor. The entire school was assembled for the occasion, and Dr. Clay made a neat address, in which he complimented the winner on the creditable showing he had made. "I am highly pleased to give Master David Porter this medal," said the master of the Hall. "He deserves it in more ways than one. Why, some one else will tell." And then, to the amazement of all, Gus Plum got up from his seat, walked quietly but firmly to the platform and faced his fellow students, his face red but determined. "I want to say a few words about Dave Porter," he said, looking around from one face to another. "You all know me and you know how I have acted towards Dave. Well, Dave saved my life, and more than that, he has proved himself my best friend. He stood by me at a time when I guess every other fellow in the world would have turned his back on me. That's why he deserves a medal of honor,--and would deserve it even if he was at the bottom of the class." Plum paused a moment. "I ought not to speak about myself--I guess the doctor didn't think I would. But I want to say before you all that I am going to try to be different from what I used to be. The doctor might have sent me away from this school for what I did, but Dave Porter spoke up for me, and now I am to have another chance here--and I am going to make the best of it. That's all." Gus Plum bowed and walked back to his seat. There were murmurs all around, and a few hisses, but the majority of the students looked at Plum encouragingly. He kept his eyes down, looking at nobody. Roger reached over and shook hands, and then a number of others did the same. "What Plum has said about Porter is strictly true," said the doctor, coming forward again. "Therefore I take the greatest of pleasure in presenting the medal of honor to the winner, and with it I wish him the best of luck throughout life!" A cheer went up, in which Gus Plum joined heartily. Then other prizes were presented, after which school was dismissed for the day. Plum's speech had a tremendous effect. All wanted to know how Dave had saved his life and the story had to be told over and over again. Little was said about why the former bully had left school that snowy morning, and the boys knew enough not to ask too many questions. "I really think he'll turn over a new leaf," said Ben. "He seems to have awakened to a realization of how he was drifting." "I hope with all my heart he does try to do better," said Roger. "I am going to do as Dave is doing--encourage him all I can." And then Ben and a number of others said the same. That day came a welcome letter from Phil Lawrence. He was getting better rapidly now and expected to come back to Oak Hall in a few weeks. "This is glorious news!" cried Dave. "Poor Phil! How he has suffered!" "And all for the glory of a football game," answered Roger. "Pretty rough sport, no mistake about it." "Well, that's what makes it exciting," said Buster Beggs. "Which puts me in mind of a story," came from Shadow. "A boy went to the country for his health. After he had been there a week he wrote to his mother: 'Having dead loads of fun. Fell from the cherry tree and sprained my wrist, had the bull horn me over a fence, got sick eating green apples, and yesterday, when I fell in the well, I lost the dollar pop gave me. Send another dollar and it will be all right.'" And the usual short laugh went up. On Monday came in news that Pud Frodel had been captured. It was also learned that Nick Jasniff had sneaked on board of a steamer and sailed for Europe. The next day Gus Plum received a letter which he showed to the doctor and to Dave. It ran in part as follows: "You were a fool to go back on me. If you had stuck to me we could have made a lot of money. They are after both of the men, so I am going to clear out. I've got several hundred dollars and I expect to have a good time in Europe on it." This communication was unsigned but was in Nick Jasniff's handwriting. Gus Plum shivered as he perused it. "I am glad I did not stick by him," said he. "I am sorry I ever had anything to do with him." "His influence in this school was certainly very bad," said Dr. Clay. Later on the two men were tried and convicted, and each received several years in prison as a punishment for their crimes. Only a small amount of the stolen goods was recovered, which made Mrs. Fairchild, Mr. Lapham, and a number of others mourn. Much to the surprise of everybody it came out that Frodel and the other man had robbed Roger while he lay unconscious at the bridge and had also made off with his motor cycle. They had wanted to pawn this, but had not dared, and it was found where they had placed it, under some hay in a barn near Oakdale. During the trials Gus Plum was called as a witness for the state to testify and did so, doing nothing to shield himself. This was considered to his credit, and when he returned to Oak Hall many thought more of him than ever. There was now a coolness between the former bully and Nat Poole, who seemed to be left in the cold all around. "I don't think we'll ever see anything more of Jasniff," said Dave one day to Roger. But in this surmise Dave was mistaken, and how will be related in another volume of this series, to be entitled, "Dave Porter in the Far North; or, The Pluck of an American Schoolboy." In this volume we shall meet many of our friends again, and learn what Dave did towards finding his father and his sister who had so mysteriously disappeared during their tour of Europe. Thanksgiving was now at hand, and many of the boys prepared to return to their homes for the holidays. Dave was going to Crumville and so was Ben. Roger was going home too, along with Shadow and Buster Beggs and Sam Day. "I am going to stop to see Phil," said Dave, and Ben went with him. Phil was delighted over the visit, and amazed to learn the news concerning Plum and Jasniff. "Dave, you're a dandy!" he cried. "You're one boy in a thousand!" "Say one boy in ten thousand!" answered Ben. At this Dave smiled quietly. "I only tried to do my duty," said he. The homecoming was full of pleasure to the boy, and here, for the time being, we will leave Dave. He had won the medal of honor, and no one begrudged him the pleasure it gave him to wear it. THE END * * * * * Transcriber's Notes. 1. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. 2. Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible. 3. Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors have been silently corrected. 4. An Index of Illustrations has been created by the transcriber. 
53835	----	LIGHT COME, LIGHT GO [Illustration] MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA MELBOURNE THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD TORONTO [Illustration: THE TRENTE-ET-QUARANTE OF THE PAST. From a scarce print by Darcis. _Frontispiece._] LIGHT COME, LIGHT GO GAMBLING--GAMESTERS--WAGERS THE TURF BY RALPH NEVILL "D'un bout du monde A l'autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout." MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON 1909 CONTENTS I PAGE The gambling spirit inborn in mankind--Its various forms in reality identical--Resemblance of gamblers to the alchemists of old--Capriciousness of fortune--Importance of small advantages at play--An extraordinary run at hazard--Napoleon and Wellington little addicted to cards--Blücher's love of gaming--He wins his son's money--Avaricious gamesters--Anecdotes of the miser Elwes--Long sittings at the card-table--Modern instance in London--Two nights and a day at whist at the Roxburgh Club--Casanova's forty-two hour duel at piquet--Anecdotes of Fox, the Duke of Devonshire, Sir John Lade, Beau Nash, and others--Country houses lost at play--"Up now deuce and then a trey"--The Canterbury barber 1 II The spirit of play in the eighteenth century--The Duke of Buckingham's toast--Subscription-Houses, Slaughter-Houses, and Hells--The staff of a gaming-house--Joseph Atkinson and Bellasis--Raids on King's Place and Grafton Mews--Methods employed by Bow Street officers--Speculative insurance--Increase of gaming in London owing to arrival of _émigrés_--Gambling amongst the prisoners of war--The Duc de Nivernois and the clergyman--Faro and E.O.--Crusade against West-End gamblers--The Duchess of Devonshire and "Old Nick"--Mr. Lookup--Tiger Roche--Dick England--Sad death of Mr. Damer--Plucking a pigeon 38 III Former popularity of dice--The race game in Paris--Description of hazard--Jack Mytton's success at it--Anecdotes--French hazard--Major Baggs, a celebrated gamester of the past--Anecdotes of his career--London gaming-houses--Ways and methods of their proprietors--Ephraim Bond and his henchman Burge--"The Athenæum"--West-End Hells--Crockford's--Opinion of Mr. Crockford regarding play--The Act of 1845--Betting-houses--Nefarious tactics of their owners--Suppression in 1853 74 IV Craze for eccentric wagers at end of eighteenth century--Lord Cobham's insulting freak and its results--Betting and gaming at White's--The Arms of the Club--The old betting-book and its quaint wagers--Tragedies of play--White's to-day--£180,000 lost at hazard at the Cocoa Tree--Brummell as a gambler--Gaming at Brooks's--Anecdotes--General Scott--Whist--Mr. Pratt--Wattier's Club--Scandal at Graham's--Modern gambling clubs--The Park Club case in 1884--Dangers of private play 103 V Talleyrand whilst at cards announces the death of the Duc d'Enghien--"The curse of Scotland"--Wilberforce at faro--Successful gamblers--The Rev. Caleb Colton--Colonel Panton--Dennis O'Kelly--Richard Rigby--Anecdotes--Strange incidents at play--Aged gamesters--A duel with death--General Wade and the poor officer--Anecdote of a caprice of Fortune--Stock Exchange speculation--A man who profited by tips 137 VI Colonel Mellish--His early life and accomplishments--His equipage--A great gambler--£40,000 at a throw!--Posting--Mellish's racing career--His duel--In the Peninsula--Rural retirement and death--Colonel John Mordaunt--His youthful freaks--An ardent card-player--Becomes aide-de-camp to the Nawab of Oude--Anecdotes--Death from a duel--Zoffany in India and his picture of Mordaunt's cock-fight--Anecdotes of cock-fighting 167 VII Prevalence of wagering in the eighteenth century--Riding a horse backwards--Lord Orford's eccentric bet--Travelling piquet--The building of Bagatelle--Matches against time--"Old Q." and his chaise match--Buck Whalley's journey to Jerusalem--Buck English--Irish sportsmen--Jumping the wall of Hyde Park in 1792--Undressing in the water--Colonel Thornton--A cruel wager--Walking on stilts--A wonderful leap--Eccentric wagers--Lloyd's walking match--Squire Osbaldiston's ride--Captain Barclay--Jim Selby's drive--Mr. Bulpett's remarkable feats 204 VIII Gambling in Paris--Henry IV. and Sully--Cardinal Mazarin's love of play--Louis XIV. attempts to suppress gaming--John Law--Anecdotes--Institution of public tables in 1775--Biribi--Gambling during the Revolution--Fouché--The tables of the Palais Royal--The Galeries de Bois--Account of gaming-rooms--Passe-dix and Craps--Frascati's and the Salon des Étrangers--Anecdotes--Public gaming ended in Paris--Last evenings of play--Decadence of the Palais Royal--Its restaurants--Gaming in Paris at the present day 235 IX Public gaming in Germany--Aix-la-Chapelle--An Italian gambler--The King of Prussia's generosity--Baden-Baden--M. de la Charme--A dishonest croupier--Wiesbaden--An eccentric Countess--Closing of the tables in 1873--Last scenes--Arrival of M. Blanc at Homburg--His attempt to defeat his own tables--Anecdotes of Garcia--His miserable end--A Spanish gambler at Ems--Roulette at Geneva and in Heligoland--Gambling at Ostend--Baccarat at French watering-places--"La Faucheuse" forbidden in France 282 X The Principality of Monaco--Its vicissitudes--Early days of the Casino--The old Prince and his scruples--Monte Carlo in 1858 and 1864--Its development--Fashionable in the 'eighties--Mr. Sam Lewis and Captain Carlton Blythe--Anecdotes--Increase of visitors and present democratic policy of administration--The _Cercle Privé_ and its short life--The gaming-rooms and ways of their frequenters--Anecdotes--Trente-et-quarante and roulette--Why the cards have plain white backs--Jaggers' successful spoliation of the bank--The croupiers and their training--The staff of the Casino--The _viatique_--Systems--The best of all 319 XI Difficulty of making money on the Turf--Big wins--Sporting tipsters and their methods--Jack Dickinson--"Black Ascots"--Billy Pierse--Anecdotes--Lord Glasgow--Lord George Bentinck--Lord Hastings--Heavy betting of the past--Charles II. founder of the English Turf--History of the latter--Anecdotes--Eclipse--Highflyer--The founder of Tattersall's--Old time racing--Fox--Lord Foley--Major Leeson--Councillor Lade--"Louse Pigott"--Hambletonian and Diamond--Mrs. Thornton's match--Beginnings of the French Turf--Lord Henry Seymour--Longchamps--Mr. Mackenzie Grieves--Plaisanterie--Establishment of the Pari Mutuel in 1891--How the large profits are allocated--Conclusion 374 INDEX 437 ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR FACE PAGE The Trente-et-Quarante of the Past. From a scarce Print by Darcis _Frontispiece_ The Beautiful Duchess throwing a Main. By Rowlandson 60 La Bouillotte. From a scarce Print after Bosio 138 The Chaise Match 214 The Palmy Days of the Palais Royal. From a contemporary Print 258 A Gaming-Table in the Palais Royal 262 Véry's in 1825 276 Plan of Roulette Table, as used at Monte Carlo 348 Betting. By Rowlandson 382 IN BLACK AND WHITE The Spendthrift. From an Eighteenth-Century Print 26 A Raid on a London Gaming-House 44 Sharpers and Bucks in a Billiard Room 68 Light Come, Light Go 80 A Row in a Fashionable Hell 86 Count d'Orsay calling a Main at Crockford's 98 The Arms of White's _p._ 107 The Gambling-Room at Brooks's. From a Water-colour Drawing in the possession of the Club 116 The Cock-Fight at Lucknow, with Key. Engraved by R. Earlom, after Zoffany 194 Roulette in the Eighteenth Century 284 Facsimile Title-Page of "Guide du Spéculateur au Trente-Quarante et à la Roulette" 298 Gambling at Homburg. Drawn by the late G.A. Sala 308 E.O. on a Country Race-course. By Rowlandson 398 Mrs. Thornton 416 I The gambling spirit inborn in mankind--Its various forms in reality identical--Resemblance of gamblers to the alchemists of old--Capriciousness of fortune--Importance of small advantages at play--An extraordinary run at hazard--Napoleon and Wellington little addicted to cards--Blücher's love of gaming--He wins his son's money--Avaricious gamesters--Anecdotes of the miser Elwes--Long sittings at the card-table--Modern instance in London--Two nights and a day at whist at the Roxburgh Club--Casanova's forty-two hour duel at piquet--Anecdotes of Fox, the Duke of Devonshire, Sir John Lade, Beau Nash, and others--Country houses lost at play--"Up now deuce and then a trey"--The Canterbury barber. The passion for speculation which, throughout all ages, has captivated the great bulk of humanity, would seem to be an innate characteristic of mankind. It assumes various forms and guises which often deceive those over whom it exercises its sway, and becomes in numberless cases a veritable obsession, causing its victims to devote the whole of their time, thoughts, and money--sometimes even their lives--to its service. Devotees of the simpler forms of gambling, such as are to be procured at the card-table and on the race-course, are often looked down upon by people who are themselves under the sway of other insidious, if more reputable, modes of tempting fortune. For all speculation, whether it be in pigs or wheat, stocks and shares, race-horses or cards, is in essence the same--its main feature being merely the desire to obtain "something for nothing," or in other words to acquire wealth without work. Gambling, of no matter what kind, is thus a conscious and deliberate departure from the general aim of civilised society, which is to obtain proper value for its money. The gambler, on the other hand, receives either a great deal more than he gives or nothing at all. All conditions of life being more or less disquieted either with the cares of gaining or of keeping money, it is but natural that mankind should be allured by the idea of discovering and utilising an easy and quick road to riches. Alas, the prospect of speedy wealth, which exercises such an irresistible fascination over certain natures, is in the vast majority of cases nothing but a delusive mirage, as tempting to covetous folly as the "philosopher's stone." Indeed, the votaries of chance in a great measure resemble the alchemists of old, who were ever seeking, but never found, a method of producing untold gold. So convinced were these searchers of the possibility of eventually discovering the secret of manufacturing riches, that they laughed even at successful gamblers, deeming them to be mere drudges and sluggards on the golden road. There was a time, indeed, when students of what Gibbon termed "the vain science of alchemy," were actually called "multipliers," and their unbounded confidence naturally made a deep impression upon the credulous ignorance of their age. So much so that our Henry IV. appears to have become seriously alarmed at the prospect of the country being flooded with precious metals manufactured by the "multipliers," for a statute passed during his reign decrees that "none from henceforth shall use to multiply gold or silver or use the craft of multiplication, and if any the same do he shall incur the pain of felony." His Majesty might just as well have issued an edict against gamblers making use of a sure method of winning! One of the most remarkable things about gambling is that no one ever seems to win--certainly the vast majority of those addicted to play, even the most lucky, generally declare that on the whole they have lost. A number of these, however, probably leave out of their calculations the large amounts which they have spent whilst fortune was in a generous mood; for gamblers when in luck are apt to fling their money about very freely, and even when they are losing they do not as a rule practise a rigid economy. This is not the case, of course, with followers of methods and systems who take their gambling seriously; these are often frugal men who, though quite callous about losing large sums in the pursuit of their hobby, regard money spent on enjoyment or luxuries as wasted. This is the type of gambler who racks his brains with calculations, and takes immense trouble to obtain really sound information about the chances of some race-horse, or of the rise or fall of some stock. But even to such sober gamblers the result is usually disappointing. All methods, systems, and combinations do little to assist gamblers to win--the most they can effect is to put a limitation on their losses; and as regards special information, those who are addicted to racing know only too well how expensive it is to be acquainted with any one in a position to give really good "tips." More than that, information which emanates from owners, trainers, and jockeys would soon break the Bank of England were that institution to decide to risk its capital on such advice. Not that in many cases these men are not really anxious to give their friends winners; but somehow or other the good thing hardly ever comes off. It is indeed not at all unlikely that the race-goer who knows no one connected with the Turf has a distinct advantage; for when regular racing men possess reliable information as to a horse which has been reserved for some coup, they are obviously not at liberty to divulge its name, and consequently the "tips" they give are little more than hints of vague possibilities. Although as a matter of fact the goddess of chance--not erroneously called "fickle"!--is in the long run pitilessly severe upon her votaries, one and all, there are times and occasions on which she seems not indisposed to smile. To propitiate her is, therefore, the first ambition of all gamblers, and in their efforts to attain this end many of them exhibit an almost childish superstition. Yet we must remember that the wisest of the Roman emperors kept a golden image of Fortune in their private apartments, or carried it about them. They never sent it to their successor till they were near expiring; and then it was accompanied with this declaration--that in the whole course of their achievements, they were more indebted to fortune than to any skill or dexterity of their own. Always feminine, Fortune is to all appearances essentially wayward and capricious. She requires to be constantly tended, silently expected, and approached with due caution and prudence. Rough and refractory behaviour scares her away; irritation at her eccentricities banishes her altogether; whilst levity and ingratitude, when she is in a beneficent mood, soon causes her to escape. Moderation is the only chance of securing her constant presence. In short, fortune, or luck, is a phenomenon, the ground and essence whereof is to a great degree inexplicable. For the most part we know it only from its effects, and can give no certain account either of its nature or of its mode of action, and of the always increasing or diminishing greatness of it. To the gambler fortune appears to be an occult power, the aid of which is not infrequently invoked by means of various fanciful fetishes, which for the moment acquire a real virtue, as being likely to propitiate the invisible influence which presides over speculation. The movements of fortune have been well compared to those of the sea, which for the most part seems to affect a serene and smiling aspect, broken only by tranquil ripples. From time to time, however, furious tempests and storms disturb its surface, calm being often re-established as quickly and suddenly as it was originally broken. Like the sea, Fortune would at heart appear to be inclined towards tranquillity, though her fury, when roused, is inclined to conceal this tendency. Whilst Fortune generally seems to distribute her favours in a somewhat haphazard way, there is no doubt that those who study the so-called laws of chance are the most likely to receive them. For although chance is generally considered to be effect without design, this is not strictly true. Throughout the universe of nature, indeed, all events appear in the end to be governed by immutable laws which have existed from the beginning of time, no matter what partial irregularities may arise at certain periods. In any game, for instance, equality in play is likely to restore the players in a series of events to the same state in which they began; while inequality, however small, has a contrary effect, and the longer the game be continued, the greater is likely to be the loss of the one player and the gain of the other. As has been very soundly said, this "more or less," in play, runs through all the ratios between equality and infinite difference, or from an infinitely little difference till it comes to an infinitely great one. The slightest of advantages, whether arising from skill or chance, will as surely "materialise" in the course of play as does the carefully calculated profit of a commercial expert. An event either will happen or will not happen; this constitutes a certainty. Some events are dependent, others independent. The difference is very important. Independent events have no connection, their happenings neither forwarding nor obstructing one another. Choosing a card from each of two distinct packs includes two independent events; for the taking of a card from the first pack does not in any way affect the taking of a card from the second--the chances of drawing, or of not drawing, any particular card from the second pack being neither lessened nor increased. On the other hand, the taking of a second card from a pack from which one has already been drawn is a dependent event, as the composition of the pack has been altered by the abstraction of one particular card. The surprising way in which an apparently small advantage operates may be judged from the following example:--A and B agree to play for one guinea a game until one hundred guineas are lost or won. A possesses an advantage on each game amounting to 11 chances to 10 in his favour. Mathematical analysis of this advantage proves that B would do well to give A upwards of ninety-nine guineas to cancel the agreement. Further, many speculative events, which at first sight seem to be advantageous to one side, are demonstrated by mathematical investigation to be of an exactly contrary nature. A bets B thirty-two guineas to one that an event does not happen, and also bets B thirty guineas even that it does happen in twenty-nine trials. Besides this A gives B one thousand guineas to play in this manner six hours a day for a month. Here B would appear to have some advantage. Mathematical investigation, however, proves that in reality the advantage of A is so great that B ought not only to return the thousand guineas to A, but give him, in addition, another ten thousand guineas to cancel the agreement. Every game of chance presents two kinds of chances which are very distinct--namely, those relating to the person interested (the player) and those inherent in the combinations of the game. That is to say, there is either "good luck" or "bad luck," which at different times gives the player a "run" of good or bad fortune. But besides this, there is the chance of the combinations of the game, which are independent of the player and which are governed by the laws of probability. Theoretically, chance is able to bring into any given game all the possible combinations; but it is a curious fact that there are, nevertheless, certain limits at which it seems to stop. A proof of this is that a particular number at roulette does not turn up ten or a dozen times in succession. In reality there would be nothing astounding about such a run, but it is supposed never to have happened. On the other hand, the numbers in one column at roulette have been known not to turn up during seventeen successive coups. All the same, extraordinary runs do occur at all games. In 1813, a well-known betting man of the name of Ogden laid one thousand guineas to one guinea, that calling seven as the main, a player would not throw that number ten times successively from the dice-box. Seven was thrown nine times in direct sequence! Mr. Ogden then offered four hundred and seventy guineas to be let off the bet, but the thrower refused. He took the box again but threw only twice more--nine--so that Mr. Ogden just saved his thousand guineas. In a game of chance, the oftener the same combination has occurred in succession the nearer we are to the certainty that it will not recur at the next coup. It would almost appear, in fact, as if there existed an instant, prescribed by some unknown law, at which the chances become mature, and after which they begin to tend again towards equalisation. This is the secret of the pass and the counter-pass, and also of the strange persistence which certain numbers at roulette sometimes show in recurring--they are merely making up for lost time. At the end of a year all the numbers on a roulette board would be found to have come up about the same number of times--provided, of course, that the wheel is kept in proper working order, a state of affairs which is assured at Monaco by scrupulous daily inspection. The considerations set forth above apply more especially to games like roulette and trente-et-quarante played at public tables, where all players have an equal chance against the bank, and where the personal element, which is so important in private play, is to a large extent eliminated. It is at public tables that the real gambler finds his best chance. There, whilst having a fair field and no favour, he may, if lucky, win very large sums with the certainty of being immediately paid; and he is not exposed to various unfavourable influences, which tell against men of his disposition when gambling amongst acquaintances and even friends. Wherever a number of careless, inattentive people possessed of money chance to be assembled, a few wary, cool, and shrewd men will be found, who know how to conceal real caution and design under apparent inattention and gaiety of manner; who push their luck when fortune smiles and refrain when she changes her disposition; and who have calculated the chances and are thoroughly master of every game where judgment is required. Occasionally men of this stamp have been known to have accumulated a fortune, more often a respectable competency, at play. If they had been interrogated as to the exact means by which they had made their success, they would, had they been desirous of speaking the truth, have replied in the words of the wife of the Maréchal d'Ancre, who, when she was asked what charm she had made use of to fascinate the mind of the queen, "The charm," she replied, "which superior abilities always exercise over weaker minds." The minor forms of gambling, which serve to gratify the speculative instincts of ordinary mortals, have generally possessed little attraction for great men, whose minds would seem to have been occupied by more ambitious, though perhaps in essence not less speculative, designs. Napoleon, for example, was a very poor card-player, and from all accounts never indulged in any serious gambling. The great Duke of Wellington, though he was once accused of being much addicted to playing hazard, would also seem to have entertained no particular fondness for play. In the course of a letter which he wrote in 1823 to a Mr. Adolphus, who had publicly referred to his supposed love of play, the great Captain wrote "that never in the whole course of his life had he ever won or lost £20 at any game, and that he had never played at hazard or any game of chance in any public place or club, nor been for some years at all at any such place." Nevertheless, the Duke became an original member of Crockford's in 1827, though there is no record of his ever having played there. Another great soldier, on the other hand, repeatedly lost large sums at play. This was Blücher, who was inordinately fond of gambling. Much to his disgust this passion was inherited by his son, who had often to be rebuked by his father for his visits to the gaming-table, and was given many a wholesome lecture upon his youth and inexperience, and the consequent certainty of loss by coming in contact with older and more practised gamblers. One morning, however, young Blücher presented himself before his father, and exclaimed with an air of joy, "Sir, you said I knew nothing about play, but here is proof that you have undervalued my talents," pulling out at the same time a bag of roubles which he had won the preceding night. "And I said the truth," was the reply; "sit down there, and I'll convince you." The dice were called for, and in a few minutes old Blücher won all his son's money; whereupon, after pocketing the cash, he rose from the table observing, "Now you see that I was right when I told you that you would never win." If, however, it would seem to be the case that few, if any, of the world's very greatest minds have been addicted to gambling, it is no less true that outside this select band all classes have been, and are, equally subject to the passion. Nothing, indeed, is more extraordinary than the fact that it has been observed to exercise the same fascination on men of the most diverse characters and dispositions--on rich and poor, educated and uneducated, young and old, learned and ignorant. Moreover, unlike other passions, the love of gambling generally remains unimpaired by age, and instances of people of advanced years expending their few remaining energies at the card-table are not rare. There is the story of the venerable old north-country lady whom a visitor found looking very red-eyed and weary. "I fear you are suffering from a bad cold?" he inquired, solicitously. "Eh, I'se gat na cauld," was the reply; "some friends kem from Kendal on Tuesday that love a game a whist dearly, and I'se bin carding the morn and e'en, the e'en an' the morn, twa days." "Indeed, and what might you have won?" "Eh," she replied, with considerable satisfaction, "it mun be a shilling." At first sight, also, one would think that avarice and passion for play were absolutely incompatible; yet there are not a few striking instances of the two vices being combined--by men to whom the spending of a few shillings was agony, but who would risk thousands at cards with comparative equanimity. Such an one was the celebrated Mr. Elwes, who combined a passion for gambling with habits of the greatest penury. He was originally a Mr. Meggot, the name of Elwes being assumed under the terms of the will of his uncle. Sir Harvey Elwes. Sir Harvey was himself the perfect type of a miser. Timid, shy, and diffident in the extreme, he kept his household, which consisted of one man and two maid-servants, chiefly upon game from his own land and fish from his own ponds; the cows which grazed before his door furnished milk, cheese, and butter for the establishment; and what fuel he burned his own woods supplied. As he had no acquaintances and no books, the hoarding-up and the counting of his money was his greatest delight. Next to that came partridge catching--or setting, as it was then called--at which he was so great an adept that he was known to take five hundred brace of birds in one season. What partridges were not consumed by his household he turned out again, as he never gave anything away. At all times he wore a black velvet cap much over his face, a worn-out, full-dress suit of clothes, and an old great-coat, with worsted stockings drawn up over his knees. He rode a thin thoroughbred horse, and the horse and his rider looked as if a gust of wind would have blown them away together. At the time Mr. Meggot succeeded to the name and fortune of his uncle he was over forty, having for about fifteen years previously been well-known in the most fashionable circles of the West End. He was a gambler at heart, and only late in life did he succeed in obtaining any mastery over his passion for play. His losses were great, but this was mainly because while he himself always paid when he lost, his opponents were not always so scrupulous, and it was notorious that the sums owed to him in this way were very considerable. But he professed the quixotic theory that "it was impossible to ask a gentleman for money"; and to his honour, but financial disadvantage, he adhered strictly to this rule throughout his life. The acquaintances which he had formed at Westminster School and at Geneva, together with his own large fortune, all conspired to introduce Mr. Elwes (then Mr. Meggot) into whatever society he best liked. He was at once admitted a member of the club at Arthur's, and of various other similar institutions; and as a proof of his notoriety as a gambler, it may be mentioned that he, Lord Robert Bertie, and some others, are noticed in a scene in _The Adventures of a Guinea_ for the frequency of their midnight orgies. Few men, even on his own acknowledgment, had played deeper than himself, or with such varying success. He once played two days and a night without intermission; and the room being a small one, the company were nearly up to their knees in cards. He lost some thousands at that sitting. The Duke of Northumberland was of the party--another man who never would quit the gaming-table while any hope of winning remained. Even at this period, Mr. Elwes' passion for gaming was equalled by his avarice, and in a curious manner he contrived to mingle small attempts at saving with pursuits of the most unbounded dissipation. After sitting up a whole night playing for thousands with the most fashionable and profligate men of the time--in ornate and brilliantly-lighted salons, with obsequious waiters attendant upon his call--he would walk out about four in the morning, not towards his home, but into Smithfield, to meet his own cattle, which were coming up to market from Thaydon Hall, a farm of his in Essex. There would this same man, forgetful of the scenes he had just left, stand in the cold or rain, haggling with a carcass butcher for a shilling. Sometimes when the cattle did not arrive at the hour he expected, he would walk on in the mire to meet them; and more than once he actually trudged the whole way to his farm, seventeen miles from London--a tedious walk after sitting up the whole of the night at play! Though he never engaged personally upon the Turf, Mr. Elwes was in the habit of making frequent excursions to Newmarket, and a kindness which he once performed there is worthy of recollection. Lord Abingdon, who was slightly known to Mr. Elwes, had made a match for £7000 which it was supposed he would be obliged to forfeit from an inability to produce the sum--though the odds were greatly in his favour. Unsolicited, Mr. Elwes made him an offer of the money; he accepted it, and won the engagement. On the day this match was to be run a clerical neighbour had agreed to accompany Mr. Elwes to Newmarket. As was the latter's custom they set out on their journey at seven in the morning, and, with the hope of a substantial breakfast at Newmarket, the clergyman took no refreshment before starting. They reached Newmarket about eleven, and Mr. Elwes busied himself in inquiries and conversation till twelve, when the match was decided in favour of Lord Abingdon. The divine then fully expected that they should move off to the town for breakfast; but Elwes still continued riding about on one business or another. Eventually four o'clock arrived; and by this time his reverence had become so impatient that he murmured something about the "keen air of Newmarket heath" and the comforts of a good dinner. "Very true," replied Elwes, "have some of this," offering him at the same time a piece of old, crushed pancake from his great-coat pocket. He added that he had brought it from his house at Marcham two months before, but "that it was as good as new." The sequel of the story was that they did not reach home till nine in the evening, when the clergyman was so tired that he gave up all other refreshment for rest. On the other hand, Elwes, who had hazarded seven thousand pounds in the morning, retired happily to bed with the pleasing recollection of having saved three shillings. In later life Mr. Elwes was elected to Parliament, where he proved himself an independent country member and exhibited great conscientiousness. During this time he had the greatest admiration for Mr. Pitt, and was wont to declare that in all the statesman's words there were "pounds, shillings, and pence." When he quitted Parliament, he was, in the common phrase, "a fish out of water." He had for some years been a member of a card-club, at the Mount Coffee-House, and it was there that he consoled himself for the loss of his seat. The play was moderate, and he enjoyed the fire and candles which were provided at the expense of the Club; but fortune seemed resolved to force from him that money which no power could persuade him to bestow. He still retained his fondness for play, and imagined that he had no small skill at piquet. It was his ill-luck on one occasion to meet a gentleman who had the same idea of his own powers in this direction, and on much better grounds; for after a contest of two days and a night, in which Elwes continued with the perseverance which avarice will sometimes inspire, he rose the loser of no less than three thousand pounds. The debt was paid by a draft on Messrs. Hoare, which was duly honoured the next morning. This is said to have been the last bout of gaming indulged in by Mr. Elwes, and not long afterwards he retired to his country seat at Stoke, remarking that "he had lost a great deal of money very foolishly, but that a man grew wiser by time." After this no gleam of pleasure or amusement broke through the gloom of a penurious life, and his insatiable desire of saving became uniform and systematic. He still rode about the country on an old brood mare (which was all he had left); but then he rode her very economically, on the soft turf adjoining the road, so as to avoid the cost of shoes. His household expenses were reduced to a minimum, his few wants being attended to by a man who became almost as celebrated as his master. This extraordinary servant acted as butler, coachman, gardener, huntsman, groom, and valet; and was, according to Mr. Elwes, "a d----d idle rascal" into the bargain. Mr. Elwes died in 1789 and left an enormous fortune for that day, about five hundred thousand pounds being divided between his two natural sons. Mr. Elwes' record of having played piquet for two days and a night (thirty-six successive hours) was a remarkable one, for the physical strain involved by playing for such a long period is very considerable. Yet the fascination of remaining at the gaming-table for a long stretch of time frequently takes possession of those addicted to play. As a rule it is not by any means caused solely by the consideration of the stakes played for; it would rather seem that the players become mere automatic gaming machines, the mechanism of which runs steadily on. Several years ago a noticeable instance of this occurred in a London Club, where, on a certain evening, a small party had been playing écarté for fairly moderate stakes. The game began about eleven o'clock; some three or four hours later only two players remained. As the time went on, fine after fine was incurred by this couple, but still they continued playing--until they passed the hour when expulsion was the penalty exacted from any member still remaining in the Club-house. They were still playing when morning broke, and though horrified and sleepy-eyed waiters informed them that they could no longer continue, their only answer was to stop the clock, an irritating reminder of the fleeting hours. In this fashion they continued till one o'clock the next afternoon, when, having realised that their escapade was a serious one, they strolled through a crowd of outraged members into the brilliant sunlight which, as if in irony, chanced that morning to be flooding the street. It should be added that before leaving the Club-house--for ever, as it turned out--the two culprits prudently wrote out their resignations. The curious thing was that the stakes during this sitting were by no means high, and the sums which changed hands were consequently comparatively small. Rowlandson, the artist, who was a well-known figure at most of the fashionable gaming-houses of his time, frequently played through a night and the next day. On one occasion he remained at the hazard table for thirty-six hours without a break, the only refreshment which he took being brought to him in the gambling-room. Rowlandson, who was a most honourable man, was generally unlucky, and lost several legacies at play. His imperturbability was remarkable, and he never exhibited the slightest emotion whether he won or lost. At the Roxburgh Club in St. James's Square--at the time when it was kept by Raggett, the well-known proprietor of White's--Hervey Combe, Tippoo Smith, Mr. Ward (a member of Parliament), and the distinguished Indian General, Sir John Malcolm, once sat from Monday evening till Wednesday morning at eleven o'clock, playing whist. Even then, they would very likely have continued playing, had not Hervey Combe been obliged to attend the funeral of one of his partners. Combe, who had won thirty thousand pounds from Sir John Malcolm, jocularly told him that he could have his revenge whenever he liked. "Thank you," replied Sir John, "another sitting like this would oblige me to return to India again!" In all probability, however, the longest duel at cards which ever took place occurred in the eighteenth century at Sulzbach, where the famous adventurer, Casanova, made the acquaintance of an officer, d'Entragues by name, who was very fond of piquet. For four or five days in succession the Venetian and this officer played after dinner. At the end of that time, however, Casanova declined to play any more, having come to the conclusion that his opponent made a regular practice of rising from the table directly he had won ten or twelve louis. He adhered to this resolution for a day or two, but d'Entragues became quite importunate in offers to give him his revenge. "I do not care to play," was the reply of Casanova, given with some effrontery. "We are not the same kind of gamblers. I play only for my pleasure and because the game amuses me, whilst you play merely to win." "If I understand you rightly," was the retort, "this is deliberate rudeness!" "I did not mean to be rude; but every time we have played you have left me in the lurch at the end of an hour." "A proof of my solicitude for your pocket, for as you are a worse player than I, you would have lost a great deal had we continued." "Possibly, but I don't believe it." Eventually it was agreed that they should resume their contest, but that the player who was the first to rise from the piquet-table should forfeit fifty louis to his opponent. The stakes were five louis a hundred points, ready money only to be played for. The game began at three in the afternoon; at nine d'Entragues proposed supper. Casanova said he was not hungry; whereupon his opponent laughed, and the game was continued. The onlookers, who were fairly numerous, went to supper, afterwards returning to remain till midnight, when the players were left alone with a croupier who attended to the accounts, the only utterances heard being those connected with the game. From six in the morning, when the visitors who were taking the Sulzbach waters began to be about, the contest excited the greatest public interest. Casanova was now losing a hundred louis, though his luck had not been very bad. At nine o'clock a lady, Madame Saxe by name, to whom d'Entragues was very devoted, arrived upon the scene and persuaded each of the combatants to partake of a cup of chocolate. D'Entragues was the first to consent to this; he believed that his opponent was near to giving in. "Let us agree," he proposed, "that whoever asks for food, leaves the room for more than a quarter of an hour, or goes to sleep in his chair, shall be deemed the loser." "I take you at your word," was Casanova's reply; "and shall be ready to hold to any other irritating conditions you may suggest." The game proceeded. At twelve o'clock another meal was announced, but both players still declared that they were not hungry; at four, however, they took some soup. Towards supper-time the onlookers began to think that matters were going too far. Madame Saxe then made a suggestion that the stakes should be divided, but to this proposal Casanova firmly declined to consent. At this moment d'Entragues might have risen from the table a winner even after having paid the forfeit, for besides being the better player luck had favoured him. Nevertheless, his pride prevented him from abandoning what had degenerated into a mere contest of endurance. His appearance had become that of a corpse which had been disinterred, in striking contrast to the still normal looks of Casanova, who, to the remonstrances of Madame Saxe, replied that he would only give up the struggle by falling down dead. The night wore on, and once more the players were left alone. By this time d'Entragues was showing evident signs of complete exhaustion, which was increased by an altercation about some trifling point raised by Casanova with the express purpose of further weakening his opponent's resistance. At nine o'clock next morning Madame Saxe arrived to find her lover losing, and so dazed that he could hardly shuffle the cards, count, or properly discard. Once more she appealed to Casanova, pointing out to him that he could now rise a winner. In a tone of great gallantry the latter replied that he would agree to abandon the struggle if the forfeit were declared void, a condition to which d'Entragues declined to assent. The latter, though very weak, showed considerable annoyance at the manner in which Casanova had spoken to Madame Saxe, and declared that for his part he should not leave the table till either he or his opponent lay dead upon the floor. In due course of time soup was again brought to the players, but d'Entragues, who was now in the last stage of weakness, fell down in a dead faint almost immediately after the cup had been raised to his lips, and in this condition he was carried away to bed. On the other hand, Casanova, after having given half a dozen louis to the croupier (who had been awake for forty-two consecutive hours), leisurely put the gold he had won in his pockets, and strolled out to a chemist's where he purchased a mild emetic. He then went to bed and slept lightly for a few hours, getting up about three o'clock in the afternoon with an excellent appetite. His opponent did not appear till the next day, when, much to his credit, he told Casanova that he bore him no ill-will, and was on the contrary grateful to him for a lesson which he should remember all the days of his life. Casanova was not always as successful as this in his gambling enterprises, which indeed occasionally involved him in unpleasant situations; but like most adventurers of his type and age he was seldom depressed by losses. He would appear to have generally dominated other gamesters whom he met--a state of affairs which was probably not unconnected with the Venetian's well-known truculence. Besides, he was, as a rule, not over-burdened with money, a circumstance which perhaps made him the more ready to engage in a contest. People who are over-prosperous are not given to exhibiting any particular spirit in such affairs. A gentleman, who had been fortunate at cards, was asked to be a second in a duel, at a period when the seconds engaged as heartily as the principals. "I am not," replied he, "the man for your purpose at this time; but go and apply to a friend of mine from whom I won a thousand guineas last night, and I warrant you he will fight like any devil!" Though ready to resent any slight, and tenacious of keeping up a reputation for being "cock of the walk" in the circles in which he moved, Casanova was possessed of great self-control, and always made a point of being urbane, even whilst sustaining a severe reverse--a pleasing characteristic which, he declared, obtained him access to much pleasant society. It was his constant practice to hold a bank at the various resorts of the pleasure-loving world which he visited during his adventurous career. At Aix in Savoy (which is still a place in high favour with the votaries of chance owing to its two Casinos), Casanova was once particularly successful. He himself, with all a gambler's superstition, attributed his good fortune on this occasion to the appearance of three Englishmen--one of them Fox (then on the threshold of his career), who borrowed fifty louis of the great adventurer, whom he had previously met at Geneva. From his earliest years Charles James Fox had been accustomed to gambling, having been elected a member of Brooks's when but sixteen years old. At that time the Club in question, now so decorous and staid, was the head-quarters of the fashionable London gamester, and the high-spirited youth fully availed himself of the excellent opportunities for dissipating a fortune which were here at easy command. On one occasion Fox sat playing at hazard for twenty-two consecutive hours, with the result that he rose the loser of eleven thousand pounds. At twenty-five he was a ruined man, his father having paid for him one hundred and forty thousand pounds out of his own property. [Illustration: _The SPENDTHRIFT_ Deaf to his aged Sire's advice, And biggotted to Cards and Dice; With many a horrid Oath and Curse, He loudly wails his empty Purse. From an Eighteenth-Century Print.] Though a most unsuccessful gambler. Fox played whist and piquet exceedingly well, it being generally agreed at Brooks's that he might have made about four thousand a year at these games had he but confined himself to them. His misfortunes arose from playing at games of chance, particularly at faro, of which he was very fond. As a rule after eating and drinking plentifully, he would repair to the faro table, almost invariably rising a loser. Once indeed, and only once, he won about eight thousand pounds in the course of a single evening; part of this money he paid away to his creditors, and the remainder he lost again almost immediately in the same manner. Mr. Boothby, also an irreclaimable gamester and an intimate friend of Fox, speaking of the latter said, "He was unquestionably a man of first-rate talents, but so deficient in judgment as never to have succeeded in any object during his whole life. He loved only three things: women, play, and politics. Yet at no period did he ever form a creditable connection with a woman; he lost his whole fortune at the gaming-table; and with the exception of about eleven months he remained always in opposition." Before he attained his thirtieth year, Fox had completely dissipated every shilling that he could either command or procure by the most ruinous expedients. During his career he experienced, at times, many of the severest privations attached to the vicissitudes which mark a gamester's progress, and frequently lacked money to defray common expenses of the most pressing nature. Topham Beauclerk--himself a man of pleasure and of letters--who lived much in Fox's society at that period of his life, used to say that no man could form an idea of the extremities to which his friend had been driven in order to raise money, after losing his last guinea at the faro table. For days in succession he was reduced to such distress as to be under the necessity of having recourse to the waiters of Brooks's Club to lend him assistance--even sedan-chairmen, whom he was unable to pay, used to clamour at his door. Notwithstanding the numerous petty claims which at times made Fox's life unbearable, he could never resist high play, which seems to have completely destroyed his judgment as to the value of money, and prided himself upon the largeness of his stakes. The Duke of Devonshire, who, much to his honour, made a point of never touching a card, went one day out of curiosity to the Thatched House Club to see the gambling. After some time, finding himself awkward at being the only person in the rooms who was not participating in the play, he proposed a bet of fifty pounds on the odd trick to Charles Fox. "You'll excuse me, my Lord Duke," replied Charles, "I never play for pence." "I assure you, sir," answered his Grace, "you do, as often as I play for fifty pounds." Fox, whilst a gambler of the most hopeless description, and extravagant almost beyond words, had, as is well known, many good points. Amongst them was hatred of meanness, which was an abomination of the worst sort in his eyes. Finding himself on one occasion in considerable funds owing to a run of luck at faro, he remembered an old gambling debt due to Sir John Lade, familiarly known at that time as Sir John Jehu, and accordingly wrote, desiring an appointment so that he might pay what he owed. When they met, Charles produced the money, which Sir John no sooner saw, than calling for a pen and ink, he very deliberately began to reckon up the interest. "What are you doing now?" cried Charles. "Only calculating what the interest amounts to," replied the other. "Oh, indeed!" returned Fox with great coolness, at the same time pocketing the cash, which he had already thrown upon the table. "Why, I thought, Sir John, that my debt to you was a debt of honour; but as you seem to view it in another light, and seriously mean to make a trading debt of it, I must inform you that I make it an invariable rule to pay my Jew creditors last. You must therefore wait a little longer for your money, sir; and when I meet my money-lending Israelites for the payment of principal and interest, I shall certainly think of Sir John Jehu, and expect to have the honour of seeing him in the company of my worthy friends from Duke's Place"--a locality which at that time swarmed with usurers. Though Fox rather excelled at card games of skill, horse-racing was his darling amusement, until, from prudential motives, he quitted the Turf and all other forms of speculation. He played at games of chance with indifference, and would throw for a thousand guineas with as much sang-froid as he would twirl a teetotum for a shilling. But when his horse ran he was all eagerness and anxiety, always placing himself where the animal was to make its effort, or where the race was likely to be most strongly contested. From this spot he would watch the early part of the race with an immovable look, merely breathing quicker as they accelerated their pace. But when the horses came opposite to him, he rode in with them at full speed, whipping, spurring, and blowing, as if he would have infused his whole soul into the courage, speed, and perseverance of his favourite racer. The race being over, the fact that he had won or lost seemed to be a matter of perfect indifference to him, for he immediately began to discuss the next event, whether he had a horse entered for it or not. The fact that Fox was often in the most dire financial straits through his reckless gambling does not seem to have excited any extraordinary astonishment amongst his contemporaries. The men of the eighteenth century were quite accustomed to the vicissitudes connected with gaming, which seems to have been viewed with the greatest leniency in every way. The celebrated Beau Nash was sometimes in sore straits owing to a run of ill luck at play, and on one occasion, at York, he lost all the money he possessed. In these circumstances some of his companions agreed to equip him with fifty guineas, upon condition that he should stand at the great door of the Minster in a blanket as the people were coming out of church; and to this proposal he readily agreed. The Dean passing by unfortunately knew him. "What," cried the divine, "Mr. Nash in masquerade?" "Only a Yorkshire penance, Mr. Dean, for keeping bad company," said Nash, pointing to his companions. Some time after this the Beau won a wager of still greater consequence by riding naked through a village upon a cow, an escapade which was considered as a harmless and natural frolic. In the year 1725, a giddy youth who had just resigned his fellowship at Oxford, brought his whole fortune to Bath; and without the smallest degree of skill in play, won a sufficient sum to make any ordinary man happy. His desire of gain, however, being increased by his good fortune, he plunged more deeply in the following October, and added four thousand pounds to his former capital. Hearing of this, Beau Nash, who was a good-natured man, one night invited him to supper, and told him there would come a time when he would repent having left the calm of a college life for the turbulent profession of a gamester. "You are a stranger to me," said he, "but to convince you of the part I take in your welfare, I'll give you fifty guineas to forfeit twenty every time you lose two hundred at one sitting." The young gentleman refused this offer, and was eventually ruined. This system of tying up was very usual. The Duke of Bedford, being chagrined at losing a considerable sum, pressed Mr. Nash to tie him up for the future from playing deep. With this view the Beau gave his Grace one hundred guineas to forfeit ten thousand whenever he lost a sum to the same amount at one sitting. The Duke, however, loved play to distraction, and within a short time again lost eight thousand guineas at hazard. As he was on the point of throwing for three thousand more, Nash caught hold of the dice-box and entreated him to reflect on the penalty he would incur should he loose. For that time the Duke desisted, but so possessed was he by the love of play, that shortly afterwards, having lost a considerable sum at Newmarket, he was contented to pay the penalty. On another occasion Nash undertook to cure a young peer of the gambling fever. Conscious of his own superior skill he determined to engage the Earl in single play for a very considerable sum. His Lordship lost his estate, and the title-deeds were put into the winner's possession; finally his very equipage was deposited as the last stake, and he lost that also. Nash, however, who showed himself to be the most generous of gamesters, returned all, only stipulating that he should be paid five thousand pounds whenever he should think proper to make the demand. He never did anything of the kind during the nobleman's life; but some time after his decease, Mr. Nash's affairs being on the wane, he demanded the money of his Lordship's heirs, who honourably paid it without hesitation. At the present day gambling is more or less confined to large towns, but a different state of affairs prevailed in the eighteenth century, when whole properties frequently changed hands at the card-table. The owner of Warthall Hall, for instance, having lost all his money, in a frenzy of excitement finally risked the whole of his estate upon a low cut of the cards. He cut the deuce of diamonds, and in remembrance of his good luck fixed a representation of the lucky card upon the front of his house with the following inscription:-- Up now deuce and then a trey,[1] Or Warthall's gone for ever and aye. Shelley Hall in Suffolk, the remains of which still exist, was lost at play by Thomas Kerridge, the last squire, who died in 1743. According to tradition, he gambled away the house room by room; and when all the contents were gone and the house gutted, he pulled down certain portions and gambled away the bricks. Blo' Norton Hall, Norfolk, is also said to have been lost at play by its owner, Gawdy Brampton, who, when he was finally ruined, committed suicide in an attic, from which his ghost is still said to emerge and haunt an adjoining staircase--perhaps because his widow married the man who had won his money and the old Hall. Many of the small tradesmen in the country towns were eager devotees of chance, and sharpers frequently reaped a rich harvest in provincial centres. Indeed, the happy-go-lucky spirit of the eighteenth century was very favourable to such gentry, who pillaged all ranks without distinction. About 1780 there resided at Canterbury a barber who was famous for the way in which he made natty one-curled hunting wigs, but who was also much given to making bets and to boasting of his discernment and judgment. Two blacklegs, coming to Canterbury for the races, heard of this barber and immediately formed a plan to shave him in his own way. To accomplish the business, they went to one of the principal inns, where, ordering a capital supper, they sent for the perruquier to bespeak wigs for themselves and their servants. The knight of the strop readily and cheerfully attended; and, having taken the external dimensions of the gentlemen's heads, whilst totally ignorant of the schemes which lay within them, was about to depart, but was prevented by a pressing invitation from his new customers to take supper with them. He was of a convivial turn and fond of company, which in his own opinion afforded opportunities of displaying his great sagacity in the mysteries of betting; and for this reason he politely accepted the invitation. After supper, a game of whist was suggested, but as the barber did not feel himself so great an adept at this as at his favourite game of "done and done," the proposal fell to the ground. As the guest of the evening was a great politician, and his companions were well informed of his manners and character, the conversation turned upon politics, from that unaccountably veering round till wagers became the general topic. Highly delighted at the introduction of a subject of which he deemed himself a perfect master, the barber listened with the greatest attention to the conversation, and eagerly offered several bets himself. As his two companions appeared rather shy, and hinted that it would not be safe to bet with a man who calculated matters so shrewdly as generally to win, he became very anxious to get the better of men whom he considered as "pigeons"--though, unluckily for him, they turned out to be "rooks." After many propositions, they offered to bet him ten guineas that he would not repeat one sentence, and that only, during the space of ten minutes. Cunningly thinking that he had his men, the barber started up and swore he could repeat any sentence for an hour. After having blithely stepped home for a supply of cash, he returned, and a bet of fifty guineas having been made, both stakes were deposited under a hat on the table, the conditions being that the barber should without intermission repeat the words "_There he goes_," for half an hour's continuance. He accordingly took his station at the table, and, with a watch before him to note the time, began his recital of _There he goes_, _There he goes_, _There he goes_. When he had kept on in a steady and unalterable tone for a quarter of an hour, one of the gentlemen, with a view to lead the barber from his stated subject, lifted up the hat, counted out half the money, and saying "D--n me if I don't go," put the cash in his pocket and walked off. This circumstance, however, had no effect upon the barber. A few minutes later the man who remained coolly pocketed the residue of the money, and added, as the barber repeated the words _There he goes_, "And d--n me if I don't follow him." The barber was now left alone with his eyes riveted on the watch, anxious for the expiration of the short time which still remained to elapse before his bet was won, but more confident than ever. In the meantime, the departure of the two strangers without settling the bill excited the notice of the landlord; he went into the room, and the barber, looking him in the face, kept repeating _There he goes_, "Yes, sir, I know it; they have both been gone some time; pray are you to pay the bill?" No answer being given but _There he goes_, the host immediately ran for the barber's wife and a doctor, supposing him in a state of hopeless delirium. They arrived; his wife, taking him round the neck, in vain endeavoured to make him deviate from his purpose; the doctor, after feeling his pulse, pronounced him in a high fever, and was getting ready his apparatus for opening a vein, when the time expired, and the barber in a frenzy of excitement, jumped upon the table and exclaimed, "Bravo, I have won fifty guineas of the two gentlemen who are gone out!" The persons present now concluded, beyond a doubt, that he had lost his senses; his wife screamed, and the landlord called for assistance to have him secured. When matters were explained, however, the landlord had a horse saddled, and rode in pursuit of the gentlemen, to remind them of their forgetfulness. After riding about ten miles, he overtook them in a lonely part of the road. Here he reminded them that they had not paid their bill, upon which they presented pistols to his head, robbed him of between twenty and thirty guineas, and advised him not to travel again upon such a foolish errand, but to look better after his inn, and tell the barber to be careful how he made his bets in future. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: A three.] II The spirit of play in the eighteenth century--The Duke of Buckingham's toast--Subscription-Houses, Slaughter-Houses, and Hells--The staff of a gaming-house--Joseph Atkinson and Bellasis--Raids on King's Place and Grafton Mews--Methods employed by Bow Street officers--Speculative insurance--Increase of gaming in London owing to arrival of _émigrés_--Gambling amongst the prisoners of war--The Duc de Nivernois and the clergyman--Faro and E.O.--Crusade against West-End gamblers--The Duchess of Devonshire and "Old Nick"--Mr. Lookup--Tiger Roche--Dick England--Sad death of Mr. Damer--Plucking a pigeon. During the last ten years of the reign of George II., "that destructive fury, the spirit of play" wrought great havoc in London. Gaming was declared to have become the business rather than the amusement of persons of quality, who were accused (probably with considerable truth) of being more concerned with speculation than with the proceedings of Parliament. Estates were almost as frequently made over by whist and hazard as by deeds and settlements, whilst the chariots of the nobility might be said to roll upon four aces. As a means of settling disputes, the wager was stated to have supplanted the sword, all differences of opinion being adjusted by betting. In fashionable circles and at Court, gambling was especially prevalent. In January 1753 it was recorded that "His Majesty played at St. James's Palace on Twelfth Night for the benefit of the Groom-Porter." All the members of the Royal Family present on this occasion appear to have been winners, the Duke of Cumberland getting £3000. Amongst the losers were the Duke of Grafton and the Lords Huntingdon, Holdernesse, Ashburnham, and Hertford. The exact amount of benefit which accrued to the Groom-Porter from the evening's play does not transpire. Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington, had a house near the site of the present Buckingham Palace, which went by his name. It was afterwards purchased by John Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham, who, after obtaining an additional grant of land from the Crown, rebuilt it in a magnificent manner in 1703. During his residence here, the Duke was a constant visitor at the then noted gaming-house in Marylebone, the place of assemblage of all the infamous sharpers of the time. His Grace always gave them a dinner at the conclusion of the season, and his parting toast was, "May as many of us as remain unhanged next spring meet here again." Quin related this story at Bath, within the hearing of Lord Chesterfield, when his Lordship was surrounded by a crowd of worthies of the same stamp. Lady Mary Wortley alludes to the amusement in this line:-- Some Dukes at Marybone bowl time away. As the century waned, play became more and more popular in London. So great indeed was the toleration accorded to gaming in the West End of the town that what were virtually public tables may be said to have existed. These were well-known under the names of Subscription-Houses, Slaughter-Houses, and Hells, and were frequented by less aristocratic gamesters than the Clubs, where whist, piquet, and other games were played for large sums. At the houses not inaptly called Hells, hazard was played every night, and faro on certain nights in each and every week, nearly all the year round. These Hells were the resort of gentlemen, merchants, tradesmen, clerks, and sharpers of all degrees and conditions, very expensive dinners being given twice or thrice a week to draw together a large company, who, if they meant to play, were abundantly supplied with wines and liquors gratis. The advantage to the faro bank varied at different stages of the game: the least advantage to the proprietor of the bank, and against the punter, was about three and a half per cent and the greatest twenty-six per cent. It is said that the annual expense of maintaining one of these Hells exceeded £8000, which of course came out of the pockets of its frequenters. Quite a large army of retainers were attached to every well-regulated gaming-house. The first, and of the greatest importance, was the commissioner, always a proprietor, who looked in at night, the week's account being audited by him and two other proprietors. Then followed the director, who superintended the rooms; the operator, who dealt the cards at faro, or any other game; the croupier, who watched the cards and gathered the money for the bank; a puff, handsomely paid to decoy others to play; a clerk, who acted as a check upon the puff, to see that he embezzled none of the money given him to play with; a squib, who was a puff of meaner rank, and received but a low salary, whilst learning to deal; a flasher, to swear how often the bank had been stripped; a dunner, who went about to recover money lost at play; a waiter, to fill out wine, snuff candles, and attend the gaming-room; an attorney, the sharper the better; a captain, ready to fight any gentleman who might be peevish at losing his money; an usher, to light gentlemen up and downstairs, and give the porter the word; a porter, who was generally a foot soldier; an orderly man, whose duty consisted in walking up and down on the outside of the door to give notice to the porter, and alarm the house at the approach of the constables; a runner, employed to obtain intelligence of the justices' meeting. Beside these, there were link-boys, coachmen, chairmen, drawers, and others, who might bring information of danger, at half a guinea each for every true alarm. Finally, there was a sort of affiliated irregular force, the members of which--affidavitmen, ruffians, and bravoes--were capable of becoming assassins upon occasion. A celebrated sporting resort at the end of the eighteenth century was Mundy's Coffee-House, in Round Court, opposite York Buildings, in the Strand, then kept by Sporting Medley (the owner of Bacchus and some other horses of eminence upon the Turf). Here thousands were nightly transferred over the hazard and card tables by O'Kelly, Stroud, Tetherington, and a long list of adventurous followers. Another famous gaming-house was kept by a certain Joseph Atkinson and his wife at No. 15 under the Piazza, in Covent Garden. Here they daily gave elaborate dinners, cards of invitation being sent to the clerks of merchants, bankers, and brokers in the city. Atkinson used to say that he liked citizens--whom he called "flats"--better than any one else, for when they had dined they played freely, and after they had lost all their money they had credit to borrow more. It was his custom to send any pigeons who had been completely plucked to some of their solvent friends, who could generally be induced to arrange matters in a satisfactory way. The game generally played here was E.O.,[2] a sort of roulette. Keepers of gaming-houses in London were very liable to be black-mailed by men whose principal means of livelihood was obtaining "hush money." A certain class of individuals existed who for a specific amount undertook to defend keepers of Hells against prosecutions. One of the most notorious of these was Theophilus Bellasis, sometimes clerk and sometimes client to a Bow Street attorney--John Shepherd by name--who would, when it was likely to be profitable, act as prosecutor of persons keeping gaming-houses. The magistrates at last realised the collusion which existed between Bellasis and Shepherd, and refused to move in cases where the two rogues were concerned. The houses, called by sharpers Slaughter-Houses, were those where persons were employed by the proprietors to pretend to be playing at hazard for large sums of money, with a view to inducing some unthinking individual to join in the play. When the scheme succeeded, the pigeon, by means of loaded dice and other fraudulent methods, was eventually dispossessed of all his cash, and perhaps plunged into debt, for which a bond was given, the embarrassments of which he felt for some years after. If, however, he returned to play again with the hope of regaining what in such company was past redemption, his ruin was quickly and completely sealed. At one time, the parish officers of St. Ann's, Soho, set up a number of lanterns and boards with the words "_Beware of bad houses_" painted upon them, for the purpose of ridding the neighbourhood of dissolute and abandoned women. In consequence of this having had the desired effect, it was proposed to put up similarly-worded notices near the Hells and Slaughter-Houses of St. James's, but the idea was never carried into effect. Places where faro was played abounded about Pall Mall and St. James's Street, and from time to time exciting scenes were witnessed when the authorities decided upon making a raid. In 1799 considerable uproar was caused in Pall Mall by a raid upon Nos. 1 and 3 King's Place, which were attacked by what were facetiously termed the "Bow Street troops" acting under a search warrant. These in a very short time carried the place by storm, and took ten prisoners, together with a great quantity of baggage, stores, which consisted mainly of tables for rouge-et-noir and hazard; cards, dice, counters, strong doors, bars and bolts. The attack began by a stratagem put into execution by "General Rivett," who was in supreme command of the attacking force. He sought to gain an entrance at the street door of No. 1; but this having failed, and all attempts to force it having proved ineffectual, one of the light troops mounted the counterscarp of the area, and descended into the kitchen, while another scaled a ladder affixed to a first floor of No. 3; and having each made good their footing, opposition being then abandoned by the besieged who had betaken themselves to flight, the attacking force without molestation opened the gates and let in the main body, after which a general search and pursuit ensued. Several gamblers retreated to the top of the houses adjoining, whither they were followed and taken prisoners; one poor devil, the supposed proprietor of No. 3, was smoked in a chimney, from whence he was dragged down--a black example to all gamesters! Three French _émigrés_ were among the captured, one of whom had his retreat cut off just as he was issuing from a house in Pall Mall, through which he had descended unobserved, and by which way some others escaped. Mother Windsor and her nymphs, who were well-known residents in the locality, were much alarmed by the operations; and the old lady, who declared that the presence of gaming in the vicinity had long been a scandal, vociferously applauded to the skies the vigilance of the police in putting down such pests of society. [Illustration: A RAID ON A LONDON GAMING-HOUSE. From a Print in the possession of Messrs. Robson & Co., 23 Coventry Street, W.] About the same time No. 13 Grafton Mews, Fitzroy Square, obtained an unenviable reputation as being a veritable Temple of Fraud, an illegal lottery insurance business being carried on there, which impoverished the poorer class of people residing in the neighbourhood. The house in question, which it was said had been specially built, was to all appearance a square brick tower about fifty feet high--on three sides it presented not the slightest sign of habitation; towards Grafton Mews, however, it bore the usual semblance of a stable. To this place flocked grooms, valets, and all the silly fry of the district, carrying with them as much money as they could scrape together. Business was generally over by the afternoon, when the proprietors, who never made their exit by the door, climbed up to the top of the tower, and got through a hole in the roof--from which, by a ladder, they descended to a slated roof of a back place about twenty feet lower; they then crawled along about twenty feet of wall, and by an aperture in another, like a gun-port, descended into a back yard, and completed their cat-like line of march through a house in Hertford Street. This, to the astonishment of the neighbours, was done regularly every morning. The place having become a public scandal, Townshend, with several Bow Street runners and four carpenters, went to Warren Street one morning, three hackney coaches being posted at some distance from the scene of action. On the arrival of the peace officers, the four proprietors of No. 13 came out through the roof, and planted their ladder; but it gave way, and they were obliged to jump upon the slated roof twenty feet below them. By some marvellous chance, however, they escaped uninjured, the slates only being broken. They then jumped upon an adjacent wall, and flung their books into the garden of a gentleman's house. No. 17 Warren Street, and followed themselves; their idea was to escape through his back door, but the owner was fortunately at home, and resisted this design. They then leaped the wall of the next house, Drover's, the hairdresser, with their books, and in this house they were secured. One of them fired a pistol at the officers, which fortunately did no harm. The runners had cutlasses and axes, with which they made their way into the house. The inhabitants of the district, it may be added, did not exhibit any enthusiasm for the officers of the law--on the contrary, they showed considerable displeasure against those who had come there to preserve most of them from misery and ruin. The informer, never a popular character, was a lean, cadaverous old woman. She accompanied the swindlers in the first coach, with the hootings of the rabble in her ears, and the whole cavalcade moved off the ground, escorted by a very hostile crowd which accompanied it to Bow Street. Here the four men, who had been arrested with so much difficulty, were sentenced to six months' imprisonment each in the house of correction in Coldbath Fields. It would appear that previous to 1778 gaming was never conducted upon the methodical system of partnership concerns, wherein considerable capital was embarked. After that period, the vast licence allowed to keepers of fraudulent E.O. tables, and the great length of time which elapsed before they met with any check from the police, afforded a number of dissolute and abandoned characters many excellent opportunities of acquiring property, which was afterwards increased in the low gaming-houses, by nefarious methods at Newmarket and other fashionable places of resort, and in the lottery. At length, though these individuals had started without any property, or any visible means of lawful support, a sum of money, little short of one million sterling, was said to have been acquired by a class originally (with some few exceptions) of the lowest and most depraved description. This enormous mass of wealth was employed as a great and an efficient capital for carrying on various illegal establishments, particularly gaming-houses, and houses for fraudulent insurances in the lottery. Part of this capital was even said to be utilised in subsidising various faro banks kept by ladies of fashion, whilst a certain proportion was also devoted to fraudulent insurance in the lotteries, where the chances were calculated to yield about thirty per cent to the gambling syndicate, most of the members of which maintained a number of clerks, employed during the drawing of the lotteries, who conducted the business, without risk, in counting-houses where no insurances were taken, but to which books were carried, not only from the different offices in every part of the town, but also from the "Morocco-men," who went from door to door taking insurances, and enticing the poor and the middle ranks to become adventurers. In calculating the chances upon the whole numbers in the wheels, and the premiums which were paid, there was generally about £33:1:3 per cent in favour of the lottery insurers: but when it is considered that the people generally, from not being able to understand or recollect high numbers, always fixed on low ones, the chance in favour of the insurer was greatly increased, and the deluded poor plundered. In the early part of the eighteenth century, speculative insurance, which could be effected upon anything, including lives, was a favourite form of gambling in England. Any one's life could be insured, including that of the King, and, to such an extent was this carried, that daily quotations of the rates on the lives of eminent public personages were issued by members of Garraway's and Lloyd's. The highest premium ever paid is supposed to have been twenty-five per cent on the life of George II., when he fought at Dettingen. On the fall of the leaders of the Rebellion of 1745 very large sums changed hands; whilst a number of insurance brokers were absolutely ruined owing to the escape of Lord Nithsdale from the Tower--an exploit which this nobleman accomplished by the aid of his devoted wife. As time went on these speculative insurances became a public scandal, and they were finally made illegal by the Gambling Act of 1774. At the time of the French Revolution hordes of _émigrés_ of all classes took up their temporary or permanent residence in London, with the result that over thirty gaming-places were, more or less, publicly established in the Metropolis. Here, besides faro and hazard, the foreign games of roulette and rouge-et-noir flourished, a regular gradation of houses existing, suited to all ranks, from the man of fashion to the pickpocket. The mania for gaming amongst the exiles was confined to no particular class--high and low alike being affected by it. Nothing, for instance, could exceed the rage for gambling which possessed the prisoners of war at Dartmoor. About two hundred of them, including a number of Italians, having lost all their clothes by gaming, were sent to the prison ships in the Hamoaze, to be clothed anew, many more being left in rags. These unfortunate men played even for their rations, living three or four days on offal, cabbage-stalks, or, indeed, anything which chance might throw in their way. They staked the clothes on their backs, and even their bedding. It was the custom at Dartmoor for those who had sported away the latter article to huddle very close together at night, in order to keep each other warm. One out of the number was elected boatswain for the time being, and at twelve o'clock at night would pipe all hands to turn, an operation which, from their proximity to each other, had to be simultaneous. At four o'clock in the morning the pipe was heard again, and the reverse turn taken. Such of the _émigrés_ belonging to the upper classes as possessed funds could easily indulge their passion for play in the fashionable circles where many of them had made themselves popular during previous and more pleasant visits to England. Many, like the Duc de Nivernois, had intimate friends in high places. Before the Revolution he had been Ambassador in England. This nobleman was well known for his love of chess, which on one occasion led to a very pleasant incident. Staying with Lord Townshend, the Duc, when out for a ride was obliged by a heavy shower to seek shelter at a wayside house occupied by a clergyman, who to a poor curacy added the care of a few scholars in the neighbourhood. In all this might make his living about eighty pounds a year, on which he had to maintain a wife and six children. When the Duc rode up, the clergyman, not knowing his rank, begged him to come in and dry himself, which he was glad to do, borrowing a pair of old worsted stockings and slippers and warming himself by a good fire. After some conversation the Duc observed an old chess-board hanging up, and asked the clergyman whether he could play. The latter told him that he could play pretty tolerably, but found it difficult in that part of the country to get an antagonist. "I am your man," said the Duc. "With all my heart," answered the clergyman, "and if you will stay and take pot-luck, I will try if I cannot beat you." The day continuing rainy the Duc accepted the proffered hospitality, and found his antagonist a much better player than himself. Indeed, the clergyman won every game. This, however, in no way annoyed the Duc, who was delighted to meet with a man who could give him so much entertainment at his favourite game. He accordingly inquired into the state of his host's family affairs, and making a memorandum of his address, he thanked him and rode away without revealing who he was. Some months elapsed and the clergyman never thought of the matter, when one evening a footman rode up to the door and delivered the following note--"The Duc de Nivernois presents his compliments to the Rev. Mr. Bentinck, and as a remembrance of the good drubbing he received at chess, begs that he will accept the living of X----, worth £400 per annum, and that he will wait upon his Grace the Duke of Newcastle on Friday next, to thank him for the same." The good clergyman was some time before he could imagine this missive to be more than a jest, and hesitated to obey the mandate; but as his wife insisted on his taking the chance, he went up to town, where to his unspeakable satisfaction he found that his nomination to the living had actually taken place. The habits of dissipation which had prevailed at Versailles in some measure affected the English upper classes, many of whom were thoroughly versed in the amusements so popular in France. For a time a positive rage for gaming seized fashionable London, and a number of ladies kept what were practically public gaming-tables to which any one with money could obtain comparatively easy admission. Faro is supposed to have been invented by a noble Venetian, who gave it the name of _bassetta_; and for the evils resulting from it he was banished his country. In 1674 Signor Justiniani, Ambassador from Venice, introduced the game into France, where it was called _bassette_. Some of the princes of the blood, many of the _noblesse_, and several persons of the greatest fortune having been ruined by it, a severe law was enacted by Louis XIV. against its play. To elude this edict, it was disguised under the name of _pour et contre_, "for and against"; and this occasioning new and severe prohibitions, it was again changed to the name of _le pharaon_, in order to evade the _arrêts_ of Parliament. From France this game soon found its way to England, where it was first called basset, but in the fashionable circles, where at that time it enjoyed a great vogue, it was invariably known by the name of faro. Faro, pharo, or pharaoh, which was Fox's favourite game, was supposed to be easy to learn, fair in its rules, and pleasant to play. Two packs of cards were used, and any number of people could play, one pack being for the players whilst the banker had another. Fifty-two cards were spread out, and the players staked upon one or more which they might fancy. The banker dealt out his pack to the right, which was for himself, and to the left (called the _carte anglaise_) for the players, who instead of their pack often used a "livret," specially adapted for staking. The "livret" consisted of thirteen cards, with four others called "figures." The "little figure" had a blue cross on each side, and represented ace, deuce, and three. The "yellow figure"--yellow on both sides--signified 4, 5, and 6. The "third figure" had a black lozenge in the centre, and stood for 7, 8, and 9. The "great figure" was a red card, and indicated knave, queen, and king. The banker won all the money staked on any card corresponding with a card dealt by him to the right, and had to pay double stakes on any card dealt to the left which players had selected in their own pack. If he dealt two equal cards (called a doublet) he won half of all the money staked upon the card of that value, and on the last card of his pack, did the players win, he only paid even money. In reality the chances were very favourable to the holder of the bank. Complaints were very rife as to the way in which these faro parties were conducted. An especial grievance was "card money," a small sum paid by each visitor into a pool for every new pack of cards used. This money was supposed to be a perquisite of the servants, though malicious rumours declared that it never reached them. The advent of French _émigrés_ after the French Revolution was also the cause of considerable irritation, it being declared that many of the exiled _noblesse_ completely monopolised some of the tables, round which they formed a circle, and excluded English ladies and gentlemen from taking part in the game. The losses of many of those who played at faro were so heavy and constant that the banks contracted many bad debts; and in addition the fashionable parties in time became full of little tricks and artifices which were to the detriment of those holding the bank. Some of the latter found it advisable to employ eight croupiers instead of the four usually attached to each faro table, for the pigeons were all flown and those who remained were little better than hawks. Faro, in the female circles of fashion, had given way to a more specious and alluring game called lottery, which, instead of wheels, consisted of two bags, from which prizes and blanks were drawn. The holder of the bank derived an advantage of upwards of thirty per cent. About 1794 some of the ladies who gave gambling parties in St. James's Square began to add roulette as an increased attraction to those fond of gaming. It was remarked at the time that this was merely the old game of E.O. under a different name. As a matter of fact the two are somewhat alike, though roulette is a far more complicated and amusing method of losing money. An E.O. table was circular in form and as a rule four feet in diameter. The outside edge formed the counter on which the stakes were placed, the letters E.O. being marked all round it. In the centre was a stationary gallery in which the ball rolled, and an independent round table moving by means of handles on an axis. The ball was started in one direction and the table rotated in the other, there being forty compartments of equal size, twenty marked E and twenty marked O, the whole principle being that of roulette without a zero. This very necessary adjunct to a successful bank, was in time furnished by the adoption of "bar holes" into which two of the forty spaces were converted, the practice being that the banker won all the bets on the opposite letter whilst not paying over that into which the ball fell. With such a proportion of two in forty, or five per cent in its favour, the banks did very well. Gaming raged throughout Society at this time, and it was even declared that young ladies were taught whist and casino at fashionable boarding-schools, where their "winning ways" were cultivated in this direction. One schoolmistress, it was averred, was in despair at the dullness of her pupils, who were quite unable to grasp the comparatively easy intricacies of faro. Gillray was quick to grasp the opportunity which such a state of affairs afforded to his powers of satire, and was pitiless in his caricatures of female gamblers. "Faro's Daughters, or the Kenyonian Blow-up to Gamblers," published in 1796, was one of the most striking of these. In this Lady Archer and Mrs. Concannon were shown in the pillory, upbraiding one another. Lord Kenyon had made some very scathing comments upon the vice of gaming during a recent trial to recover fifteen pounds won at play on a Sunday, and had declared that the highest society was setting the worst example to the lowest, being under the impression that it was too great for the law. He himself, he added, should the opportunity arise, would see that any gamblers brought before him, whatever their rank or station, should be severely dealt with if convicted, and though they might be the first ladies in the land they should certainly exhibit themselves in the pillory. Gambling in the West End of London amongst ladies had indeed become a public scandal, and in due course the authorities found themselves bound to take action. In 1797 a regular crusade was made against faro, and the Countess of Buckinghamshire, Lady Elizabeth Luttrell, Mrs. Mary Sturt, Mr. Concannon, and Mr. O'Burne, were charged at Marlborough Street with having "played at a certain fraudulent and unlawful game called faro, at the house of the Earl of Buckinghamshire, in St. James's Square." With them was also charged Henry Martindale, who had financed the bank--the four or five people employed to run the table were each paid half a guinea a night by him, tenpence out of which was deducted for the use of the maids. A witness, Joseph Evatt by name, deposed that he had seen Lady Buckinghamshire play every Monday and Friday, as regular as the days came. Her ladyship, said he, used to continue _punting_ and betting, paying and receiving, from night till morning. The lady's counsel, Mr. Onslow, endeavoured to invalidate this man's testimony by showing that he was a terrible democrat, and disaffected to His Majesty's person and government; and also by proving that he wanted to palm an old suit of livery on his master, and to persuade the tailor to charge for a new one, and give him part of the money. To prove the first charge Mr. Onslow examined the witness Evatt himself, and asked him if he had not declared that the Government was a bad one, and that he should like to cut the King's head off? The magistrate, Mr. Conant, would not suffer him to answer such a question. To prove the latter, the foreman of Mr. Blackmore, a tailor, said that Evatt having saved a suit of livery as good as new, wanted Mr. Blackmore to take it, allow him four guineas, and send it home as a new suit. The magistrate did not consider this such a notorious piece of fraud in a footman, as to prevent his being believed on his oath. Joseph Burford swore to the fact of Lady Buckinghamshire playing repeatedly. Mr. Onslow ended by saying that he trusted the magistrate would not, upon the evidence of such men as Evatt and Burford, convict Lady Buckinghamshire, and hold her up as an object for the finger of democratic scorn to point at. Notwithstanding this defence, the lady was sentenced to pay a fine of fifty pounds, as were Lady Elizabeth Luttrell, Mrs. Mary Sturt, and Mr. O'Burne. The case against Mr. Concannon was quashed owing to his having been described as Lucas Concannon instead of Lucius. Martindale was fined two hundred pounds, and in consequence of the scandal produced by the whole affair was eventually made a bankrupt, by which the ladies of the fashionable world were thrown into a state of considerable alarm. Martindale it was who supplied the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, and many other dashing women of distinction, with sums to support their gambling propensities. His assignees were said to have claims on some of the first families of England to the amount of £180,000, and the curious disclosures which were made engrossed much attention in all the sporting circles. Many of the great ladies of that day lived only for pleasure, spending enormous sums in dress, and also in carriages and horseflesh, it being a point of honour amongst them to possess a superb turn-out. One lady, well known for the splendour of her equipage at race meetings where she cut a distinguished figure, once apologised to a friend for appearing at Doncaster with a humble four-in-hand and four out-riders, saying that her coachman wished to come with six horses as usual, but she thought it right, in such hard times, to come "incog." The gambling ladies of that day came into contact with all sorts of shady characters, many of whom were very unpolished diamonds. Such a one was the man known as "Old Nick," whose principal revenue was drawn from a hazard table where strangers were treated with a hospitality which they generally had good cause to remember. Old Nick also had a considerable interest in a number of lottery insurance offices, lent money, and gambled himself when able to get in contact with any unplucked pigeon. Having once stripped a young man at cards of about £100, with which he had been entrusted for the purpose of paying a bill for the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, her Grace applied in person to the winner to refund the whole, or, at least, a part of his booty. Old Nick's answer was: "Well, Madam, the best thing you can do is to sit down with me at cards, and play for all you have about you; after I win your smock, so far from refunding, I'll send you home _bare_--to your Duke, my dear." One of his friends being under trial for a very serious charge and having no defence left but his character, produced Old Nick in order to vouch for his respectability. The latter's ready eloquence represented him as the most amiable and innocent of the creation. The counsel for the prosecution having smelt a rat, began to ply the witness with such questions as he positively refused to answer. Being asked the reason, he answered honestly for once in his life: "My business here was to give the man a good character, and you, you flat, imagine that I'm come to give him a bad one." [Illustration: THE BEAUTIFUL DUCHESS THROWING A MAIN. By Rowlandson.] In the early part of the year 1805 the West End was much excited by a statement in a morning paper referring to the supposed discovery by the Duke of Devonshire of immense losses at play, principally to gamesters of her own sex, incurred by his lovely Duchess. Her Grace's whole loss, chiefly at faro, was declared to amount to £176,000, of which a private gentlewoman and bosom friend, Mrs. ---- was said to have won no less than £30,000. The discovery was made to the Duke one Sunday; the Duchess rushed into his library, and, in a flood of tears, told him she was ruined in fame and reputation, if these claims of honour were not instantly discharged. His Grace was thunderstruck when he learned the extent of her requisition, and the names of the friends who had contributed in so extraordinary a manner to such extreme embarrassments. Having soothed her in the best manner he was able, he sent for two confidential friends, imparted to them all the circumstances, and asked them how he should act. Their answer was promptly given--"Pay not one guinea of any such infamous demands!" and this advice, it was supposed, would be strictly adhered to by the Duke. Her Grace was said to have executed some bonds, to satisfy, for a moment, these gambling claimants; but, of course, they could be of no avail. Two gentlemen and five ladies formed the snug flock of rooks that had so unmercifully stripped this female pigeon of distinction. A few days later, however, _The Morning Herald_, which was responsible for the startling news, declared that the fiction of the female gamblers of distinction in a house fitted up near St. James's Street for their ruinous orgies, began to die away; for it had been discovered that the supposed pigeoned Duchess, declared to have sacrificed half a million sterling of her lord's fortune, had never gambled at any game of chance, whilst her amiable companion, who was a pattern of domestic propriety, instead of having helped to pluck her Grace, had never played for a guinea in the course of her life. This denial was probably inspired from influential quarters. The gambling ladies seem to have fallen into obscurity when the nineteenth century began; the "faro dames," as they were called, found their occupation gone. Their game, at which few of them had "cut with honours," was up, and their "odd tricks" were no longer of any avail in London. One of the most notorious, Mrs. Concannon, migrated to Paris, where her house continued for some time to be the meeting-place of those fond of deep play. Whist now began to be a good deal played at fashionable parties, but in 1805 four-handed cribbage became the fashionable game in the West End, and whist, during a temporary eclipse, as it declined in the West, rose with increase of splendour in the East. At a city club the stakes played for were ten pounds a game, and guineas were betted on the odd trick. A select party of business men, well known on the city side of Temple Bar, once played at whist from one Wednesday afternoon till the next Friday night, and only left off then because two of the players were unfortunately Jews. At another whist party, a lady who had not been accustomed to move in quite as good society as the other guests, won a rubber of twenty guineas. The gentleman who was her opponent pulled out his pocket-book and tendered £21 in bank-notes.[3] The fair gamester observed, with a disdainful toss of her head: "In the great houses which I frequent, sir, we always use gold." "That may be, madam," replied the gentleman, "but in the little houses which I frequent we always use paper!" At this time adventurers abounded, many of whom profited by the speculative tendencies of the age. A character of the first magnitude in the annals of gaming, for instance, was a Mr. Lookup, who lived towards the close of the eighteenth century. A Scotchman by birth, a gamester by profession, he accumulated a considerable fortune by methods of none too reputable a kind. Originally an apprentice to an apothecary in the north of England, he acted in that profession as journeyman in the city of Bath. Soon after the death of his master, he paid his addresses to his mistress, the widow; and, having none of that bashful modesty about him which is sometimes an obstacle to a man in such pursuits, and being a remarkably tall stout man, with a tolerably good figure, he prevailed on the Bath matron to favour him with her hand. From his infancy Lookup manifested a strong propensity for play, and as he grew up became very expert at several games. Till his marriage, however, he was hampered by lack of funds, which prevented him from exercising his skill and judgment to much advantage. Finding himself master of five hundred pounds brought to him by his wife, he soon shut up shop, and turned his application from pharmacy to speculation. He became a first-rate piquet and whist player, and soon mastered various other games of chance and skill; in a short time, by incessant industry, greatly increasing his capital. Lord Chesterfield and Mr. Lookup, for a long time, played constant matches at piquet together, the former being something of an adept at the game; but Mr. Lookup's superior skill at length prevailed, with the result that very considerable gains passed into his pocket. Lord Chesterfield would also sometimes amuse himself at billiards with Mr. Lookup, and upon one of these occasions the peer had the laugh turned against him by the sharp tactics of his antagonist. Mr. Lookup had met with an accident by which he was deprived of the sight of one of his eyes, though to any cursory observer it appeared as perfect as the other. Having beaten the peer playing evens, Lookup asked how many his lordship would give him, if he put a patch upon one eye. Lord Chesterfield agreed to give him five, upon which Lookup beat him several times successively. At length his lordship, with some petulance, exclaimed, "Lookup, I think you play as well with one eye as two." "I don't wonder at it, my lord," replied Lookup, "for I have seen only out of one for these ten years." With the money he won of Lord Chesterfield he bought some houses at Bath, and jocularly named them Chesterfield Row. After he had accumulated a considerable sum by play, Mr. Lookup went to London, and, having buried his wife, married another widow with a very large fortune. His plan of operations was now much enlarged; and, though he played occasionally for his own amusement, or when he met with what is termed a "good thing," he abandoned gaming as a regular profession. He now struck out several schemes, some visionary and others advantageous; among the former being a project for making saltpetre. A foreigner having drawn up a specious plan, presented it to Lookup, who, from his superficial knowledge of chemistry, thought the scheme practicable. A considerable range of buildings was erected for carrying on these works near Chelsea; salaries were appointed for the directors and supervisors, and large sums expended to bring this favourite scheme to perfection. So sanguine were Lookup's hopes of success, that he persuaded a particular friend of his (Captain Hamilton) to become a partner, with the result that the latter lost many thousands. At length, tired with the fruitless expense and repeated disappointments, he abandoned this project for others less delusive. Mr. Lookup was concerned in many privateering ventures, several of which proved successful; at any rate he was thought to be a substantial gainer in these enterprises. At the close of the war he engaged in the African trade, and had considerable dealings in that commerce to the time of his decease. As he grew old, however, his darling passion would at times predominate; and within a few weeks of his death he was known to sit up whole nights playing for very considerable sums. It was even averred that he died with a pack of cards in his hand, at his favourite game of humbug or two-handed whist; on which Sam Foote jocularly observed, "that Lookup was _humbugged_ out of the world at last." Some description of Mr. Lookup's favourite game, of which he is said to have been the inventor, may not be out of place. Though now obsolete, it was once very popular at the rooms in Bath, and in the West End of London. Humbug may properly be called two-handed whist, as only two persons play. The cards are shuffled and cut; the lowest deals out all the cards, and turns up the last for the trump. Each player has now twenty-six cards in his hand, and the object is to make as many tricks as they can, all the laws of whist prevailing, the cards being of the same value as when four play. But the honours do not reckon any further than they prevail in making tricks by their superiority over inferior cards; the tricks reckon from one to as many as are gained; for instance, if one player has twenty tricks, and the other only six, the first wins fourteen, and if they play a guinea a trick of course wins fourteen guineas. The game finishes every deal, when the balance is settled, and they then commence another game. As each player knows, at first, all the cards his adversary has in his hand, it is common, in order to sort them, to lay them with their faces up; but after they have ranged them, and begun to play, they are as careful of concealing their cards as they are at the common game of whist, it then depending upon memory to know what cards have been played and what remain in hand. As it is allowed only to turn up the last trick to see what has been played, a revoke is punished with the same rigour at this game as at whist; and the forfeiting three tricks is often worth more at humbug than at the former game. The London of the past swarmed with sharpers of every description on the look-out for rich young men. Billiard-rooms which are now quite decorous resorts were favourite haunts of these gentry. The noted Captain Roche, known as Tiger Roche, was once at the Bedford billiard-table, when it was extremely crowded. As he was knocking the balls about with a cue. Major Williamson, who wanted to talk to him about some business, desired him to leave off, as he monopolised the table and hindered gentlemen from playing. "Gentlemen!" exclaimed Roche with a sneer. "Why, Major, except you and I, and two or three more, there is not a gentleman in the room: the rest are all low blacklegs." On leaving the place the Major expressed some astonishment at his companion's rudeness, and wondered that, out of so numerous a company, it was not resented. "Oh, d--n the scoundrels, sir," said Roche; "there was no fear of that, as there was not a thief in the room that did not suppose himself one of the two or three gentlemen I mentioned." A particularly dangerous individual was the notorious Dick England, an Irishman of obscure origin, who rose to comparative prosperity through gaming and betting. A hard-headed man, England possessed great control over his temper, which, however, when given a free run, could be terrible. Having played at hazard one evening with a certain young tradesman of his acquaintance, England lost some three or four score pounds, for which he gave his draft upon Hankey, the banker. Having persuaded his antagonist to give him his revenge, the luck turned, and England not only won his money back, but as much more in addition. It then being late, he desired to retire, and requested his antagonist to pay in cash or to give a cheque upon his banker for the money which he had lost. The tradesman resolutely refused to do either, on the plea that he had been tricked, and that the money had not been fairly won. England once more demanded the money, and when it was again refused, he tripped up the young man's heels, rolled him up in the carpet, and snatching a case-knife from the sideboard, cut off his long hair close to the scalp. This violent action, coupled with the menacing attitude of England still flourishing the knife, and uttering the most deep-toned imprecations, had such an effect upon the young man in the stillness of past three o'clock in the morning, that he arose, and with the meekness of a lamb wrote a draft for the amount of his loss, took his leave very civilly, wishing the Captain a good morning, and never mentioned the circumstance again. [Illustration: SHARPERS AND BUCKS IN A BILLIARD ROOM.] Dick England was a constant frequenter of all places likely to afford him pigeons worth plucking. At a tennis court he met the Honourable Mr. Damer, who was in the habit of playing tennis for amusement and exercise. One evil day, however, when no one was about, Mr. Damer played a game with England, who was profuse in his admiration for his opponent's skill. Though Mr. Damer knew England's reputation, and would not have been seen at Ranelagh with him, or had him at his table for a thousand pounds, he was not proof against the man's flattery, and England soon became his habitual opponent at tennis. The latter, in league with other sharpers, soon sent to Paris for the best tennis player in the world, who on his arrival was instructed to lose unless given signals--the display of a certain coloured handkerchief, the raising of a bat, and similar signs--should be made. England now proceeded to begin the stripping of his dupe by pretending to back him for fifty or a hundred guineas a set, complaining bitterly of his losses when unsuccessful. Mr. Damer meanwhile was losing three, four, and sometimes five thousand guineas in a day; and with such blind avidity did he pursue this destructive game, that he soon found himself a loser of near forty thousand guineas. At last, he found it prudent to resist the propensity to play with England and his band of sharpers, some of whom were constantly at his house in Tilney Street, requesting payment. Mr. Damer offered them post-obits, bonds, or in short the best security he could then offer, his father, Lord Milton, afterwards Lord Dorchester, being alive; no, they would have cash. Mr. Damer could not find it; but, to his high sense of honour be it told, he threw himself at his father's feet; the worthy parent weighed the matter well, and sent his steward from Milton Abbey with power to pay every shilling, though he knew his son had been cheated of every guinea. The steward, however, arrived only in time to learn that his young master, having sent for five girls and a blind fiddler, had blown out his brains after a roystering carouse at a tavern in Covent Garden. According to Horace Walpole it was Fox who, with infinite good nature, went to meet Mrs. Damer on her way to town and prepared her for the dismal news. "Can," says Walpole, "the walls of Almack's help moralizing when £5000 a year in present and £22,000 in reversion are not sufficient for happiness and cannot check a pistol!" England was very fertile in expedients in plucking his pigeons. On one occasion, being with other blacklegs at Scarborough, and a rich dupe, from whom a good deal was expected, refusing to play after dinner, the party, having made the pigeon drunk and given the waiter five guineas to answer any awkward questions which might be asked in the morning, wrote out on slips of paper "D---- (the pigeon's name) owes me a hundred guineas." "D---- owes me eighty guineas," and so on. England, however, wrote "I owe D---- thirty guineas." The next morning England, meeting the guest of the night before on the cliff, said to him: "Well, we were all very merry last night." "We were indeed," replied the pigeon, "and I only hope I did not offend any one, for I must confess that I drank a good deal more than usual." "You were in good spirits, my dear fellow," said England, "that was all; and now, before I forget, let me pay you the thirty guineas I lost to you last night--I am not very lucky at cards." D---- stared, and positively denied having played for a shilling; but England assured him upon his honour that he had. He added that he had paid hundreds to men who having drunk deep remembered nothing till he had shown them his account. Mr. D---- thus fell into the trap laid for him, and, being a novice, put the notes in his pocket, thinking England the most upright man he had ever met. Shortly after, Mr. England's friends presented their cards. Mr. D----, thunderstruck at their demands, swore that he had never played with them, and indeed that he did not know of his having played at all, until Captain England, very much to his credit, had paid him thirty guineas, though he himself did not remember any cards or dice having been in the room. The leader of the band replied with great warmth, "Sir, it is the first time my honour was ever doubted. Captain England, and the waiter, will tell you I won a hundred guineas of you, though I was a great loser by the night's play." The victim of the plot, however, fortunately for himself, met some friends who were men of the world, and one of them having cross-examined the waiter, and promised him another five guineas if he spoke the truth, the latter at last admitted that England and his companions were notorious blacklegs, and that Mr. D---- did not play at all, or, if he did, it could not have been for five minutes, as the rest of the party were constantly ringing and making punch in their own way. On the advice of this friend D---- ended the matter by sending England back his thirty guineas with five more to pay the cost of the supper; and the blacklegs, finding that the affair was likely to do them no good, left Scarborough the next morning. A young Kingston brewer, Rolles by name, having publicly insulted England by calling him a blackleg at Ascot, the latter, who could snuff a candle with a pistol ball, called him out and shot him, after which he fled to the Continent, remarking: "Well, as I have shot a man I must be after making myself scarce." As an outlaw living in Paris, England continued to make money by play till the outbreak of the French Revolution, which for a time rather injured the avocation of sharpers in France. It is said, however, that he furnished the heads of our army with some valuable intelligence in its celebrated campaign in Flanders; and that, as a reward, his return to this country was facilitated, and an annuity promised him. On his arrival in London, he was tried and acquitted of the murder of Mr. Rolles. For the remainder of his life he appears to have completely abandoned gambling, and to have lived a very quiet existence near Leicester Square. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 2: Described at page 55.] [Footnote 3: £1 notes existed at this time.] III Former popularity of dice--The race game in Paris--Description of hazard--Jack Mytton's success at it--Anecdotes--French hazard--Major Baggs, a celebrated gamester of the past--Anecdotes of his career--London gaming-houses--Ways and methods of their proprietors--Ephraim Bond and his henchman Burge--"The Athenæum"--West-End Hells--Crockford's--Opinion of Mr. Crockford regarding play--The Act of 1845--Betting-houses--Nefarious tactics of their owners--Suppression in 1853. The most popular gambling game of the eighteenth century, at which great sums were lost and won, was "hazard," which emptied the pockets of multitudes in the West End, and proved the ruin of many a country squire fresh to the allurements of town. Before 1716 itinerant vendors usually carried dice with them, and customers, even children, were encouraged to throw for fruit, nuts, or sweets; and when the floors of the Middle Temple Hall were taken up nearly a hundred sets of dice which had fallen through the chinks in the flooring were found. Dice have been out of fashion for many years in the modern world, though quite recently they have begun to enjoy some slight popularity in France in connection with an elaborated form of the race game which at one time was a favourite amusement in English country houses. Two Clubs, the Racing Plomb Club and the Pur Plomb Club, now exist in Paris, the members of which declare that the movements of little leaden horses over a course, in accordance with the throw of the dice, are more amusing and exciting than roulette or baccarat. The little metal steeds used at this game are named after prominent race-horses on the French Turf. The races, called after events like the Grand Steeplechase and Grand Prix, are begun with three or four dice, continued with two, and end with one, the courses of Auteuil and Longchamps being realistically reproduced on the race-boards. A leaden horse which wins a certain number of races is accorded some advantage over the rest. For instance, a winner, say of stakes amounting to one hundred francs, advances seven points instead of six on the board when its owner throws a six, and so on in proportion, whilst if it has won sixteen hundred points a throw of six advances it eleven points. This racing game, which, however, is played rather for amusement than mere gambling, was revived by M. Fernand Vandéreux, who has brought it into popularity in Parisian literary and artistic circles. Hazard, which is now practically obsolete, seems to have made an irresistible appeal to the gaming instincts of former generations, and the financial ravages for which it was responsible eventually provoked such scandals that the game was rendered illegal in 1845. It was a somewhat complicated form of gambling, and in these days, when so many easy forms of speculation exist, would in all probability have died a natural death even without the intervention of the law. The following is an account of the game as played some fifty years ago, when it still enjoyed some popularity amongst racing men. The players assembled round a circular table, a space being reserved for the "groom-porter" (the term applied to the croupier), who occupied a somewhat elevated position, and whose duty it was to call the odds and see that the game was played according to rule. Two dice were used and the player who took the box placed as much money as he wished to risk in the centre of the table, where it was covered with an equal amount, either by some individual speculator, or by the contributions of several. The player (technically called the "caster") then proceeded to call a "main," that is to say, any number from 5 to 9; of these he would mentally select the one which either chance or superstition might suggest, call it aloud, then shake the box, and deliver the dice. If he threw the exact number he called, he "nicked" it, as the term went, and won; if he threw any other number (with a few exceptions, which will be mentioned), he neither won nor lost. The number, however, which he threw became his "chance," and if he could succeed in repeating it before he threw what was his main, he won; if not, he lost. In other words, having completely failed to throw his main in the first instance, he should have lost, but did not in consequence of the equitable interference of his newly-made acquaintance, which constituted itself his chance. If a player threw two aces (commonly called "crabs") he lost his stake. For example, suppose the caster "set"--that is, placed on the table--a stake of £10, and it was covered by an equal amount, and he then called 7 in as his main and threw 5; the groom-porter would at once call out "5 to 7"--meaning that 5 was the number to win and 7 the number to lose. The player then continued throwing until the event was determined by the turning up of either the main or the chance. Meanwhile, however, a most important feature in the game came into operation--the laying and taking of the odds caused by the relative proportions of the main and the chance. These, as has been said, were calculated with mathematical nicety, never varied, and were proclaimed by the groom-porter. In the instance given, as the caster stood to win with 5 and to lose with 7, the odds were declared to be 3 to 2 against him, inasmuch as there are three ways of throwing 7, and only two of throwing 5. If a player should "throw out" once, the box passed on to the next person on his left, who at once took up the play. He could, however, "throw in" without interruption, and if he was able to do this half a dozen times and back his luck, his gains would amount to a large sum, sixty to one being the odds against it. The choice of a main was quite optional: many preferred 7 in because they might make a coup at once by throwing that number, or by throwing 11, which is a "nick" to 7, but to 7 only. Many shrewd players, however, preferred some other main, with the view of having a more favourable chance to depend upon of winning both stake and odds. For example, let us reverse the case given above, and suppose the caster called 5 and threw 7; he would then have 7 as his chance to win odds of 3 to 2 in his favour. Such was the game of English hazard, at which large fortunes were lost. Cheating could only be effected by the use of loaded dice, which were called "dispatches," or by high and low dice having only certain numbers. Sharpers often carried these and also "cramped" boxes to make the dice fall in a particular way. So popular were dice with the gamesters of old that one of them left an injunction in his will that his bones should be made into dice and his skin into coverings for dice-boxes. The round table on which English hazard was played had a deeply bevelled edge, intended to prevent the dice from landing on the floor, which rendered a throw void. If either of the dice, after having left the box, should strike any object on the table, such as a man's elbow or stick, except money, it was also no throw. Every player had the right of "calling dice," even when the dice were being thrown. This, of course, nullified the throw, another set being handed to the caster by the groom-porter. Many a lucky coup was destroyed by some captious player having exercised this privilege--with most irritating effects to the disappointed caster on finding that he had "nicked" his main. When one of the dice remained in the box after the other had been landed, the caster might either throw it quickly, or gently coax it from the box. If one die landed on the top of another, it was removed by the groom-porter and declared a throw. Dice were known as the "ivories." At a Westminster election, the keeper of a notorious gambling-house in St. Anne's parish, on being about to give his vote, was asked in the usual way what his trade was; when after a little hesitation, he replied, "I am an ivory turner." Many curious incidents occurred at hazard. On one occasion when two gamesters had deposited a very large stake to be won by him who threw the lowest throw with the dice, one of them, who had thrown three aces, thought himself secure of success. "Wait for my throw," cried his opponent. He threw, and with such dexterity, that by lodging one of the dice on the other, he showed only one ace on the uppermost of them. He was allowed by the company to have won the stakes. It used to be said that at hazard, men under the influence of wine were invariably more fortunate than those who played with cooler heads or more collected judgments. Of this, perhaps the most remarkable instance ever known was the notorious spendthrift and sportsman Jack Mytton, of whom the Hell-keepers used to say, "there was no use playing against the Squire when he was drunk." Mytton was indeed rather a formidable figure at the hazard-table, where he was supposed to have won more than he lost. When heated with wine and full of courage he was the dread of the proprietors of the minor gambling-tables at country race meetings, whose banks he was given to breaking in more ways than one--it being his practice to demolish all their gambling apparatus if he observed the slightest suspicion of foul play. At Warwick races in 1824, for instance, Mytton and some friends not only smashed a rouge-et-noir table to atoms, but soundly thrashed the proprietor and his gang. On another occasion he showed considerable presence of mind when surprised by the Mayor of Chester during a raid on a hazard Hell one Sunday. In the confusion which ensued the Squire of Halston, who was a winner, deftly put his gains in his hat, which he quite coolly placed upon his head, and walked out unnoticed. He was not so careful, however, on one occasion after a great run of luck in London when, having broken the banks of two well-known London Hells, he went off with the money--a large sum in notes--to Doncaster. On his return from the races in a post-chaise he set to work to count his winnings, the windows of the carriage being open. He soon fell asleep, and when he awoke, the night being far advanced, found that notes to the value of several thousand pounds had been blown out of the window. Truly a case of "light come, light go!" [Illustration: LIGHT COME, LIGHT GO.] When quite a young man Mytton had been subjected to plucking by many a rook. As a subaltern of the 7th Hussars in the army of occupation at Calais he borrowed £3000 of a banker at St. Omer one day and lost half of it the next at a swindling E.O. table. However, he relieved his feelings by demolishing the whole concern. About the same time he lost no less than sixteen thousand napoleons to a certain Captain at billiards, but Lord Uxbridge, who was Colonel of his regiment, having reason to believe that the whole thing was a robbery, forbade him to pay. There are now probably very few people in England who could conduct a game of hazard, the rules of which are practically forgotten. The last man who was thoroughly versed in the intricacies of the game is said to have been a certain well-known bookmaker, Atkins by name, who, as late as the 'seventies, used to keep a hazard-table going at Brighton during the race week, where considerable sums of money were lost and won. He also presided over a hazard-table at Bognor during the Goodwood meeting. An associate of his, who was known as "Chanticleer" owing to his vocal powers in calling the odds, afterwards proved very successful in another walk of life, where he accumulated a considerable fortune. Some thirty-six years ago hazard used to be played at Doncaster during the race week, an excellent account of the scenes which used to take place there being given by Sir George Chetwynd in his _Recollections_. French hazard was less rough-and-ready than the English game. Every stake that was "set" was covered by the bank, so that the player ran no risk of losing a large amount, though, if successful, he could win but a trifling one; on the other hand, the scale of odds was so altered as to operate most prejudicially against the player. An equal rate of odds between main and chance was never laid by the French "banker" as was insisted on by the English groom-porter; while, again, "direct nicks" alone were recognised by the former. Most extraordinary runs of luck have occurred at hazard, a player having sometimes thrown five, seven, and even eleven mains in a single hand. In cases of runs like this the peculiar feature in the French game became valuable, the bank being prepared to pay all winnings, while, generally speaking, a hand of six or seven mains at English hazard would exhaust all the funds of the players, and leave the caster in the position of "setting the table" and finding the stakes totally unnoticed or only partially covered. To show what sums changed hands at hazard in the eighteenth century, it may be mentioned that a celebrated gambler. Major Baggs by name, once won £17,000 at hazard, by throwing in, as it is called, fourteen successive mains. This Major Baggs was an extraordinary character who went to the East Indies in 1780 on a gaming speculation; but not finding it answer, he returned home overland, encountering many adventures. At Cairo he narrowly avoided death by escaping in a Turkish dress to Smyrna. A companion of his was seized, and sent prisoner to Constantinople, where he was at length released by the interference of Sir Robert Anstie, the English ambassador. Baggs once won £6000 of a young gentleman at Spa, and immediately came to England to get the money from the peer (Lord Onslow) who was the father of the young man. Terms of accommodation were proposed by his lordship in presence of a well-known banker whose respectability and consequence were well known. The peer offered him a thousand guineas and a note for the remainder at a distant period. Baggs, however, wanted the whole to be paid down, and some altercation ensued, in the course of which the banker observed that he thought his lordship had offered very handsome terms. "Sirrah," said Baggs in a passion, "hold your tongue; the laws of commerce you may be acquainted with, but the laws of honour you can know nothing about." Major Baggs at one time in his life was worth more than £100,000. He had fought eleven duels, and was allowed to be very skilful with the sword. He was a man of a determined mind, great penetration, and considerable literary culture; and when play was out of the case, could be an agreeable, gentlemanlike, and instructive companion. He was very generous to people whom he liked; and a certain naval lord, highly respected, when in rather a distressed situation at Paris, found a never-failing resource in the purse of the Major, who was open-handed enough at times. For several years he lived at Paris in the greatest splendour, and during a stay at Avignon, frequently gave splendid suppers to the Duke and Duchess of Cumberland and their friends, whom he followed to Naples, getting introduced to the King's private parties, and winning £1500 of His Majesty. Major Baggs eventually fell a victim to gaming, dying of a chill produced by a night passed in a round-house, having been locked up with other frequenters of a gaming-house which was raided by the police. Numbers of such places existed in the London of that day, which were the constant resort of those who, like the Major, found access to Clubs somewhat difficult. From about 1780 to 1845 the West End was full of gambling-hells, the most popular of which were generally in the parish of St. James's, and St. George's, Hanover Square. Others also existed in St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, Piccadilly, St James's Street, Pall Mall, St. James's Square, Jermyn Street, Bury Street, Charles Street, King Street, Duke Street, Bennett Street, and the neighbourhood of the Quadrant. The games principally played, besides English and French hazard, were rouge-et-noir, roulette, and une-deux-cinque. The principal proprietors of these houses were Bond, Oldfield, Goodwin, Bennet, Smith, Russell, Phillips, Rougeir, Burge, Carlos, Humphries, Fielden, Taylor, Bird, Morgan, Kerby, Aldridge, Barnet, and many others, amongst whom, of course, the celebrated Crockford stood forth in almost regal splendour. Nevertheless there was a crusade against gambling and betting always carried on by the section of the population which were known as the "Methodists," some of whose preachers were very clever and apt. "Ah, my brethren," once said one of these, addressing a congregation into which several sporting men had strolled, "why waste your lives thinking so much of what you call 'flimsies.' These, my friends," turning over the leaves of his Bible, "are God's bank-notes, and when you carry them to heaven, he will cash them at sight!" Another preacher, whilst painting a vivid picture of the tortures which awaited gamesters in a future life, declared that the apartments of Satan were filled with cards and dice, and that Hoyle was the only book in his library. Nevertheless, the denunciations of the "godly" effected little, and though from time to time the authorities organised raids upon the more scandalous resorts, gaming continued to flourish. As late as the early 'thirties of the last century, the West End of London was full of Hells, a number of them in the Quadrant. Hazard was the principal game played. The lowest gaming-houses were generally located in obscure courts or other places not much exposed to public observation. As a rule they were kept shut up as if unoccupied, or else some appearance of a trade was carried on to prevent suspicion. It used to be said that at one or two of these Hells individuals were kept on the premises whose sole duty lay in being able to swallow the dice in case of a raid by the authorities. Whether this was the case or not, it is certain that there was usually some convenient receptacle contrived in the shutters or elsewhere into which the implements of gaming could be speedily thrown. A house containing a back room sufficiently large to contain forty or fifty people, was the ideal of the proprietors of such places. The man who acted as croupier was, as has been said, known as the "groom-porter," an appellation dating from the eighteenth century, when the Court was, on occasion, wont to gamble at the Groom-Porter's in the Palace of St. James. The profits of the house were supposed to be derived from a tax levied on successful players, any one winning three times running being expected to pay a certain sum of money to the table or "cagnotte." A player doing this was called a "box hand," the amount of his contribution varying from a shilling to half a crown according to the rules and standing of the house. [Illustration: A ROW IN A FASHIONABLE HELL.] The main profits of these Hells, however, were in the majority of instances derived from shady practices, many of the proprietors being in league with sharks of various kinds who preyed upon the more credulous or foolish players. The least important gambling-houses were generally kept by retired prize-fighters and bullies, who hectored their weaker clients out of such sums as they might chance to win. In the higher class of Hells, silver counters, representing certain fractions of a pound, were used; these were called pieces, and one of them was the amount of the tax levied on a "box hand." When a gentleman first appeared at these Hells, the Hellites and the players were curious to learn who and what he was, especially the former, to calculate the rich or poor harvest to be reaped by him, and they regulated their conduct accordingly. Should he be introduced by a broken player, and lose a good sum, his introducer seized the opportunity to borrow a few pounds of the Hellites. But if the gentleman was successful, "a few pounds to give his kind friend a chance" was not refused. If the visitor proved unlucky the Hellites ventured, after he had lost hundreds, to lend him twenty or thirty pounds, for which his cheque was demanded and given. Generally they not only knew his name, but soon ascertained, by underhand inquiries at his bankers, the extent of his account, his connections and resources. Upon this knowledge, if his account was good, they would cash him cheques to within a hundred pounds of the balance. Instances have been known, after cheques have been cashed and paid in this way, to large amounts, and the balance drawing to a close, that when a cheque for a small amount has been wanted, cashed by the very same parties, it has been refused, the Hellite actually telling the party, within a few pounds, the amount he had left at his banker's. One gentleman was once told within five pounds of what he had there. A number of Hells masqueraded as Clubs, and made some show of only admitting regular members to the delights of play. The following prospectus, issued in the 'twenties of the last century, is a fair sample of those used by the proprietors of gaming-houses in London to attract clients. The house in question was under the superintendence of Weare, who was murdered by Thurtell. A party of gentlemen, having formed the design of instituting a Select Club, to be composed of those gentlemen only whose habits and circumstances entitle them to an uncontrolled but proper indulgence in the current amusements of the day, adopt this mode of submitting the project to consideration, and of inviting those who may approve of it, to an early concurrence and co-operation in the design. To attain this object the more speedily, and render it worthy the attention and support it lays claim to, it may be only necessary to mention that the plan is founded on the basis of liberality, security, and respectability, combining with the essential requisites of a select and respectable association, peculiar advantages to the members conceded by no similar institution in town. Further particulars may be learned on personal application between the hours of twelve and two at 55 Pall Mall. In 1831 a gaming-house called the Athenæum was a public scandal. This gaming-hell was situated at the upper end of St. James's Street, on the same side as White's. It was owned by three brothers named Bond, one of whom only, Ephraim, was publicly recognised as the proprietor. This man Bond had had many vicissitudes. Once, when quite at the end of his tether, a gentleman came into a house where he was looking on at the play, and having no confidence in his own judgment or good fortune, commissioned Bond to make his bets for him, and, being very successful, the gentleman, who was a member of the House of Commons, presented him with fifty pounds. This became the nucleus of his future fortune. After working his fifty pounds for some time in various advantageous gaming speculations, he became a small partner in a Bury Street house and subsequently in gaming-houses in Bennett Street, Pall Mall, and Piccadilly, until, as before stated, he located all his machinery and performers in the Athenæum, in St. James's Street, near Nos. 50 and 51. Burge, an individual closely connected with Bond, was another well-known figure in the gambling world of those days. The "Subject," as this man was nicknamed, in consequence of his wretched and cadaverous appearance, was born at Glastonbury, in Somersetshire, where he was brought up a tailor. Shortly after the termination of his apprenticeship he married, but finding business not answer his expectations he removed to London, where he commenced business in a little way, but in about two years became a bankrupt. At this period of his life, when distressed in pocket and harassed in mind, he was introduced into a shilling table hazard-house kept at that time by the celebrated J.D. Kelly and George Smith in Lisle Street, Leicester Square. From the very moment that the "Subject" first saw a hazard-table his nature changed, and wife, children, home, and business were totally obliterated from his mind. The few shillings which from time to time he could scrape together from the charity of his own or his wife's friends were all carried to the table, although at this time he was still a perfect novice in all concerning play. He generally lost his money soon after he entered a gaming-house, but even when penniless he always remained until the table was broken up, generally some time before midnight, when he would make his way to a miserable home, only to sleep till the hour for witnessing play again arrived. This state of restlessness and perturbation brought on a serious fit of illness, whilst his wife was compelled to take in washing for the support of the family, who lived amidst scenes of acute misery. Nothing, however, diverted the "Subject" from the gaming-table; no sooner did he recover and was able to crawl out than he was at hazard again, though many were his quarrels with the table-keepers, who resented his presence in their rooms, as he so rarely brought a shilling to play with. Nothing, however, could overcome his infatuation, and had he been turned out for good he would have lain down at the door, and listened to the sound of the dice-box until he died of exposure to the weather. At length Smith, a gaming-house proprietor who had removed to Oxendon Street, Coventry Street, finding Burge determined, by some means or other, to be present during play, installed him as a permanent official in his rooms, with regular duties, the chief of which were to trim the lamps hanging over the hazard-table and to hand a glass of gin to the man who threw in six mains in succession, when he was allowed to say, "Remember the waiter, your honour." Subsequently, the groom-porter being indisposed, the "Subject" mounted the stool and called the main, continuing afterwards sometimes to act alternately in each capacity until the proprietor took the house in 71 Jermyn Street, when he got a rise in the world and was made a regular groom-porter in a crown-house. The history of the so-called "Athenæum" run by Bond was curious. At the time when the real Athenæum in Pall Mall was being established there was a swindler upon the town named William Earl. Although the son of a respectable bookseller, who formerly resided in Albemarle Street, Piccadilly, he committed some very flagrant acts of imposition upon the public. Among many other schemes he conceived the plan of pretending that he was the person deputed and authorised by the gentlemen composing the members of the true Athenæum Club, to take and fit up a house for their accommodation. The house in St. James's Street being to let at the time, he (Earl) took it on the residue of a lease having between two and three years to run, and, forthwith, when in possession, got tradesmen to fit it up in the most superb manner possible, making it a great favour to recommend them to so good a job, the Athenæum management promising that all the money shares should be paid down the moment the house was ready for the reception of the members. The furniture, however, as fast as it was brought into the house, disappeared, being taken away by Earl to dispose of for cash to put into his own pocket, preparatory to a final retreat from the scene of action. This being discovered before larger debts were contracted, the creditors, who were already minus about £1400, convened a meeting, at which, under a threat of a criminal prosecution, they compelled Earl to assign the premises and everything else to three gentlemen, Messrs. Baines, Vincent, and Laing, in trust for the benefit of the creditors. These gentlemen, subsequently representing the case of the creditors to the Lord Chamberlain, obtained a licence for music, the premises being designated and inserted in the licence as known by the name of the Athenæum; but this and a juggling speculation failing, it was at length let to Ephraim Bond, Esq., at a rental of £50 per month. This was in the early part of the year 1830, during which Earl was committed to Newgate for swindling a jeweller in St. Paul's Churchyard out of a gold chain and other property, being subsequently transported for the term of seven years. The notoriety of these circumstances, and the length of time Earl's name had been before the public, as being somehow connected with the institution described as the Athenæum Club in St. James's Street, led a vast number of thoughtless young men to visit the house. Certain is it, that not a few joined the place under a full impression that they were actually admitted into the real Athenæum Club: and to this confusion of names did the new proprietor, in a very large measure, owe the extraordinary run of play he had at his tables. Among the persons who were employed at this house were Kelly, Peck, Hancock, Mayne, and Thompson: the two latter were retained by Bond as waiters, after having been placed in the house under the following circumstances. Earl, as the spurious Athenæum progressed, advertised for waiters; when these men applied, he represented in forcible language the responsible nature of their situations, and the great trust which would be reposed in them, informing one that all the linen and glass would be placed in his hands, and the other that he would have charge of plate to the value of some thousands. By these means he induced one to deposit £150 and the other £100 as security before they entered upon the service of the Club. Bond thought that the ill-usage of these men gave them some claim upon the premises, and, therefore, installed them into the office which they originally came to fill, that is, as waiters. At many of the gambling-houses the waiters reaped a rich harvest by lending money. At Crockford's one of these servants once received £500, nominally as a Christmas-box, but really as a recognition of timely financial assistance rendered to frequenters of the hazard-table; £100 of this sum was given to him by a nobleman who had in one week won £80,000 on a moderate sum which had been borrowed from the waiter in question. About 1838 gaming-houses were kept open all day, the dice were scarcely ever idle, day or night. All the week, all the year round, persons were to be found in these places, losing their money, and up to 1844 there were no less than twelve gaming-houses in St. James's and St. George's. Before that the play was higher, but not so general. The increase of gambling-houses was said to be owing to the existence of Crockford's. Such was the opinion of the Honourable Frederick Byng, as given before the Committee of the House of Commons. He declared "that the facility to gamble at Crockford's led to the establishment of other gambling-houses fitted up in a superior style, and attractive to gentlemen who never would have thought of going into them formerly." He added that in his older days gambling was very high, but the amusement of a very few. Mr. Byng also said he "could have named all the gamblers in his early days at the clubs. No person coming into a room where hazard was carried on would have been permitted to play for a small sum, and therefore poor people left it alone." The gambling which was carried on in the private rooms of the wine and oyster houses, about 1840, was of the same character as that which had at the same time flourished in the vicinity of St James's. For this reason the blackguards frequenting the former attained the most profound knowledge of the art of robbing at the West-End Hells. They visited the saloons every night, in order to pick up new acquaintances amongst inexperienced youth. Well-dressed and polite, they carefully scanned every visitor on the look-out for pigeons to pluck, and having found one went soon to work to establish an acquaintance. Cards being proposed, the leader of the band provided a room, play ensuing, accompanied by the certainty of loss to the unfortunate guest. If the invitation was rejected, the pigeon was attacked through a passion of a different kind. The word being given to one of their female friends, she threw herself in the quarry's way, and prevailed upon him to accompany her to her house. In the morning the "gentleman," who in vain had solicited him to play at the saloon the night before, would call--as if to pay "a friendly visit." Cards would be again proposed, the "lady" offering to be the partner of her friend in the game. Numbers of young men were plundered by such schemes of thousands of pounds; and a good deal of demoralisation prevailed amongst small tradesmen and gentlemen's servants, numbers of whom frequented the low gambling-houses. If one of these could scrape together two or three hundred pounds he was able, with the assistance of the keeper of the Hell, to lend it to needy losers at sixty per cent. A careful inspection was made of the visitor's appearance by a gaming-house keeper's spies, his dress being strictly scrutinised. He was obliged, before entering the saloon, to deposit his great-coat and cane, or anything else which might facilitate the introduction of some weapon; the value or elegance of these did not save him from the humiliation of having it taken from him at the door. The assaults which were sometimes made on the bankers led to such precautions. The blame for the great increase of gambling in the West End was mostly attributed to Crockford, who presided over the most palatial gaming-house ever run in England. William Crockford was the son of a small fishmonger who lived next door to Temple Bar. After his father's death the young man soon abandoned fish-selling for more exciting pursuits. He became a frequenter of the sporting-houses then abundant in the neighbourhood of St. James's, went racing, and, after setting up a successful hazard bank in Wattier's old Club-house,[4] became connected with a gaming-house in King Street, which, though it frequently got him into trouble with the authorities, put a very large sum of money into his pocket. At King Street, Crockford, together with his partner Gye, is said to have once won the very large sum of £100,000 from five well-known men-about-town, amongst whom were Lords Thanet and Granville and Mr. Ball Hughes. With the capital amassed in the manner described Crockford founded the celebrated institution in St. James's Street which was sometimes jokingly called "Fishmonger's Hall." It was opened at the end of the year 1827. There were about 1200 members, exclusive of ambassadors and foreigners of distinction; the annual subscription was £25. The Club-house was luxurious beyond anything which had been known up to that time. The decorations alone, it is said, cost £94,000, and a salary of £1200 a year was paid by Crockford to his cook, M. Eustache Ude. The Club-house, which still exists in an altered form as the Devonshire Club, was decorated and upholstered in the somewhat gaudy style popular during the reign of George IV., the apartment known as the State Drawing-room being particularly gorgeous and florid in its general effect. The gaming-room was comparatively small. Here were card-tables at which whist was occasionally played, whilst in the centre stood the hazard-table, the real _raison d'être_ of the whole establishment. The expenses of running this gambling-club were large, the dice alone costing some two thousand a year! Three new pairs at about a guinea each pair were provided at the commencement of every evening's play, and very often as many more were called for either by players or by Crockford himself in order to change the luck. By the terms of his agreement Crockford was bound to put £5000 into a bank every night whilst Parliament was sitting; as long as any of this capital remained he was not allowed to end the play until an hour previously appointed. During his first two seasons Crockford is said to have made about £300,000; he may, indeed, be said to have extracted nearly all the ready money from the pockets of the men of fashion of the day. So much so was this the case, that when Crockford retired in 1840 it was said that he resembled an Indian chief who retires from a hunting country when there is not game enough left for his tribe. Mr. Crockford's private views as to the likelihood of any player at hazard increasing his fortune were certainly interesting. Being one day asked by a young man of his acquaintance what was the best main to call at the game, he solemnly replied: "I'll tell you what it is, young man. You may call mains at hazard till your hair grows out of your hat and your toes grow out of your boots. My advice to you is not to call any mains at all." [Illustration: COUNT D'ORSAY CALLING A MAIN AT CROCKFORD'S.] This, though undoubtedly sound, was a curious speech from a man who had laid the foundation of a large fortune at the gaming-table, and had himself successfully called all the mains under the sun. Whilst many were ruined at Crockford's, nobody appears to have made much by the place except the proprietor, who, though latterly rather unsuccessful in speculation, died a very rich man at the age of sixty-nine in May 1844. In 1844 a Select Committee on gaming took a great deal of evidence, Crockford himself being examined, though nothing was got out of him. The result of all this was that on the 8th of August 1845 was passed an Act to amend the law against games and wagers. The Act in question was particularly aimed against hazard, which had undoubtedly done a good deal of harm, lending itself as it did to much trickery and foul play. Gaming-houses were now rigorously repressed, but it was not long before gambling began to rage in another form, many betting-houses being started. The first institution of this kind appears to have opened its doors in 1847, the proprietors being Messrs. Drummond and Greville. About 1850, about four hundred of these houses (the vast majority not very solvent), where regular lists of the prices were openly exhibited, flourished, and an epidemic of gambling was declared to have attacked even the poorest class, who were being offered facilities for risking their hard-earned sixpences and shillings. The rise and fall of the odds before any great race was eagerly watched by the keepers of the betting-houses, and scenes of wild excitement occasionally occurred. Many of the smaller betting-shops were simply traps for the unwary. The stock-in-trade needed was merely a few flyblown racing prints and some old ledgers. A room was soon hired, often in some derelict tobacconist's shop, and business then commenced. Most of these places existed in obscure and dirty thoroughfares; the neighbourhood of Drury Lane being especially affected by those indulging in this nefarious industry. Just before a big race meeting, such as the Derby or Ascot, numbers of these betting shops would burst into bloom for a short space of time. When the meetings ended, the crowd coming to get paid would find the proprietor gone and the place in charge of a boy, who, generally not at all disconcerted, would announce that his master had gone out on "'tickler bizness," and would not be back till late at night. His wife also had gone out of town for her health till the winter. "Will he be back to-morrow?" would cry the crowd. "No, he won't be here to-morrow 'cos it's Sunday, and he always goes to church on Sunday," a favourite reply which made even the losers laugh. "Will he be back on Monday, then?" "Monday," would say the boy, reflecting, "No, I don't think he'll be here on Monday--he's going to a sale on Monday." After further inquiries and replies of this sort the crowd would, for the time being, reluctantly disperse, murmuring something about a "sell" instead of a "sale," to return again time after time with the same ill-success, till eventually, realising that they had been duped, the bell-pull was torn out and the windows broken, the proprietor meanwhile doing a flourishing business in some other locality. Various subterfuges were employed by betting-shopkeepers to attract clients. One of these places grandiloquently styled itself "The Tradesmen's Moral Associative Betting Club." The circular issued by this beneficent organisation set forth that a number of persons in business, realising the robberies hourly inflicted upon the humbler portion of the sporting public by persons bankrupt alike in character and property, had banded themselves together to establish a club wherein their fellow tradesmen and the speculator of a few shillings might invest their money with the assured consciousness of meeting with fair and honourable treatment. In all probability the clients of the Moral Associative Club found that, like other institutions of the same sort, its idea was to receive the money of all and close its career by paying none. A man named Dwyer, who kept a cigar shop and betting-house in St. Martin's Lane in 1851, was in the habit of laying a point or two more than the regular odds, and in consequence did the largest business of any list man in London. He was considered to be absolutely safe. It was his custom to pay the day following a big race, but when Miss Nancy won the Chester Cup, his doors were found to be closed; and the house being broken into by an enormous crowd of infuriated creditors, everything valuable was discovered to have been removed. Dwyer, as a matter of fact, had bolted with about £25,000 of the public's money. The occurrence of scandals such as this naturally caused a considerable outcry for the suppression of the betting-houses, which, it was declared, were demoralising the public, who, even when they were not swindled, were led into risking sums which they could not afford. A Bill for checking the evil was eventually drafted, and in July 1853 was passed an Act entitled "An Act for the Suppression of Betting-Houses," which inflicted on any one keeping or assisting to keep any house, office, room, or place for the purpose of betting, a penalty not exceeding one hundred pounds, or imprisonment with or without hard labour for any time not exceeding six calendar months. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 4: No. 81 Piccadilly.] IV Craze for eccentric wagers at end of eighteenth century--Lord Cobham's insulting freak and its results--Betting and gaming at White's--The Arms of the Club--The old betting-book and its quaint wagers--Tragedies of play--White's to-day--£180,000 lost at hazard at the Cocoa Tree--Brummell as a gambler--Gaming at Brooks's--Anecdotes--General Scott--Whist--Mr. Pratt--Wattier's Club--Scandal at Graham's--Modern gambling clubs--The Park Club case in 1884--Dangers of private play. Towards the end of the eighteenth century a curious mania for making eccentric wagers seized hold of the bucks of the day. Unlike many another craze this was not imported from France, but had its rise and progress entirely in England. During the last illness of Louis XIV., Lord Stair laid a wager on his death, which rather astonished the French, who did not approve of such a form of speculation. At a subsequent period bets about the most trivial incidents became quite common in the West End of London. Not infrequently some thoughtless wager would lead to considerable trouble. Lord Cobham, for instance, once foolishly bet Mr. Nugent a guinea that he would spit in Lord Bristol's hat without the latter, who had a reputation for effeminacy, resenting it. The wager itself was singularly lacking in refinement, and the moment chosen for carrying it out was quite in keeping. Lord Bristol being one day at Lady Cobham's talking to some ladies, he chanced to lean over a chair holding his hat behind him, into which Lord Cobham deliberately spat, at the same time asking Mr. Nugent, who was present, for his guinea; after which he began to make the most profuse apologies to the victim of the outrage, who, remaining apparently quite unmoved, merely asked if his host had any further use for his hat, and then resumed his conversation, and every one considered the incident at an end. Lord Bristol being to all outward appearance absolutely unruffled. The next morning, however, both Lord Cobham and Mr. Nugent received messages demanding satisfaction, to which they returned the most humble answers. The incident, they declared, was all merely a foolish joke, and they were quite ready to make all sorts of submissive apologies. Lord Bristol, however, would only assent to condone the insult if the aggressors were ready to make a public apology in the Club-room at White's, where he was prepared to receive it, and here, amidst a crowd of members, Lord Cobham and Mr. Nugent publicly expressed their regret. As the eighteenth century waned. White's Club developed into a great gambling centre; its members indeed professed a universal scepticism and decided everything by a wager. There was nothing, however trivial or ridiculous, which was not capable of producing a bet. Many pounds were lost upon the colour of a coach-horse, the birth of a child, the breaking off of a marriage, and even a change in the weather. A favourite mode of speculation was backing one man against another, that is, betting that he would live the longest. People of all classes were made the subjects of such bets. An actor was pitted against a duke, an alderman against a bishop, a pimp against some member of the privy council. Scarcely a remarkable person existed upon whose life many thousand pounds did not depend. The various changes in the health of any one who was the subject of heavy betting naturally gave rise to many serious reflections in the minds of the people who had wagered large sums on his life or death. Some would closely watch all the stages of a total stranger's illness, more impatient for his death than the undertaker who expected to have the care of his funeral; others would be very solicitous about his recovery, and send every hour to know how his health progressed, taking as great care of him as any clergyman's wife who has no other fortune than the living of her husband. Great consternation was caused by an unexpected demise. Considerable odds were laid upon a man with the constitution of a porter, who was pitted against an individual expected to die every week. The porter, however, unexpectedly shot himself through the head, and the knowing ones were taken in. The main supporters of gaming at White's at this time were George Selwyn, Lord March, Fox, and Lord Carlisle. The latter was of a rather more serious disposition than the others, and had a wife and children to whom he was devoted. Though at times a high gambler himself, he wrote several letters to Selwyn, warning him of the dangers of hazard. On one occasion Lord Carlisle won £13,000 from a peer, which he never seems to have got, and again indulged in some disastrous play in 1776, after which he wrote to George Selwyn to say that he had never lost so much at five different sittings as on this occasion in one night. A note by Selwyn in the letter puts the sum at £10,000. In after-life Lord Carlisle entirely abandoned gaming, and settled down into an exemplary country gentleman. Another constant player for high stakes at White's was Sir Everard Fawkener, the writer's great-grandfather, who held an important office in connection with the Post Office. He played cards very badly, and George Selwyn used to say that playing with him was as bad as "robbing the mail." In the hall of White's Club hangs a carved wooden copy of the whimsical old coat of arms of the Club--the original painting of which is at Arthur's. This was painted by Dick Edgecumbe after the design had been concocted one wet day at Strawberry Hill by the painter, George Selwyn, George (known as Gilly) Williams, and their host Horace Walpole, who had the arms engraved. The original arms were as follows:-- "Vert (for a card-table); between three parolis, proper, on a chevron sable, two rouleaux in saltire between two dice, proper. In a canton sable, a ball (for election), argent. Supporters, an old knave of clubs on the dexter, a young knave on the sinister side; both accoutred proper. Crest, issuing out of an earl's coronet (Lord Darlington's) an arm shaking a dice-box, all proper. Motto alluding to the crest '_Cogit amor nummi_'.[5] The arms encircled with a claret bottle ticket by way of order." [Illustration] The old betting-book at White's contains many curious entries, the first of which dates from 1743. A number of the earliest wagers are concerned with the probabilities of the birth of children to well-known ladies of the day, the duration of life to be enjoyed by certain individuals, and the like. On 21st March 1746, Mr. John Jeffries bets Mr. Dayrolle five guineas that Lady Kildare has a child born alive before Lady Catherine Petersham. A note is appended "miscarriages go for nothing." On the 8th of October in the same year Lord Montfort bets Mr. Greville one hundred guineas that Mr. Nash is alive on the same day four years to come. The Lord Montfort in question was a typical gamester of the time. In the betting-book at White's no less than sixty wagers, amounting to £5500, are recorded against his name. Most of these were about births, marriages, and deaths. On sporting wagers, the nobleman in question seems to have been content to risk only small sums. A true gambler, he preferred to hazard his fortune, and, as it turned out, his life, on the unforeseen. On the 4th of November 1754, is entered the following: "Lord Montfort wagers Sir John Bland one hundred guineas that Mr. Nash outlives Mr. Cibber." This refers to two very old men, Colley Cibber, the actor, and Beau Nash, the "King of Bath." Below the entry in the betting-book, written in another handwriting, is the significant note: "Both Lord M. and Sir John Bland put an end to their own lives before the bet was decided." The first of these tragedies took place on New Year's Day of 1755. Lord Montfort's death and the circumstances of it attracted great attention. He was considered one of the shrewdest men of his time, and, as Walpole said, "would have betted any man in England against himself for self-murder." Lord Montfort was of course eventually ruined--at White's alone he lost a fortune at hazard. As a last resource, he then eagerly applied (much to the surprise of the dilatory Duke of Newcastle) for the Governorship of Virginia or the Royal hounds. He got neither, and after spending the last evening of the year 1754 at White's, where he sat up at whist till one o'clock, went home in a strange mood, and shot himself next morning. A tragic fate likewise befell Sir John Bland, who dissipated his entire fortune at hazard. At a single sitting he at one time lost as much as £32,000, though he recovered a portion of it before play was ended. Sir John shot himself on the road from Calais to Paris. Some of the wagers chronicled in the betting-book are decidedly vague, the following for instance: "Mr. Talbot bets a certain gentleman a certain sum that a certain event does not take place within a certain time." During the Napoleonic era several bets were made as to the chances of the Emperor getting back to Paris at the close of the Russian campaign, about ten to one being wagered on such an event happening. A curious bet, dated February 14, 1813, is the following: "Lord Alvanley bets Sir Joseph Copley five guineas that a certain Baronet understood between them is very much embarrassed in his circumstances in three years from the date hereof; if one of his bills is dishonoured, or he is observed to borrow small change of the chairmen or waiters, Sir Joseph is to be reckoned to lose." In 1797, hazard seems to have been allowed at White's, but it was expressly laid down that no member should be permitted to keep a faro bank. This rule was doubtless made to avoid the state of things which had lately prevailed across the way at Brooks's. As time went on gambling became a thing of the past within the walls of White's, and the survivors of a reckless era in its history sobered down into grave and somewhat crotchety old men, who, from the stronghold of an accustomed seat, eyed younger members with a freezing gaze. When the question of smoking in the morning-room was raised their indignation knew no bounds, and even infirm old members--fossils who Alfred Montgomery declared had come from Kensal Green--tottered into the Club to oppose it. So given were these relics of the past to wrapping themselves in a cloak of exclusiveness that at one time the Club came almost to a standstill. Within recent years, however, White's has taken a new lease of life, and after an existence of one hundred and seventy-three years is now in as flourishing a state as ever. The Club-house has been enlarged and various alterations made--always, let it be said, with due regard for the traditions of the past. Unfortunately, in the course of time much connected with its former history has disappeared--it does not, for instance, possess a set of old gaming counters, which have a certain historic interest in these more sober days. The Club is particularly anxious to acquire any relics connected with its past, and also any representations of the Club-house (at the present time under repair) as it existed before the alterations of 1853, when a new façade replaced the old front. Lower down St. James's Street, on the other side of the road, another Club, in old days notorious for high play, still exists. This is the Cocoa Tree, where very large sums once changed hands. During the year 1780 no less than £180,000 was lost here in a single week. In the same year Mr. O'Birne, an Irish gamester, won £100,000 at hazard of a young Mr. Harvey of Chigwell, a midshipman, who, by his elder brother's death, had suddenly come into a good estate. "You can never pay me," said O'Birne. "I will sell my estate to do so," replied the young man. "No," was the not ungenerous reply, "I will win ten thousand and you shall throw for the odd ninety." The dice were cast and Harvey won--still the evening cost him £10,000. After Waterloo there appears to have been a revival of gaming in the West End, many officers returning to England with long arrears of pay at their command. This wave of gaming ruined Brummell. At first he was not particularly devoted to play, and had extraordinary luck when he indulged in it. At one sitting at whist at White's he won £10,000 from George Harley Drummond, the banker. It is said that this was the first game Drummond ever played at a Club; it was probably his last, for it led to his withdrawal from the banking business. But Brummell was not a man of large property, and when later he began to play habitually, a few reverses were sufficient to ruin a man of small means who matched his fortune against the much longer purses of his friends. Brummell had no illusions as to the ultimate fate of a gambler, and once tied himself up against play, receiving a ten-pound note from Pemberton Mills on condition that he should forfeit a thousand if he played again at White's for a month. Nevertheless, a fortnight later he was playing again. His friend did not claim the thousand but merely said: "Well, Brummell, you may at least give me back my ten pounds." Playing at hazard one night with Alderman Combe, whom he playfully called "Mash-tub" because he was a brewer, the Beau, having won a considerable sum, said, pocketing the cash: "Thank you, Alderman; in future I shall never drink any porter but yours." "I wish, sir," was the reply, "that every blackguard in London would tell me the same." In the end Brummell went under, owing, he declared, with all the superstition of a gambler, to the loss of a lucky sixpence with a hole in it, which he had picked up in the small hours of the morning in Berkeley Square. He gave it away, by mistake, to a cabman, and used to say that he supposed "that rascal Rothschild, or some of his set, had got hold of it." One of the greatest gamblers in the early part of the nineteenth century was Lord Rivers, whose dashing play at Parisian tables had earned for him the name of "Le Wellington des Joueurs." During a portion of his career this nobleman was said to have won nearly a hundred thousand pounds by gambling. As a card-player he was cool and skilful, whilst at the same time quick to seize the moment for exchanging caution for dash. At times, however, he was careless--he once lost £3400 at whist by not remembering that the seven of hearts was still in. Crockford's eventually ruined him as it did many others--some it could not ruin. Lord Sefton, for instance, is said to have lost no less than £200,000 there. After his death the proprietor presented an acceptance for £40,000 to his son, which was paid. At the beginning of the nineteenth century young men-about-town were exposed to every sort of dangerous temptation. In 1813 a youthful commoner, heir to large estates, was unpleasantly initiated into the mysteries of fashionable play by losing nearly £20,000 at hazard at a West-End Club, it being the first time he had ever played. His single antagonist was a noble Lord of considerable experience, who by mere chance held the box so luckily as to throw in seven times successively. A remark being made upon so extraordinary a run of the dice, his Lordship insisted upon having them cut up, to manifest that his success had been perfectly honourable--and the bones, on dissection, were found perfectly innocent. Gambling flourished at all the fashionable clubs. Brooks's in particular was noted for unlimited gambling during the first forty years of its existence. The prevalence of gambling there is shown by one of the old rules, which prohibited "gaming in the 'eating-room' except tossing up for reckonings." The penalty for a breach of this regulation was paying the whole bill of the members present. Though a rule existed which forbade the members to stake upon credit, it was more or less treated as a dead letter, Mr. Brooks being generally ready to make any advance which the members might desire. The result of such confidence in the solvency of his clientele appears to have been disappointing, for after eight years Mr. Brooks withdrew from the Mastership of the Club and died in very poor circumstances. All things considered this was not surprising, for he was a man Who, nursed in clubs, disdains a vulgar trade, Exults to trust, and blushes to be paid. During the gaming period losses and winnings amounting to five, ten, or fifteen thousand pounds were not at all uncommon. Lord Stavordale, before he was of age, having lost £11,000 one night, struck a good run at hazard and got it all back. This, however, did not satisfy his Lordship, who swore a great oath, saying, "Now if I had been playing deep I might have won millions." One member, Mr Thynne, retired in disgust in March 1772. According to a note written opposite his name in the Club books this was because he had "won only £12,000 during the last two months, and that he may never return is the ardent wish of members." At Brooks's, Charles James Fox found himself amidst the most congenial facilities for ruin, and he did not let them pass. Fox, who joined Brooks's when he was sixteen, once sat in the Club playing at hazard for twenty-two hours in succession, when he lost £11,000. At twenty-five he was a ruined man, though his father had paid £140,000 for him out of his own property. In 1793 his friends raised £70,000 to pay his debts and buy him an annuity--a proof of the affection this curious character inspired. It was at Brooks's that Lord Robert Spencer is said at one stroke to have recovered his considerable fortune lost at play. General Fitzpatrick and Lord Robert, having both come to their last shilling, contrived to raise a sufficient sum of money to keep a faro bank, which proved an extraordinarily lucky one. Lord Robert's share was no less than £100,000, with which he retired from the gambling-table for ever, and never played again. Another well-known man of fashion lost at Brooks's £70,000 and everything else which he possessed, including his carriage and horses, which was his last stake. Charles Fox, who was present, and partook of the spoils, moved that an annuity of £50 per annum should be settled upon the unfortunate gentleman, to be paid out of the general fund, which motion was agreed to _nem. con._, and a resolution was entered into at the instance of the same gentleman, that every member who should be completely ruined in that house should be allowed a similar annuity out of the same fund, on condition that they are never to be admitted as sporting members; as in that case the society would be playing against their own money. The old betting-book at Brooks's is a most curious record. A certain member, for instance, bets another five hundred guineas to ten that none of the Cabinet will be beheaded within the following three years. Another wagers fifty guineas that Mademoiselle Heinel will not dance at the opera next year. The whole volume is most characteristic of an age when all fashionable London lived in a vortex of speculation. [Illustration: THE GAMBLING-ROOM AT BROOKS'S. From a Water-colour Drawing in the possession of the Club.] Faro, quinze, and macao were the favourite games at Brooks's, but at one time whist for high stakes came into great favour. Two of the best players at this were a couple of characters known as Tippoo Smith and "Neptune"--the latter an old gentleman who had gained his nickname owing to his having once thrown himself into the sea under the false impression that he could no longer keep his head above water. At Brooks's are preserved a number of relics of the old gambling days, including the faro table at which Fox played. This has a portion cut away, in order, it is said, to give room for his portly form. A complete set of the old gaming counters--the highest inscribed 500 guineas--is also here, whilst several prints and pictures (one of them reproduced in these pages by the courtesy of the Committee) give a good idea of a vanished day. Brooks's was much frequented by a famous whist-player, General Scott, the father-in-law of George Canning and the Duke of Portland, who is said to have won about £200,000 at the game, of which he was a past master. The General, indeed, was a very shrewd man where all forms of speculation were concerned, and once won a large wager at Newmarket in the following way. Just as his horse was about to start for a sweepstake, Mr. Panton called out to him, "General, I'll lay you a thousand pounds your horse is neither first nor last." The General accepted the bet and immediately gave directions to his rider; his horse came in last, and he claimed the money. Mr. Panton objected to payment, because the General had spoken to his rider; but the Jockey Club held that the bet was laid not upon the chance of the place in which the horse would come, if the rider was uninformed of it, but upon the opinion, that he had not speed enough to be first, nor tractability enough to be brought in last. Nevertheless, the General, like most gamblers, had his moments of generosity. He was playing one evening with the Count d'Artois and the Duc de Chartres, at Paris, when a petition was brought up from the widow of a French officer, stating her various misfortunes, and praying relief. A plate was handed round, and each put in one, two, or three louis d'or, but when it was held to the General, who was going to throw for a stake of five hundred louis d'or, he said, "Stop a moment, if you please, sir: here goes for the widow!" The throw was successful, and he instantly swept the whole into the plate, and sent it down to her. General Scott was an excellent whist-player, and lived in a most careful manner, which gave him a great advantage over his contemporaries, many of whom were reckless to a degree, tossing their money about in all directions, and borrowing from any one when short of cash. General Scott followed a regime which assisted him to keep all his faculties in the very best condition for getting the most out of his cards. His dinner usually consisted of a boiled chicken, washed down with toast and water. His memory, coolness, and judgment were remarkable. With players such as these, whist became almost a religious function of a singularly profitable kind. At the present day, when whist has fallen from its ancient high estate, and rendered practically obsolete owing to the popularity of bridge, it is difficult to realise the place which the game held in the estimation of many of our forefathers. At the beginning of the nineteenth century almost as large sums were lost and won at whist as at the hazard-table, which was chiefly the resort of those who, like Fox, complained that games of skill afforded no excitement. Many who were not entirely devoted to high play found their only relaxation in whist. Such a one was Lord Camden's brother, Mr. Edward Pratt, connected with the East India Company, whose sole bond with humanity is said to have lain in whist. By no means an avaricious man, Mr. Pratt spent little upon his personal comfort, always living in the upper floor of a house owing to its tranquillity, and regularly dining in a room by himself at a tavern every day of the year, his only companion a solitary bottle of port. He was seldom heard to speak, but no circumstance, however urgent, could prevail on him to break silence at whist, the favourite amusement, or rather occupation of his life; and, at the conclusion of each rubber, he could correctly call over the cards in the exact order in which they were played, as well as the persons from whose hands they fell, and enumerate various instances of error or dexterity in his associates, with practical remarks. This extraordinary exertion of the retentive powers was often doubted, and as often ascertained by considerable wagers. Abstinence from speech, however, was the favourite, habitual, perhaps the affected, pleasure of his life; to such a pitch did he carry this eccentricity that he deliberately chose to forego many little satisfactions and comforts, rather than be at the trouble to ask for them. In his voyages to India, Mr. Pratt might have been compared to some Eastern mystic, whose eyes and thoughts are immovably riveted by inspiration, madness, or emptiness to the region of the navel. When on voyages by sea it was his invariable custom to present the appearance of one entirely engrossed by his own thoughts, which, it was opined from his countenance, were of a peculiarly morose character. He often doubled the Cape without having scarcely uttered a word. During one voyage, when his ship had been detained by a long and troublesome calm, the anxious and dispirited crew were at last revived by the advent of the long-wished-for breeze. Amidst general excitement, a miserably dressed seaman on the topmast being at last able to proclaim the welcome tidings of land, Mr. Pratt alone struck a discordant note, for whilst the officers and ship's company were congratulating each other on the approaching joys of being on shore, though his features were observed to alter and somewhat unbend, no sound escaped his lips. "I knew you would enjoy the sight of land," at length said the first officer. "I saw it an hour before the careless ragamuffin aloft," were the first, the last, and the only words Mr. Pratt uttered during the voyage. "A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game," was the sole earthly aim of Mr. Pratt, as it was of the old lady who declared that next to her devotions she loved a good game of whist. Players of this sort were not lukewarm gamesters or half-and-half players who have no objection to take a hand if one is wanted to make up a rubber; affirming that they have no pleasure in winning, or that they like to win one game and lose another. Keen antagonists, they never desired an adversary who had slipped a wrong card, to take it up and play another. They loved a thorough-paced partner and a determined enemy. They took and gave no concessions; they hated favours, never made a revoke, or passed it over in an adversary without exacting the utmost penalty. They never introduced or connived at miscellaneous conversation during the progress of a game, for, as they emphatically observed, cards were cards. Whist was their business and duty--the thing which they had come into the world to do--and they did it. In the early days of the nineteenth century a great deal of gambling went on at Wattier's Club, No. 81 Piccadilly (now a private house), which made a speciality of macao. This game is said to have been introduced into England by French _émigrés_. Wattier's was kept by an old _maître d'hôtel_ of George IV., who, quite a character in his way, prided himself upon the excellence of his cuisine and wines. The life of Wattier's was a short and merry one, for it only lasted some twelve years, being closed in 1819, when for a time it became a sort of common gambling-house. Byron, Beau Brummell, and many other men of fashion frequented the Club, and, occasionally, says tradition, solaced themselves for their losses by throwing bottles of wine out of the window into the yard of the house just across the way. Some sixteen years later there was a good deal of high play at whist at Graham's Club, and a scandal occurred. Lord de Ros being charged with unfair play by the _Satirist_ newspaper, against which he brought an action for libel. Much curious evidence was given during the trial, one witness admitting that he had won no less than £35,000 in fifteen years at whist. Another--Captain Alexander--estimated his winnings at about £1600 a year. Asked by Counsel how long he had played on a certain occasion, he replied: "All night." "After a slight dinner I suppose?" "As good a dinner as I can get." "A small boiled chicken and a glass of lemonade perhaps?" The witness for some reason considered this insulting and excitedly said: "I deny the lemonade altogether--I never take lemonade"--a disavowal which plunged the court into laughter. Considerable amusement was also created by another witness who, being asked whether he had ever seen anything suspicious about the prosecutor's play replied: "Yes." "What course did you take?" "I always backed him," was the answer. In the end the peer, who was Premier Baron of England, lost his case. He did not long survive the disgrace, and on his death in 1837 the following line was suggested by Theodore Hook as an epitaph-- Here lies England's Premier Baron patiently awaiting the last trump. Towards the middle of the nineteenth century gambling in Clubs began to decline, though, as is always the case, intermittent fits of private gambling were frequent at the West End. In the late 'seventies and early 'eighties, however, of the last century there was some revival of gaming-clubs, or rather places called clubs. A considerable number of these, started merely for the purposes of play, sprang up in the West End; and the proprietors in many cases realised large sums by cashing the cheques of players, a certain percentage being deducted from the amount of the sum, which was not infrequently handed over in counters. A clever proprietor would, of course, know how much any particular client was good for, and take care to run few risks. Where play was high and the members rich a plentiful harvest was reaped. The most fashionable Club of this sort was the Park Club, Park Place, St James's, where, in 1884, there was a good deal of high play at baccarat. The existence of what was virtually a gaming-club aroused much comment, and, the matter reaching the ears of the authorities, it was not long before action was taken. As considerable misapprehension exists as to how the English law views gaming, some account of the proceedings which followed may not be out of place. On the 17th of January 1884, Mr. St John Wontner attended at Bow Street on behalf of Mr. Howard Vincent, the Director of the Criminal Investigation Department, to apply for process against the Park Club, Park Place, St. James's, under the provisions of the Gaming Acts. Mr. Wontner, referring to the section of the Act under which it was proposed to proceed, said that the summons was applied for against the proprietor, the secretary, the committee, and various members of this Club, for keeping the premises as a common gambling-house, where they habitually allowed baccarat to be played. Attention was called to the comments of the Press on gambling, and it was said that various complaints had been made to the police, in consequence of which an inspector was instructed to intimate to the proprietors of various Clubs that the practice of playing games of chance was illegal, and proceedings would be taken were it to be continued. Play had been suspended at various Clubs, but in the ease of this particular Club, Messrs. Lewis & Lewis, Solicitors, of Ely Place, had communicated with the authorities to the effect that it was the intention of those concerned to test the question, and expressed willingness to answer any proceedings that might be instituted. On the 1st of February 1884, at Bow Street, before Sir J. Ingham, Jenks (proprietor), Dalton (secretary), and certain members of this Club and its committee appeared to a summons charging them with a contravention of the Gaming Act. Mr. St. John Wontner prosecuted, Mr. Charles Russell, afterwards Lord Russell of Killowen, and Mr. Poland, instructed by Mr. George Lewis, defended. The charge against the defendants was that they were concerned in keeping a common gaming-house, and permitting a game of chance to be played called "baccarat." For the prosecution Mr. Wontner quoted some rules of the game. He said that the regulation bank at this Club was fixed at £50, an open bank at £1000. As a rule, the banks varied from £25 to £300, but were often larger. Mr. Wontner quoted a printed description of the game of baccarat, and submitted that it was purely a game of chance of a dangerous character, at which excessive gambling took place. Playing cards for amusement was not prohibited, but it was contended that excessive gambling was punishable by law. Sir J. Ingham inquired as to the definition of the word "excessive." Mr. Wontner submitted that the Legislature had defined excessive gambling as criminal, while moderate gaming was not. So the proprietor of a place where excessive gaming was allowed, and who received the profits, was guilty of the offence at common law of keeping a gaming-house, and habitual users of the house were also liable. An ordinary Club-house, where the profits went to the members, would be equally a gaming-house if excessive and habitual play were allowed. Mr. Wontner quoted several decisions, and referred to various Acts dealing with gaming, dating from the reign of Henry VIII., when all games except archery were declared illegal. A subsequent Act repealed that Act, as far as games of skill went, but the old enactment still held as to games, and he contended that whether unlawful gaming went on in a house, the proprietor of which admitted members on payment of subscription, or whether it took place in an ordinary Club, the offence was just the same. Inspector Swansen, of Scotland Yard, had had interviews with Jenks as to particulars respecting the Club. Jenks told him the Club was open in 1882, and he had bought the lease of the premises. He explained the game of baccarat. After two o'clock the banks were put up to auction. Each bank paid one per cent, and each player five shillings for card-money up to 2 A.M. After that time, five shillings until 5 A.M., when £1 an hour was charged, in order to make the game prohibitory. The profits so derived went to the proprietor. One per cent was also charged for cashing cheques. The rules of the Club prohibited the introduction of any stranger to the card-room. The profits realised were from the subscriptions and the card-money. The kitchen had been a loss, and wine and cigars were sold at cost price. On a subsequent occasion, Mr. Jenks told witness that members' cheques were cashed, and one per cent was charged as an insurance against bad cheques. He stated that he did not cash cheques beyond a reasonable amount, which he estimated at £300. In cross-examination by Mr. Russell, witness admitted that Jenks had given all information freely. The Club, of which he was the proprietor, consisted of from 200 to 300 members, comprising gentlemen well-known in society. The night steward of the Park Club was called, and gave evidence as to the play in the card-room. Baccarat was not played there until Mr. Jenks took possession of the Club. Play began about 4.30 in the afternoon, and a break would be made about half-past seven for dinner, after which play was resumed and kept up till two, three, four, and sometimes eight o'clock in the morning. The average bank would be about £100. After further evidence had been taken, and speeches made for and against the defendants, Sir James Ingham, in giving his decision on the summons, said that Jenks was substantially charged with keeping a house for unlawful gaming, and the other gentlemen were substantially charged with aiding and assisting him in doing so. The first question to determine was why and for what purpose Jenks kept this house open. Was it an ordinary Club at which gambling was casually introduced, or was it substantially a gaming-house? The question could be answered by the evidence, as the profits arising from the wines, spirits, and tobacco were admitted to be trifling, while the profits from food were absolutely nothing, the kitchen being carried on at a loss. The subscriptions received from 250 members at six guineas per year produced annually £1711, which was subjected to very large deductions for rent, taxes, etc. It must be clear to everybody that as a Club for social purposes, the business would not be worth the care and attention which it would require. What was the case with respect to gambling? Jenks received one per cent upon all banks, and contributions from all players who stayed after certain hours. Without going into particulars he calculated on consideration of the number of games that would be played ordinarily in the course of an evening, that Jenks must realise from £45 to £50 per night, and that his annual profits must be £10,000 to £12,000, or perhaps many thousands more. Therefore, no one could doubt that the house had been kept and used for the purpose of gambling, for its character as a social Club was absolutely ancillary to its business as a gambling-house. The statute, however, required that there should not only be gambling, but gambling at an unlawful game, and the main question was whether the game of baccarat was an unlawful game. It must be admitted that although a great many games had been prohibited by the Legislature, baccarat had not, and whether it was unlawful or not, must depend on other considerations. Baccarat appeared to be a game of chance, tempered by a certain amount of skill and judgment. Many games of mixed chance and skill might be innocently played. It was important to glance at the state of the old law. Sir J. Ingham then quoted from Baker's abridgment on the subject of gaming for recreation and common gaming-houses, "which promote cheating and other corrupt practices, and incite to idleness and avariciousness persons whose time might otherwise be employed to the general good of the community." The principle to be extracted was that gaming productive of the above evils ought to be considered unlawful, and he (Sir James) considered that the game of baccarat was not "a game played for recreation, whereby a person is fitted for the ordinary duties of life." A great deal had been said upon the subject of large and excessive gambling, and the argument had been advanced that games which would be large and risky and excessive for a man who was in the position of a shop-keeper, would be nothing, trifles infinitesimal, in the eyes of a man of large property. Granted that was so, still there might be cases in which the law could be easily applied, and he thought this was one. Referring to the rules of the Park Club, which was to consist of noblemen, members of the learned professions, officers of the Army and Navy, and gentlemen, Sir James observed that a man at the game in question might lose, with consistent bad luck, £1000 before dinner, and a considerable sum in addition afterwards. Would there be any difficulty in saying that that was large and excessive gambling in the case of members of the learned professions, clergymen, bishops, great leading counsel of the day, or even judges with the largest salaries, physicians, and so forth? Gaming such as had been proved to exist would be large and excessive for any of those classes of men, and still more so for officers of the Army and Navy. He had no hesitation in saying, with reference to the gentlemen composing the Club at Mr. Jenks's house, that gaming had been large and excessive, and that it came within the principle of the law laid down by Chief Justice Abbot in the case of "King _v._ Rosier." But he considered the case did not stop there, and proceeded to refer at great length to the Act of Queen Anne, limiting gambling. In conclusion, the learned Magistrate held that all the parties, with the exception of Mr. Dalton (secretary), had been guilty of gaming. He fined Mr. Jenks £500, the members of the committee £500, and each of the players £100. Notice of appeal was given. The appeal was brought on May 26 and 27, and in giving judgment, Sir Henry Hawkins (afterwards Lord Brampton), after saying that the facts were undisputed--there was no profit except on the gaming, though from the admirable printed rules one might well conclude that the Club was a sociable Club, where a gentleman might dine and have his rubber at whist, whilst not on any account allowed to gamble. The rules in question were, however, nightly disregarded, and looking at the nightly doings, it was impossible for any man in his senses to doubt that the house was really opened and kept for the purpose of gaming at the game of baccarat as its main and principal object. He now had to consider the illegality of the gaming and not merely the illegality of the game--the common law did not prohibit the playing at cards and dice, which were not unlawful games, but the keeping of a common gaming-house was at common law an indictable offence. Sir Henry Hawkins, after some comments on what constituted a gaming-house, went on to say that in his judgment it was not necessary for a gaming-house to be a public nuisance, which the Park Club was not:--a common gaming-house being itself a nuisance, though the gaming there was limited to the subscribers and members of the Club. The keeper of such a house could always admit or exclude whom he chose, and the committee elected whom they pleased, provided the list of members did not exceed 500. It might be 5000 and yet still not be a public, but a common gaming-house. As to unlawful games--no games had been in so many words declared by name unlawful, though the Legislature intended to cover some games which, being lawful in themselves, were only unlawful when played in particular places or by particular persons. The Act of 1845 enacted that a house is proved to be a common gaming-house which is kept for playing any unlawful games and a bank is kept by one or more of the players, exclusively of the others, or where the chances of any game played are not alike favourable to all the players. He divided unlawful games into two classes: First, those absolutely forbidden by name, to the gaming at which a penalty is attached. This class included "ace of hearts," "pharaoh or faro," "basset," and "hazard," and any other game with a die or dice except backgammon. Second, a number of games not altogether prohibited under penal consequences, nor declared to be altogether illegal, but which, nevertheless, have been declared unlawful by the Legislature, because the keeping of houses for playing them, and the play in them therein by anybody, were rendered illegal. The unlawful games of the Acts of Henry VIII. were "bowls," "quoits," "dicing," "tennis," and "carding," most of which would seem to have been games of mere skill. The Acts in question were all repealed by 8 and 9 Vic. The present unlawful games, then, were "ace of hearts," "faro," "basset," "hazard," "passage," "roulette," and every game of dice except backgammon, and every game of cards which was not a game of "mere skill." He was inclined to add any other game of "mere chance." The question was, did "baccarat" come within this category?--the description of the game given by Mr. Russell satisfied him that it did. Baccarat was a game of cards--a game of chance--and though, as in most other things, experience and judgment might make one player or banker more successful than another, it would be a perversion of words to say it was in any sense a game of mere skill. It was, therefore, in his opinion an unlawful game within the meaning of the statute. It was said that it was a modern game--assuming it to be so, it was just what the Legislature intended to include in the phraseology of one unrepealed section of the law of Henry VIII., which mentioned "any new unlawful game hereafter to be invented." With regard to excessive gaming since the repeal of the statutes of Anne and George II., he did not think excessive gaming at any game would in itself render the game unlawful, for excessive gaming _per se_ was not any longer a legal offence. Nevertheless, though excessive gaming was no longer _per se_ unlawful, the fact that it was habitually carried on in a house kept for the purpose of gaming was a cogent piece of evidence to be offered to a jury or other tribunal called on to determine whether a house was a common gaming-house so as to make the keeper of it liable to be indicted for a nuisance at common law. Seeing that Mr. Jenks was the occupier and kept the house open for the purpose of gaming, at, amongst other games, baccarat, an unlawful game within the meaning of the Statute, he was of opinion that he was properly convicted. As to the four members of the committee, the only question was whether these appellants had the care or management of the house--he thought they had--they could not but have been cognisant of the rules and of the true character of the Club. The second rule of the Club placed its internal management in their hands--he thought there was abundance of evidence to warrant their conviction. As to the three players, he found no evidence that they did more than play at baccarat in the house, by which it might be that they somewhat enhanced the profits, but they took no part in the management. Adding to the profits was not a legal offence, as assistance in conducting the establishment was--the conviction with respect to the three players ought to be quashed. Mr. Justice Smith followed, and his summing up entirely coincided with that of Sir Henry Hawkins. This lucid judgment is of considerable interest as affecting games played in English Clubs, and did much to clear up all ambiguity as to how far a Club might allow gambling. It put an end to all open baccarat, though the game was shortly afterwards played for a time at "The Field Club," near St. James's Street, an establishment which much resembled the defunct Park Club in its diversions, members, and methods, but the police soon interfered, and with its demise Club gambling at games of chance has become a thing of the past, except in the low dens of Soho, where faro intermittently calls for the intervention of the authorities. Police raids upon bogus Clubs mainly frequented by foreigners of a low class are often reported in the newspapers. As regards respectable Clubs, a certain amount of bridge, usually for very moderate stakes, is indulged in, but gambling for high stakes is strongly discountenanced. Members inclined to indulge any tendencies in this direction generally do so elsewhere than in a Club. From time to time small Clubs in which there is some high play have sprung up and had a brief existence. When bridge first began to capture London, a bridge Club was started in the West End where very high stakes were the rule. It lasted but a short time, owing chiefly to the fact that a young and not very astute member lost a very large sum, which created considerable scandal and broke up the Club. High bridge is now played in London mostly by wealthy people, well able to take care of themselves. The outcry raised some time ago about young girls being compelled to join in playing for large stakes is not based upon any solid foundation of truth, for as a rule high players are not fond of running the chance of drawing a novice as a partner. A bad player spoils the game. Though there is practically no gambling in West-End Clubs, a good deal of baccarat and poker is occasionally played in private houses, ladies being not infrequently amongst the players, and here gaming assumes its most undesirable form. Temper as well as money is generally lost, whilst the winners are exposed to a by no means remote probability of never being paid. Private gambling is especially dangerous to young men, and without doubt a thousand times more harm is done by play of this sort than by all the properly conducted public tables in the world. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 5: The love of money compels.] V Talleyrand whilst at cards announces the death of the Duc d'Enghien--"The curse of Scotland"--Wilberforce at faro--Successful gamblers--The Rev. Caleb Colton--Colonel Panton--Dennis O'Kelly--Richard Rigby--Anecdotes--Strange incidents at play--Aged gamesters--A duel with death--General Wade and the poor officer--Anecdote of a caprice of Fortune--Stock Exchange speculation--A man who profited by tips. The history of card-playing is connected with many dramatic incidents. If the story be true, one of the most striking of these was when Talleyrand, who had been playing very late at "_la bouillotte_" with the Duchesse de Luynes, suddenly laid down his cards, and in his cold, impassive voice asked, "Has the Prince de Condé any other grandchildren than the Duc d'Enghien?" Receiving an answer in the negative he calmly said, "Then the house of Condé has come to an end." At that very moment the ill-fated Duc was being led out to be shot at the château of Vincennes. A grim historical interest is also generally supposed to be connected with the nine of diamonds, which is known as "the curse of Scotland," the reason assigned being that the Duke of Cumberland wrote his sanguinary orders on the back of such a card in 1746. Notwithstanding this popular tradition, the nine of diamonds had been known as "the curse of Scotland" as far back as thirty years before Culloden--perhaps because a somewhat similar design formed the arms of Colonel Packer, who was on the scaffold when Charles I. was executed. Another reason given is that there were nine lozenges resembling diamonds in the arms of the Earl of Stair who made the Union. Cards have at times attracted the most saintly persons. The first time the philanthropic Wilberforce was at Brooks's he joined in playing faro--according to his own account--from mere shyness. A friend of his, very much surprised, called out to him, "What, Wilberforce, is that you?" George Selwyn, who was keeping the bank, resented the interference, and said in his most expressive tones, "Oh, sir, don't interrupt Mr. Wilberforce, he could not be better employed." Oddly enough, one of the most remarkable instances of a really successful gambler was an English clergyman, the Reverend Caleb Colton. A man of considerable learning, he was originally a fellow of King's College, Cambridge, and curate of Tiverton. In 1812 he created some slight stir with two poems entitled "Hypocrisy" and "Napoleon." His literary reputation was further enhanced in 1818, when the author had become Vicar of Kew, by the publication of a volume of maxims called _Lacon: or Many Things in Few Words_. This work, however, was not absolutely original, being in a great measure founded upon Lord Bacon's _Essays_, Burdon's _Materials for Thinking_, and the well-known aphorisms of La Rochefoucauld. [Illustration: LA BOUILLOTTE. From a scarce print after Bosio.] About this time Mr. Colton began to speculate, and, having dabbled rather recklessly in Spanish bonds, his affairs became involved. This frightened the reverend gentleman, and, though there appears to have been no pressing reason for taking such a step, he absconded. His affairs were subsequently put in order, after which Mr. Colton for a time betook himself to America, eventually returning to Europe and settling down in Paris. Here he took up his abode in the Palais Royal, at that time the head-quarters of dissipation and amusement--surely the queerest spot ever selected by an English clergyman for his abode. Colton now began to make an exhaustive study of the intricacies and mysteries of the gaming-table, every facility for putting theory into practice being at his very door. Unlike most searchers after infallible methods of winning, he was completely successful, and in the course of a year or two won over £25,000 by some method of staking, of which no reliable record seems to exist. More wonderful still, the Reverend Caleb kept his winnings, part of which he devoted to the purchase of pictures. He was a cultivated man, and published an ode, which was privately circulated, on the death of Lord Byron. The end of Mr. Colton was a tragic one, for in 1832 he blew out his brains at the house of a friend living at Fontainebleau. The act in question was, of course, attributed to the effect of gambling losses. A thrilling story was told which described how the unfortunate clergyman, after ruinous losses at Frascati's, had blown his brains out in the forest of St. Germain, and, as always follows in such cases, an outcry arose, demanding the suppression of the tables in the Palais Royal and at Frascati's. Gambling, however, was in no way responsible for Colton's end, the real cause of his suicide having been a disease necessitating a painful operation, to which the successful gambler preferred death. A very fortunate gamester was Colonel Panton, who in the early part of the eighteenth century suddenly realised a considerable fortune by keeping a gaming-house in Piccadilly. Though by nature a confirmed gambler he then exhibited extraordinary common sense, and, having invested his winnings in house property and land, entirely abandoned the card-table and the dice-box. His name is still preserved in Panton Street, Haymarket. Another sporting character who amassed a large fortune by gambling and the Turf was Colonel Dennis O'Kelly,[6] the owner of the famous race-horse Eclipse. The rank of Colonel which this Irishman was entitled to assume was procured by him in a characteristically curious way. In 1760, when the county of Middlesex was very backward in raising sufficient men for its militia, a well-known Scotch adventurer, MacGregor by name, whose family had suffered a good deal for the Stuarts in 1745, seeing a good opportunity of making some money, set about raising a regiment in Westminster which the Government promised to recognise as soon as three-fourths of the commissions should be filled up. He found, however, difficulty in obtaining officers and had to ransack the town and hold out commissions to all sorts of people, amongst whom was O'Kelly, who became an ensign, in due course of time rising to be Lieutenant-Colonel. O'Kelly, though totally ignorant of discipline, is said to have presented the most soldierly appearance of any officer in the regiment. This was not saying much, for the third captain was a tea-dealer, the fourth a tailor, and the fifth a boatswain's mate who had bought an ale-house with prize-money and could just sign his name. The most junior officer was a crippled creature of foreign extraction. When O'Kelly became a major, he is described as having put his regiment through certain military evolutions to the entire satisfaction of the King and his staff, whilst his Lieutenant-Colonelcy was celebrated by a splendid entertainment which many of the aristocracy of Leicestershire attended. O'Kelly was sometimes known as Count O'Kelly, a title which was supposed to have been conferred upon him by his fellow-prisoners during a sojourn in the "Fleet" when he was a young man. Here he met Catherine Hayes, who lived as his faithful companion through life. Though she was never married to him, her position was more or less recognised, and O'Kelly left her an annuity which she continued to enjoy till she died, in the second decade of the nineteenth century, at the age of eighty-five. Among many racing successes O'Kelly won the Derby twice--in 1781 with Young Eclipse by Eclipse, and three years later again with Sergeant by Eclipse out of Aspasia. His racing colours were scarlet and black cap. Whilst there is no doubt but that O'Kelly was very lucky in much that he undertook, his originality and penetration were largely responsible for a success which, however, never gained him admission into fashionable circles. Though a hospitable man of a certain genial humour, O'Kelly was not very open-handed to dependents. In spite of his affluence he was even mean enough to keep jockeys of the poorer class out of their money, season after season, being sometimes even sued by them in the law courts, and personally dunned on the race-course stands. In such a place, on one disgraceful occasion, an old sportsman made the Captain look extremely small by apostrophising him as a mean, low-lived, waiter-bred skunk. In spite of these failings O'Kelly achieved a certain popularity by the good dinners and excellent wines which he provided at his house at Epsom, his dry and truly Irish facetiousness affording the highest zest to those entertainments. At his country house he would never allow any betting or gambling. A constant subject of jest amongst his familiars was the tone in which at dinner he used to say, "John, bring the aaples," meaning the pines, and the whimsicality with which he would apostrophise his servant on certain occasions. The latter having announced the non-arrival of fish, "Begorra," said his master, "and if you can't get any fish, bring herrings." O'Kelly was a gentlemanly and even graceful man in behaviour, a strong contrast to his bear-like figure, dark and saturnine visage, with the accompaniment of his rough striped coat and old round hat. A quite peaceable man, though a true-bred Milesian, O'Kelly never had the smallest appetite for fighting with any weapon whatever. He was a great contrast in this respect to the bullying Dick England, with whom he once became involved in a law-suit. He was ambitious of honour and distinction, a proof of which was his successful pretension to military rank. In the darling object of his life, however, capricious fortune left him in the lurch; the Jockey Club, whose action in this matter was generally approved, steadily refusing to admit among them a parvenu, not, perhaps, of unequivocal character. This O'Kelly, so much of a philosopher in other things, did not possess philosophy enough to forgive, but, in revenge, never failed to characterise the honourable body which refused to admit him by the very hardest professional names which his wit and bitterness could devise. Very much aggrieved at not being admitted into certain of the Clubs at Newmarket and in London, which were frequented by aristocratic sportsmen, he never lost an opportunity of retaliating on those whom he deemed responsible for his exclusion. On one occasion, when making an arrangement to retain the services of a certain jockey, he told him he had no objection to his riding for any other person provided he had no horse running in the same race; adding, however, that he would be prepared to double his terms provided he would enter into an arrangement and bind himself under a penalty never to ride for any of the black-legged fraternity. The consenting jockey saying that he did not quite understand who the Captain meant by the black-legged fraternity, the latter instantly replied with his usual energy, "Oh, by ---, my dear, and I'll soon make you understand who I mean by the black-legged fraternity:--there's the Duke of G., the Duke of D., Lord A., Lord D., Lord G., Lord C., Lord F., the Right Hon. A.B.C.D., and C.I.F., and all the set of thaves that belong to their humbug societies and bug-a-boo Clubs, where they can meet and rob one another without detection." This curious definition of the black-legged fraternity is a sufficiently clear demonstration of how severely O'Kelly felt himself affected by his rejection. He made a point of embracing every opportunity of saying anything to excite the irascibility of the sporting aristocracy, whilst shirking no difficulty or expense to obtain that pre-eminence upon the Turf which he eventually enjoyed. Dining at the stewards' ordinary at Burford races, in the year 1775, Lord Robert Spencer in the chair, Lord Abingdon and many other noblemen being present, matches and sweepstakes as usual, after dinner, were proposed and entered into for the following year--amongst the rest, one between Lord A. and Mr. Baily, of Rambridge, in Hampshire, for 300 gs. h. ft., when the Captain was once or twice appealed to by Mr. B. in adjusting the terms, and Lord A. happened to exclaim that he and the gentleman on his side the table ran for honour, the Captain and his friends for profit. The match was at length agreed upon in terms not conformable to the Captain's opinion, and consequently, when he was applied to by B. to stand half, he vociferously replied, "No, but if the match had been made cross and jostle, as I proposed, I would have not only stood all the money, but have brought a spalpeen from Newmarket, no higher than a twopenny loaf, that should (by ---!) have driven his Lordship's horse and jockey into the furzes, and have kept him there for three weeks." His support of and attachment to Ascot was strikingly conspicuous. During the races there he ran a horse each day for years, whilst his presence and his pocket enlivened the hazard-table at night. Here it was that, seeing him turning over a quire of bank-notes, a gentleman asked him what he was in want of, when he replied he was looking for a little one. The inquirer said he could accommodate him, and desired to know for what sum. Upon which he answered, a "fifty, or something of that sort, just to set the caster." At this time it was supposed he had seven or eight thousand pounds in his hand, but not a note for less than a hundred. He always threw with great success, and when he held the box, was seldom known to refuse throwing for any sum that the company chose to set him; and when "out" was always as liberal in setting the caster, and preventing a stagnation of trade at the table. On the other hand, his large capital and good luck not infrequently captured the last guinea of the bank. It was O'Kelly's usual custom to carry a great number of bank-notes in his waistcoat pocket, wisped up together with the greatest indifference. Playing at a hazard-table at Windsor during the races, as a standing better (every chair being full), a strange hand was observed by those on the opposite side of the table, furtively drawing two notes out of his pocket. The alarm was given, and the hand as instantaneously withdrawn, the notes being left more than half out of the pocket. The company were eager for the offender to be taken before a magistrate, and many attempted to secure him for that purpose, but the Captain very philosophically seizing the thief by the collar, merely kicked him downstairs with the exultant exclamation that "'twas a sufficient punishment to be deprived of the pleasure of keeping company with jontlemen." On one occasion, when at Newmarket, O'Kelly offered to bet a considerable sum with a gentleman who knew nothing about the redoubtable Irishman. The stranger, half suspecting that the challenge came from one of the black-legged fraternity, begged to know what security he would give for so large a sum, if he should lose, and where his estates lay. "O! Begorra, my dear creature, I have the map of them about me, and here it is, sure enough," said O'Kelly, pulling out a pocket-book, and giving unequivocal proofs of his property, by producing bank-notes far exceeding in value the amount of the wager. Besides having been owner of the equine wonder Eclipse, old O'Kelly was in his last years the possessor of a wonderful parrot said to have been purchased at Bristol, where it had been bred--the only parrot of this kind ever born in England. This extraordinary bird died at a great age in the early years of the nineteenth century. It was of moderate size, chiefly green in colour, with some grey and red, and spoke with a clear and distinct articulation, and with so little inferiority to the female human voice divine, that when its tones were heard outside in the street, people would dispute as to whether the voice was that of a woman or a parrot. After O'Kelly's death it became the property of his nephew and heir, Colonel Andrew O'Kelly, who lived in Half-Moon Street, which quiet thoroughfare was very much enlivened by the performances of the parrot at a window. When pressed to sing by passers-by, lively Poll would swear and laugh at them, all the time spreading and fluttering its wings in triumph. The bird's favours were divided between an old lady and the Colonel, with both of whom it would converse on a variety of topics. When the latter was returning home. Poll, if at the window, would espy him across the street, upon which it would instantly clap its wings, and set up an impatient squalling--"The Colonel! the Colonel is coming! open the door!" If in a bad mood and asked to talk, Poll would sometimes reply sullenly, "I'll see you damn'd first!" At times, especially if not near the window, with the sash up below its cage--which was the bird's favourite place--being asked, "How d'ye do to-day, Poll?" the parrot would curtly answer, "Why, I don't know," "Middling," or "What's that to you?" Colonel O'Kelly was very proud of his bird and had regular "parrot concerts," on which occasions Half-Moon Street was filled with carriages and an admiring crowd, to such a degree as to be scarcely passable. Although solicited by many distinguished people, the Colonel did not permit his parrot to leave his home and pay visits. So great became the parrot's renown that his owner was once offered a very large sum, by a well-known caterer of amusements, to allow Poll to appear in public, the bird's life to be heavily insured. Colonel O'Kelly, it should be added, had profited by the good English and French education which his uncle had bestowed upon him. He was Lieutenant-Colonel in the Middlesex Militia, and pursued the Turf with some spirit. Another gambler who achieved prosperity was Mr. Richard Rigby, who rose to affluence owing to an incident on a race-course. Having at an early age inherited a comfortable fortune, young Mr. Rigby proceeded to squander it whilst yet incapable of appreciating the value of money. Gaming, racing, and other forms of getting into difficulties occupied his time, with the result that most of his inheritance soon passed into the hands of lawyers and money-lenders. He would probably have sunk into a state of abject destitution had not the Turf, which had so largely contributed to diminish his fortune, also been the means of restoring him to opulence. The Duke of Bedford of that day had given great offence to the gentlemen in the neighbourhood of Litchfield, by an improper and unfair interference at their races; and as at the end of the eighteenth century it was by no means safe or easy effectually to punish a man fortified by rank, privilege, and wealth, they at last determined to bestow on this illustrious offender manual correction. The overbearing conduct of the Duke in some matter relating to the starting of their horses, and their weights, in which he had no kind of right to interfere, soon afforded the confederates an opportunity of executing their purpose. He was in one moment separated from his attendants, surrounded by the party, hustled and unmercifully horsewhipped by an exasperated country attorney, with a keen sense of his wrongs and a muscular arm. The lawyer persevered in this severe discipline without being interrupted by his Grace's outcries and repeated declarations that he was the Duke of Bedford, an assertion which Mr. Humphries, the assailant, positively denied, adding that a peer of the realm would never have conducted himself in so scandalous a manner. The matter soon circulated over the course, and reaching Mr. Rigby's ear, the latter with a generous, if perhaps calculated gallantry, burst through the crowd, rescued the distressed noble, completely thrashed his antagonist, and conveyed the Duke to a place of safety. The result of this affair was most fortunate for the spendthrift, who, as a consequence, eventually amassed a huge fortune. The Russell family were very grateful for the singular service which Mr. Rigby had rendered to the Duke, whose rescuer was loaded with favours. These eventually culminated in his obtaining the most lucrative office in the gift of the Crown, that of Paymaster-General; the emoluments arising from which, during the American War, amounted annually to £50,000. In 1782, on Lord North's retirement, Mr. Rigby lost his post, and was also called upon to refund a large sum declared to be public money which should have been accounted for. Under these circumstances Rigby applied to Thomas Rumbold, who, originally a waiter at White's, had risen to be Governor of Madras. Whilst fulfilling his duties in St. James's Street, the latter had often advanced Rigby, who was a desperate punter, small sums, and on this occasion his services were once more sought. The ex-waiter had returned to England with immense wealth, procured, it was declared, by very doubtful means. Public indignation having been aroused, a bill to strip the Anglo-Indian of his ill-gotten gains had been introduced in the House of Commons. Under these circumstances an arrangement was effected, which settled his own difficulties and at the same time saved the fortune of his old friend from White's. The latter advanced Rigby a large sum, which enabled him to adjust matters regarding the missing money, whilst the bill of confiscation was dropped, its introducer being an intimate friend of the former Paymaster. Rigby's nephew and heir soon after married Rumbold's daughter, so all ended happily owing, as it was said, to Rigby's former devotion to hazard. Mr. Rigby appears to have been a generous man, as the following anecdote shows. Being one evening at a hazard-table in Dublin he was very successful; and having won a considerable sum, he was putting it in his purse when a person behind said in a low voice to himself, "Had I that sum, what a happy man should I be!" Mr. Rigby, without looking back, put the purse over his shoulder, saying, "Take it, my friend, and be happy." The stranger made no reply, but accepted it, and retired. Every one present was astonished at Mr. Rigby's uncommon beneficence, whilst he derived additional pleasure from being informed that the person who had received the benefit was a half-pay officer in great distress. Some years after, a gentleman waited upon him in his own equipage, and being introduced to Mr. Rigby, acquainted him that he came to acquit a debt that he had contracted with him in Dublin. Mr. Rigby was greatly surprised at this declaration, as he was an entire stranger. "Yes, sir," continued the visitor, "you assisted me with above a hundred pounds at a time that I was in the utmost indigence, without knowing or even seeing me"; and then related the affair at the gaming-table. "With that money," continued the stranger, "I was enabled to pay some debts and fit myself out for India, where I have been so fortunate as to make an ample fortune." Mr. Rigby declined to take the money, but, through the pressing solicitations of the gentleman, accepted a valuable diamond ring. The strange incidents which arose at the old hazard-tables, frequented as they were by all sorts and conditions of men, often produced strange changes in men's lives. General Wade had so great a propensity to gaming, that he frequented places of every description where play was going forward, without considering the low company he met there. At one of these places, one night, in the eagerness of his diversion, he pulled out an exceedingly valuable gold snuff-box, richly set with diamonds, took a pinch, and passed it round, keeping the dice-box four or five mains before he was "out," when recollecting something of the circumstances, and not perceiving the snuff-box, he swore vehemently no man should stir till it was produced, and a general search should ensue. On his right sat a person dressed as an officer, very shabby, who from time to time, with great humility, had begged the honour of going a shilling with him, and had by that means picked up four or five; on him the suspicion fell, and it was proposed to search him first. Begging leave to be heard, he said, "I know the General well; not he, nor all the powers upon earth, shall subject me to a search while I have life to oppose it. I declare, on the honour of a soldier, I know nothing of the snuff-box, and hope that will satisfy all suspicions: follow me into the next room, where I will defend that honour, or perish!" The eyes of all were now turned on the General for an answer, who, clapping his hand eagerly down for his sword, felt the snuff-box (supposed to have been lost, and put there from habit) in a secret side-pocket of his breeches, made for that purpose. The injustice of his suspicions greatly affected the General, who naturally felt a good deal of compassion for his poor fellow-soldier. Overcome with remorse, he at once left the room, having said, "Sir, I here, with great reason, ask your pardon, and I hope to find it granted by your breakfasting with me, and hereafter ranking me among your friends." As may be easily supposed the invitation was complied with, and when, after some conversation, the General conjured the officer to say what could be the true reason that he should object to being searched: "Why, General," was the answer, "being upon half-pay, and friendless, I am obliged to husband every penny; I had that day very little appetite, and as I could not eat what I had paid for, nor afford to lose it, the leg and wing of a fowl were then wrapped up in a piece of paper in my pocket; the thought of which coming to light, appeared ten times more terrible than fighting every one in the room." "Enough! my dear boy, you have said enough! Let us dine together to-morrow; we must prevent your being subjected again to such a dilemma." They met the next day, and the General then gave him a captain's commission, together with a purse of guineas to enable him to join his regiment. Whilst fortune as a rule seems to delight in favouring novices at play, and is somewhat pitiless to those who have wooed her for years, there have been certain old gamblers who, by making a study of some particular game, have attained to such perfection in playing it as seldom to lose. With some of these play endures as a dominant passion after almost all the other faculties have become impaired. Not very many years ago a well-known figure in a certain Parisian Club, existing mainly for the purposes of play, was an old gentleman who, paralysed below the waist, was most afternoons carried upstairs in an invalid chair, placed in a fauteuil, and propped up with cushions in order that he might hold a bank at his favourite écarté, a game at which he was an expert of the highest kind. Up to within a day or two of his death he continued to indulge in a game which was practically his only link with the living world, his faculties, though usually somewhat clouded, recovering all their old vitality as far as concerned the purposes of the card-table. A case of much the same sort was described by Brillat Savarin, who, in the country where he resided, knew an old guardsman who had served under Louis XV. and Louis XVI. This aged individual, rather below than above the average of ordinary men in general intelligence, possessed an extraordinary aptitude for games--an expert at all the old ones, he would master any novelty in this line after having played it once or twice. With the advent of old age he had become paralysed--two faculties alone remaining unimpaired--that of digestion and that of play. Every day for twenty years he had been in the habit of frequenting a house where he was made welcome. Here he would sit in a semi-comatose condition, hidden away in a corner, seemingly indifferent to anything that was done or said. When, however, the card-table was drawn out, he immediately revived, and having dragged himself to a seat, soon demonstrated that his powers as a gamester were as brilliant as in the long dead past when he was a dashing officer at Versailles. One day there came down into this part of France a Parisian banker who was soon discovered to be a passionate votary of piquet, a game which he declared himself ready to play with any one for very large stakes. A council of war was held, and eventually it was decided that the old guardsman should champion country against town, a war fund being raised by general subscription, winnings or losings to be allocated according to the size of the different shares. When the banker sat down to the card-table to find himself confronted by a grim, gaunt, twisted figure, he at first believed himself the victim of a joke, but when he saw this spectre take the cards, shuffle and deal with the air of a professor, he began to divine that no unworthy antagonist was pitted against him. This conclusion was before long considerably strengthened, for the unfortunate Parisian was outmatched in play to such an extent that he eventually retired the loser of a very substantial sum. Before setting out for his return journey to Paris, the banker in question, whilst thanking all he had met for their hospitality, declared that there was only one thing he had to deplore, which was having been so bold as to pit himself against a corpse at cards. There is an awful story told of a gambler who refused to die, and who, when _in extremis_, had the card-table drawn up to his bedside with strong meats and drinks, and held the cards against Death himself; but the grim tyrant held all the trumps, and soon snatched his prey. Utter absorption to extraneous influences brands gamblers as with a hot iron, and so great is the fascination which play exercises over certain natures, that there exist people who fully believe that there is only one thing less pleasant than winning--which is to lose. The originator of the maxim in question was Lieutenant-Colonel Aubrey, one of the boldest and most adventurous men that England has ever known, who lived on into the twentieth century. Piquet and hazard, particularly the former, were the games in which the Colonel was known to excel, and on which he adventured greater sums than any man living in his time. The Duke of York, George IV., Colonel Fitzpatrick, Alderman Combe, and other distinguished personages were his antagonists and associates at play, and he was always considered an "honourable" man. The domination exercised by gambling sometimes amounts almost to insanity, all sense of decency and proportion being lost. This was the case with a certain English Colonel, who was so addicted to gambling, that having one night lost all the money he could command, determined to stake his wife's diamond ear-rings, and going straight home, asked her to lend them to him. She took them from her ears, saying that she knew for what purpose he wanted them, and that he was welcome. The jewels in question proved lucky, and the Colonel won largely, gaining back all that he had lost that night. In the warmth of his gratitude to his wife, he, at her desire, took an oath that he would never more play at any game with cards or dice. Some time afterwards he was found in a hay-yard with a friend, drawing straws out of the hay-rick, and betting upon which should be the longest! As might be expected, he lived in alternate extravagance and distress, sometimes surrounded with every sort of luxury, and sometimes in dire want of half a crown. Nevertheless, he continued gambling all his life. Bewailing a run of ill-luck to a serious friend one day, the soldier in question said, "Is it not astonishing how I always lose?" "That's not what surprises me," was the reply, "so much as where you get the money to pay." As a matter of fact too many gamblers have taken much the same point of view as was adopted by a certain Italian gamester who, after an intolerable run of ill-luck, apostrophised Fortune, calling her a vixenish jade. "Thou mayest," said he, "indeed cause me to lose millions, but I defy thy utmost power to make me pay them." In certain rare instances fortune seems to delight in suddenly showering her gifts upon some one who is not a gambler. A remarkable exemplification of this occurred in Australia not so many years ago, when what was probably the biggest stake ever played for was lost and won. A curious feature of the game having been that neither winner nor loser knew that they were playing for anything but an insignificant stake. A young Englishman, who had gone out to Australia with a slender capital, was one day standing at the door of his hut, wondering if fortune would ever smile upon him, when two travel-stained men, having much the appearance of tramps, appeared and, saying that they had come a long way, begged that they might be allowed to rest for the night. In accordance with the traditions of Colonial hospitality, the young man at once proceeded to do all he could to make his rough-looking guests comfortable, and in due course sat down with them to the best dinner which his slender resources could provide. The meal over, pipes were lit, and conversation (always limited in remote regions), being exhausted, one of the men pulled out of his pocket an old greasy-looking pack of cards and proposed a game. To make a long story short the young man, who, it must be added, was no gambler, eventually consented to hold a small bank at écarté against his two visitors. He stipulated, however, that when either he or his opponents should have chanced to lose such money as they had in their pockets, the game should come to an end. For a time fortune wavered, but a sudden run in favour of the host swept all the modest capital of his antagonists to his side of the table. A discussion now ensued, the guests being anxious to continue the game, declaring that any losings should be promptly remitted on their arrival at the nearest town. The Englishman, however, was obdurate. "We agreed to play for ready money only, and ready money it shall be," said he, "your losses after all are trifling. We are all tired and had better turn in." This was not at all to the taste of the losers, who argued and entreated, with, however, complete lack of success, when suddenly one of them said: "Bill, where's that bit of paper we got up country, perhaps he'll play us for that." A well-thumbed document was then produced which appeared to be the title to some plots of land up country. The owners did not seem to attach any great importance to it, for after some discussion it was eventually agreed that the document, which the host considered a very flimsy security, should be estimated as worth something like ten pounds; the game was resumed, and luck continuing in the same direction, the Englishman went to bed with the slip of paper in his pocket-book. The next morning the men proceeded on their way, having, at the request of their host, given an address so that, should any question arise as to the title of the land, they might be referred to. About a week after this the Englishman, who had forgotten all about the slip of paper, which he had sent, with some other securities, to the bank, was once more standing in front of his hut, when a mounted stranger appeared, and saying that he had come a long way, begged for a night's entertainment and lodging. The new arrival, though roughly-dressed, was a man who, it was easy to see, enjoyed the command of a certain amount of money. He was, he declared, anxious to purchase plots of land for which he professed himself ready to give a liberal price. Particularly persistent in inquiring of his host if he knew of any claims likely to be sold, he eventually elicited from him the story of the bit of paper, over which he seemed to be very much amused. "I expect," said he, "that it's worth nothing at all, but I've taken a fancy to you and I daresay you won't be sorry to take a tenner for it." The Englishman, however, said he would rather do nothing till he had had another look at the paper in the bank. "Besides," he added, "I've a fancy to keep it." "Well," replied the stranger, "that's queer. I'm a man of fancies too, and though you may think me a flat, I'll give you another chance--£20 for the paper!" This offer and yet others of £30, £40, and at last of £50, having met with no better success than the first, the stranger eventually dropped the subject, and the next morning rode off, apparently very much amused at what he called the pigheadedness of his host. About ten days passed and once more the same horseman appeared, this time in a more serious mood. A veritable craving for the little bit of paper, he said, had seized him, and as the thing was positively getting on his mind he had ridden out to say that, to end the matter and do his young friend a good turn, he was ready to give £200 (which he had brought in cash) for it. The Englishman now began to think that the document was really valuable, and bluntly told his visitor that no offer whatever would be accepted. His estimate was correct. The bit of paper, won in the Australian hut from two wandering miners, eventually gave its possessor a fortune of something not very far short of a million pounds, for, owing to the title which it conveyed, he became the largest shareholder in one of the richest mines in all Australia. The lucky winner is alive to-day, and makes no secret of the origin of his wealth, which came to him as if by the stroke of some magic wand. It is only fair to say that in due course he provided handsomely for the two miners who had played with him what was almost certainly the highest game of écarté on record. The would-be purchaser, it afterwards appeared, was a speculator in mines, who, having by some means or other learnt the value of the piece of paper, had traced it with the intention of thus acquiring a highly valuable property. The modern English view of gambling is a sadly confused one, the card-table and the race-course being bitterly denounced, whilst speculation in stocks and shares is considered an entirely legitimate method of attempting to make money. As a matter of fact, in a great number of instances, this amounts to no more or less than backing a stock to either rise or fall in value. Outside brokers exist, it is even said, who do not always actually buy or sell any shares at all, but simply, as it were, allow their clients to bet with them on a selected stock rising or falling in price. These are to all purpose and effect mere bookmakers, though, for some unknown reason, their calling is not regarded with the same odium which British austerity is generally ready to affix to members of the Ring. For those who are not versed in the intricacies of City matters speculation almost invariably results in loss, the odds being about 99 to 1 against the ordinary individual proving successful. Speculation on the Stock Exchange, gambling generally, and betting on the Turf are exactly similar from the point of view of the moralist; there is no difference between all three. During the recent debates upon the Budget a member stated in the House of Commons that ninety per cent of the business of the London Stock Exchange was of a gambling description, and represented only purchases made with a view to a rise in prices. He wished to see such transactions taxed. The Chancellor of the Exchequer replied that were this done it might stop such transactions altogether. Another member--Mr. Markham--supported such a tax, adding that he did not wish to appear in a false light, and would admit that he gambled himself, and, like most fools, always lost money--a remark which excited considerable merriment. Unimpeachable information about stocks and shares has ruined many a man--nothing indeed is more fatal, as a rule, than so-called good tips about the rise and fall of stocks, which, when originating from an inspired quarter, are so much sought after by speculators. There have, of course, been instances where tips have made people a fortune. A few years ago an author, who, though fairly successful, had made no particular stir in the literary world, and whose books did not seem likely to have had a very enormous sale, suddenly purchased a nice estate in which was included a luxurious country house, where he began to entertain. An old friend of his on a visit frankly expressed himself surprised at this sudden accession of prosperity, and alone one wet day with his host in the smoking-room bluntly asked: "However did you make so much money, surely not by your books?" "No," was the reply, "by speculating in the City." "An experience as rare as it was pleasant--I suppose you were given some good tips." "Yes, not taking them was the secret of my success!" The host then proceeded to explain that, chancing to know a number of men in the City who were in the best possible position to have sound information as to the rise and fall of stocks and shares, the thought one day struck him that he might profit by such opportunities. Accordingly he let it be known that he had a certain amount of money which it was his intention to try and increase by careful speculation. Tips poured in upon him--he was entreated to become a bear of this and a bull of that--people appeared anxious to put him into all sorts of ventures, and he became the recipient of much "exclusive" information. His idea of speculation, however, was original. Told to buy a certain stock he invariably sold it; warned of a coming fall, he speculated for a rise; in fact it became his practice to act in a manner exactly contrary to that indicated by his many advisers, whom, meanwhile, he kept in ignorance of what he was doing. By this curious and original method in a comparatively short time he accumulated a comfortable fortune, and then decided to abandon speculation and spend the rest of his days in prosperous ease. As this shrewd and fortunate speculator explained to his friend, human nature must be reckoned with in all things, and in a vast number of cases those who give tips are interested in the particular stocks which they not unnaturally seek to bolster up--a really good thing does not need much puffing. On the other hand, regular schemes to depress certain stocks are often engineered in a most clever manner, adverse rumours being spread as to a probable fall in order to facilitate large purchases at a small figure; these having been made, the stock rises with startling rapidity. The best maxim for speculators, not well versed in City matters, is to take plenty of advice, and in the vast majority of cases to operate in an exactly contrary way. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 6: An excellent account of this adventurer is given by that gifted writer Mr. Theodore Andrea Cook, in _Eclipse and O'Kelly_, published two years ago.] VI Colonel Mellish--His early life and accomplishments--His equipage--A great gambler--£40,000 at a throw!--Posting--Mellish's racing career--His duel--In the Peninsula--Rural retirement and death--Colonel John Mordaunt--His youthful freaks--An ardent card-player--Becomes aide-de-camp to the Nawab of Oude--Anecdotes--Death from a duel--Zoffany in India and his picture of Mordaunt's cock-fight--Anecdotes of cock-fighting. Amongst the sporting characters of the past who flung their fortunes to the winds at the gaming-table or on the race-course there were not a few who were possessed of considerable intelligence and charm. Such a one was the handsome, gallant, and accomplished Colonel Mellish, beyond all doubt the Admirable Crichton of his day. The son of Mr. Charles Mellish, of Blyth Hall, near Doncaster, a gentleman devoted to antiquarian research and obviously of very different disposition from his son, Henry Mellish was born in 1780, and coming into his kingdom after a long minority, plunged at once with infinite zest into every form of patrician dissipation. It has been said that he was at Eton, but his name does not appear in the school lists. At any rate, whatever his school, he seems to have distinguished himself at it by a variety of escapades, which culminated in his running away and flatly refusing to return. In his seventeenth year he joined the 11th Light Dragoons, from which he exchanged into the 10th Hussars, the smartest light cavalry regiment of the day, with the Prince of Wales for its colonel. There is a tradition that Mellish was granted perpetual leave lest his extravagance should corrupt the young officers; but his subsequent career proves that he must at least have seen enough of soldiering to have learned his duty. After he had left the 10th Hussars, his name appears in the army list as an officer of the 87th Royal Irish Regiment, and also as a major of the Sicilian Legion, in which many Englishmen held honorary commissions. At the same time, his name figures in the list of Lieutenant-Colonels. Mellish was no mere fashionable spendthrift. He was a man of many accomplishments. Nature, indeed, seemed to have qualified him for taking the lead, and to have given him a temperament so ardent, as made it almost impossible for him ever "to come in second." He understood music, and could draw, and paint in oil colours. As a companion he was always in high spirits, and talked with animation on every subject; whilst his conversation, if not abounding in wit, was ever full of interesting information founded on fact and experience. He had a manner of telling and acting a story that was perfectly dramatic. He was at home with all classes, and could talk with the gentleman and associate with the farmer. In Mellish culminated all the best of these various qualities which were considered the appanage of a patrician sportsman of his day. A most expert whip, no man drove four-in-hand with more skill and with less labour than he did; and to display that skill he often selected very difficult horses to drive, satisfied if they were goers. As a rider he was equally eminent: for years after his death his memory lingered in many a hunt, where he had led all the light weights of Leicestershire, Rutlandshire, and Yorkshire, when he was himself riding fourteen stone. His was the art of making a horse do more than other riders, and he accustomed them, like himself, "to go at everything." The following stanza, one of those in a famous hunting song composed when Lord Darlington, afterwards Duke of Cleveland, hunted the Badsworth country, commemorates the young sportsman, who was well-known as a daring rider with these hounds:-- Behold Harry Mellish, as wild as the wind, On Lancaster mounted, leave numbers behind; But lately returned from democrat France, Where, forgetting to bet, he's been learning to dance. A melancholy occurrence once gave him an opportunity of displaying, not only his filial affection, but also his determination as a horseman. Having heard the alarming intelligence of his mother's illness, he mounted one of his barouche-horses to proceed to London, and actually rode from Brighton to East Grinstead, a distance of twenty miles, in an hour and twenty minutes; the strain of this feat was so severe that on arrival at his destination the gallant horse which had carried him fell dead. As a runner he was by no means to be despised. He beat Lord Frederick Bentinck (renowned for fleetness of foot) in a running match on Newmarket Heath. For everything connected with sport Colonel Mellish possessed a natural aptitude, as was universally recognised. In appearance he was a big man, who even as a youth weighed some twelve stone. Nearly six feet high and admirably proportioned, the pallor of his complexion was rendered more noticeable by his black hair and brilliant eyes. In dress he had a great fondness for light hues and usually wore a white "boat hat,"[7] white trousers, and silk stockings of the same colour. When he arrived on the course at Newmarket his barouche, which he drove himself, was drawn by four beautiful white horses, whilst two out-riders in crimson liveries, also mounted on white steeds, preceded this brilliant turn-out. Behind rode another groom leading a thoroughbred hack, whilst yet another waited at the rubbing post with a spare horse in case of accidents. At that time he had thirty-eight race-horses in training, seventeen coach-horses, twelve hunters, four chargers, and a number of ordinary hacks. The expenses of his establishment were enormous. Besides these he lost very large sums at the gaming-table, where he once staked £40,000 at a single throw and lost it. At his own home he gambled away vast sums, and a table was formerly preserved at Blyth on which its former owner had once lost £40,000 to the Prince Regent. At one sitting at a London Club--it is said at Brooks's, though Mellish's name does not appear in the list of former members--he rose the loser of £97,000, and was leaving the Club-house, when he met the Duke of Sussex, who, hearing what had happened, persuaded him to return and try his luck once more. This he did, and in two or three hours won £100,000 off the Duke, who paid as much of this sum as he could, promising to settle the rest by a life annuity of £4000. It would, however, seem somewhat doubtful whether the entire debt was ever liquidated. As a matter of fact such large sums were often lost at hazard that it was no infrequent thing for losers to compromise their debt by paying an annuity to fortunate opponents. The impression that in old days all gambling liabilities were scrupulously discharged on the spot is not based upon any very solid foundation, and winners sometimes had the greatest difficulty in getting their money. Under such circumstances defaulters were occasionally posted. The expression "posting a man" for not having paid a debt of honour is now more or less figurative, but, as recently as the beginning of the nineteenth century, defaulters were publicly posted. In September 1824, for instance, all Brighton was surprised to find the following placard posted up at Lucombe's Library and other places of the same sort:-- BRIGHTON, _September 8, 1824_. Twice have I applied to the Earl of S. for the settlement of a bet, and twice, having given him the offer of a reference, I was under the necessity of requesting the satisfaction of a gentleman, which he refused. As such, I post the Earl of S. as a man who constantly refuses to pay his debts of honour, and a coward. W.T. The above placard is said to have been induced by the refusal of a certain Peer to answer a demand of £2000, for which no satisfactory claim could be produced. To guard against the possibility of a duel, warrants were issued against the nobleman and Mr. W.T. by the local magistrates. The Earl was easily found, and bound in a recognisance of the peace. Mr. W.T., however, could not be discovered, it being declared that he feared criminal proceedings being taken. Most of the gamblers of a century ago were men of careless disposition, and Colonel Mellish in particular lived in such a whirl of excitement and gambled in such tremendous sums that a few thousands more or less were at this time very little to him. His life was devoted to frolics of every kind. On one occasion after a ball at Doncaster, Mellish and the Duke of Clarence sallied out for a lark and assisted in the arrest of a man who had been fighting in the street. When the party reached the prison, Mellish locked the Royal Duke in a cell and went off with the key, which he delivered to his brother the Prince of Wales. The Duke on his liberation took the joke very good-humouredly. It may be added that, like most born gamblers, Colonel Mellish lost his money with the greatest coolness, ever accepting ill-luck with imperturbable equanimity. The hazardous joys of racing were to him an irresistible lure, and no more ardent supporter of the Turf than he ever lived. His career as an owner of racers only extended over about seven years, from 1801 to 1808, when financial difficulties obliged him to abandon the sport to which he was devoted. The greatest financial reverse he suffered was when Mr. Clifton's Fyldener won the St. Leger in 1806. Over a million guineas are said to have changed hands over this race, and Colonel Mellish lost an enormous sum. Nevertheless, as a judge of racing there was no man held to be his equal. If indeed judgment in such matters could preserve any one from ruin, then Mellish should have kept his fortune. Endowed with mental qualities far above those possessed by most sporting men, the owner of Blyth soon attained a remarkable knowledge of the intricacies of the Turf, and the best judges used to declare that they never knew a man who was better able to gauge the powers, the qualities, and capabilities of the racer, as well as the exact weights he could carry, and the precise distances he could run. Unfortunately there was one side of the Turf life of his day which he could not master, that was the rascality of those who took care not to leave to accident the chances which made ultimate success certain. Colonel Mellish was not only a most excellent judge of a race-horse, but well acquainted with all the intricacies of managing a racing-stable. He was universally admitted to be possessed of an extraordinary capacity for making matches, and as a handicapper was declared to be supreme. A careful investigation, however, of the old Racing Calendars from 1805 to 1807 hardly confirms such an estimate of the Colonel's abilities in this direction. In those three years he won 38 and received forfeit for 15 matches, losing 57 and paying forfeit for 31; that is, he won £11,505 and lost £18,600 in stakes. In addition to this he must, of course, have lost very large sums in bets. The most famous of all his matches was that between his Sancho and Lord Darlington's Pavilion. There were really three matches. In the New Claret Stakes at the Newmarket first Spring Meeting, 1805, Pavilion beat Sancho and some other horses (6 to 4 Sancho, 7 to 1 Pavilion). Mellish then challenged Lord Darlington, and a match was run in the summer at Lewes--four miles for three thousand guineas, Buckle riding Sancho and Chifney Pavilion. Sancho (the non-favourite, 2 to 1) won easily. Another match was run over the same distance on the same course for two thousand guineas, 6 to 4 on Sancho, who broke down badly. Mellish on this occasion lost altogether five thousand guineas, though at one moment before the race he had been offered twelve hundred to have it off. A third match for two thousand guineas over a mile at Brighton was made in the same year, but Sancho had to pay forfeit. Colonel Mellish's colours were white with crimson sleeves. His trainer was Bartle Atkinson, who from the time of entering his service in 1802, till 1807, turned out what was probably a greater number of winners than any other private trainer for one owner has ever done in the same period of time. In 1804 and 1805 he won the St. Leger with Sancho and Staveley, and trained many winners besides. In spite of all these successes, racing proved most disastrous to the Colonel's fortune, and like the vast majority of racing-men of this stamp, he left the Turf a ruined man. In his palmy days it is said that he never opened his mouth to make a bet under £500. He wanted to be everything at once, and as the saying went, he was "at all in the ring"; till by deep play, by racing and expenses of every kind, and in every place, he found it necessary to part with his estate in order to satisfy the demands which obsessed him on all sides. Though the most popular of men, Colonel Mellish once had a serious altercation with the Honourable Martin Hawke, and the result was a duel, when the following conversation is said to have occurred--it shows the light-hearted spirit of the combatants. _Mellish._ "Take care of yourself, Hawke, for by --- I shall hit you." _Hawke._ "I will, my lad, and let me recommend you to take care of your own canister!" The seconds, on hearing this, agreed that they should not take aim, but fire by signal, which was done. The Colonel missed, but Hawke's shot took effect, by passing round the rim of his opponent's stomach, and eventually penetrating his left arm; on which Mellish exclaimed, "Hawke, you have winged me! Lend me your neckcloth to tie up the broken pinion!" This was immediately complied with, and the arm being bound up, they both returned in the same chaise, as good friends as ever! This duel was fought in 1807 in a field by the roadside, and originated in a quarrel about the Yorkshire election, from which both duellists were returning in their drags. Mellish would appear to have run a great risk of being killed, for the Honourable Martin Hawke was a singularly gifted man and could do incredible things with a pistol. Indeed his skill in that direction was probably never equalled. His nerve and courage were of the highest order. Mr. Hawke once fought a duel near Brussels with a certain Baron Smieten. Whilst the seconds were measuring out the distance, he amused himself by drawing a mail-coach with his stick on the bank of a sandy ditch. One of the seconds, a guardsman, came up just as the finishing touches were being put to the coachman's whip, and said "All's ready," to which Hawke replied, "Just let me put the lash to this fellow's whip." Having touched off this, he instantly proceeded to touch up his antagonist, mentioning that as he had put him to so much trouble (they fought over the frontiers) he must give him a touch, but would content himself with spoiling his waltzing for a little; naming where and how he would operate--and this he did to a hairbreadth. At one time the patron of all the superior pugilists, Colonel Mellish first brought many of them into notice. He arranged the first battle ever fought by the famous Tom Cribb, who was matched by the Colonel against Nicholl, who beat him. Unfortunately for his gallant backer, Cribb on this occasion entered the ring very drunk, and, of course, fell an easy prey to an antagonist whom in future days the champion of England would have beaten in ten minutes. Colonel Mellish likewise made the match betwixt Gully and the Game Chicken; the former of whom he caused to "give in," much against his inclination. The Colonel's humanity on this occasion cost him a large sum, as he had backed Gully heavily. Nevertheless, he insisted upon his yielding, the man being reduced to such a state of weakness that his supporter was afraid of an accidental blow proving fatal. At the time of the Peninsular campaign a regular crisis occurred in Mellish's affairs, and Sir Rowland Ferguson appointed him his aide-de-camp, and he went out to Spain. Previous to the battle of Vimeiro, as the general officers were dining together, one of them observed to Sir Rowland Ferguson that if the thing were not impossible, he should have declared that an officer he had seen was a gentleman whom he had left a week or two ago in the cockpit at York, with cocks engaged in the main there--his name he had understood was Mr. Mellish. "The very same man," returned Sir Rowland, "he is now my aide-de-camp, and I think you will say, when you have the opportunity of knowing more of him, a better officer will not be found," and this proved to be the case. On many different occasions, indeed, the Duke of Wellington declared that a better aide-de-camp than Mellish he had never observed. The undaunted manner with which he encountered danger, the quickness with which he rode, and the precision with which he delivered his orders, never making any mistake in any moment of hurry or confusion, were circumstances which excited much favourable comment from friend and foe alike. After the battle of Busaco, Colonel Mellish was sent with a flag of truce to the French head-quarters, on a message respecting some prisoners. On his arrival at Leiria, Massena invited him to dinner, and treated him with great attention and respect. After remaining some time with the army abroad, Colonel Mellish returned home, and after that period engaged no more in military duties. According to rumour his return was owing to the resumption of his former habits of play, which the Duke of Wellington had forbidden; but this is not certain. The Prince Regent, who was so often accused of forgetting those who had served him, certainly did not justify this reproach in the case of Colonel Mellish; for on his having obtained a small appointment abroad in one of the conquered islands, the Prince made him his equerry, in order to enable him to enjoy the emoluments of it whilst remaining at home. In addition to this the uncles of the Colonel, who had undertaken the management of his property when he was abroad, enabled him, by their arrangements, to take up his abode at Hodsock Priory, where he had occasionally lived before, and where at a comparatively early age he ended his days. On his way to this farm he had to pass the magnificent mansion and domain of Blyth, the seat of his ancestors and formerly his own, which the vicissitudes of a Turf career had obliged him to sell. Colonel Mellish, however, accepted his lot with considerable equanimity, and lived at his somewhat modest abode without any mortifying regrets. Having married one of the daughters of the Marchioness of Lansdowne,[8] who brought him a very handsome fortune, his circumstances again became easy, and he was enabled to indulge in those rural pursuits which appear early and late to have been congenial to his disposition. He took to coursing and established a fine stud of greyhounds. He also bred cattle with great success, winning many prizes at northern cattle shows, and obtaining high prices for his stock, and more fortunate than most men of his disposition and tastes, ended his life in comfort and peace. His death, however, occurred at a comparatively early age, for he fell a victim to dropsy in his thirty-seventh year. Another gallant sporting man, though of quite another description, was the Anglo-Indian Colonel John Mordaunt, a natural son of the Earl of Peterborough. John Mordaunt, as a boy, was too wild to learn much at school, his whole time being devoted to playing the truant; as he often said, "one half of his days were spent in being flogged for the other half." Devoted to cards from youth, he received many a castigation in consequence. "You may shuffle, Mordaunt, but I can cut," was the remark made to him by his schoolmaster on more than one occasion. In consequence of this unsatisfactory behaviour, when the boy left school he was about as learned as when he first was sent there. His guardians were very much annoyed at this and blamed his master, upon which young Mordaunt very handsomely stepped forward to exculpate the latter, whose attention he declared to have been unparalleled. Slipping off his clothes, he exhibited the earnestness of the good man's endeavours; humorously observing, that as nothing could be got into his brains, his master had done his best to impress his instructions on the opposite seat of learning. When the moment came for the youth to pass muster before the India directors he could not be found, and it was nearly too late when he was at last discovered playing marbles in Dean's Yard. No time, however, was wasted in driving him up to Leadenhall Street, where, more bent on frivolity than on answering the grave questions put by his examiners, he was near being rejected as an idiot, when one of the quorum, who understood such a disposition well and who probably wished to see John appointed, asked him if he understood cribbage. In an instant young Mordaunt's attention was thoroughly roused, his eyes glistened, and regardless of every matter relative to his appointment, he pulled out a pack of cards, so greasy as scarcely to be distinguished, and offered "to play the gentleman _for any sum he chose_!" The youth now felt himself at home, and speedily convinced his examiners that, however ignorant he might be of the classics, he was a match for any of them at cards! He was passed, and despatched to Portsmouth to embark on an Indiaman ready to sail with the first fair wind; but as there seemed no likelihood of this for some days, the person who had charge of him put him on board and returned to town. Needless to say, Mordaunt at once got away to shore, where he played a number of pranks before the ship eventually set sail. On arriving at Madras young Mordaunt was received with open arms by all his countrymen; but General Sir John Clavering, who was then Commander-in-Chief in India, and who was, accordingly, second on the council at Calcutta, having promised to provide for him, Mordaunt went on to Bengal, where he was appointed an honorary aide-de-camp to that officer, still retaining his rank on the Madras establishment. In consequence of this he was afterwards subjected to much ill-will. The young soldier unfortunately was quite uneducated, not being able even to write an ordinary letter without making many mistakes. Study was little to his taste, and he made scarcely any effort to remedy this disadvantage or improve himself. Nevertheless, he excelled in most things which he undertook entirely by natural intuition. His ignorance of writing was the more remarkable as he spoke English with an excellent diction and even refinement of phrase, though he could not write two lines of it correctly. He spoke the Hindoo language fluently, and was a tolerable Persian scholar. Mordaunt's weakness as a writer was once strikingly demonstrated on an occasion where a friend, having borrowed a horse from him for a day or two, wrote to ask if he might keep it a little longer. The Colonel's reply was, "You may kip the hos as long as you lick." Subjected to a good deal of chaff on account of this failing, which he himself realised, Mordaunt was generally very good-tempered, though quick with an answer when any one he did not care for attempted to make him a butt. On one occasion a very worthy young gentleman of the name of James P----, who was rather of the more silly order of beings, thinking he could take the liberty of playing with, or rather upon him, called out to Mordaunt, before a large party, desiring him to say what was the Latin for a goose. The answer was brief. "I don't know the _Latin_ for it, but the _English_ is _James P----_." It should be mentioned that the above question was put to Mordaunt in consequence of his having, in a note sent to a person who had offended him, required "an immediate _anser_ by the bearer." The gentleman addressed, wishing to terminate the matter amicably, construed the word literally, and sent a _goose_ by the bearer; stating also that he would partake of it the next day. This, to a man of Mordaunt's disposition, was the high road to reconciliation; though to nine persons in ten, and especially to those labouring under such a desperate deficiency in point of orthography, it would have appeared highly insulting! In addition to his almost complete ignorance of calligraphy, Colonel Mordaunt knew absolutely nothing of the ordinary rules of arithmetic. He kept no books, but all his accounts were done on scraps of paper in such an eccentric manner that the figures were only intelligible to himself. It was necessary for him at times to register large financial transactions, and he had immense losses and gains to register in the I.O.U. way. Yet even the most intricate cases never puzzled him; and, at settling times, he was rarely, if ever, found to be in error. This was one of the points in which he was apt to be peremptory; for no sooner did he hear a claim stated, which did not tally with his own peculiar mode of calculation, than he condemned it, in round terms, and would scarcely hear the attempt to substantiate that which he so decidedly denied. He was a man of most masterful disposition, very impatient of contradiction, especially from his brother Harry, who was in India at the same time. The latter possessed little social charm or originality, but John always treated him with particular consideration. When, however, Harry tried to oppose or argue with him, the Colonel would soon check him with, "Hold your tongue, Harry, you are a puny little fool, and fit for nothing but to be a lord." Excelling at most things which he attempted, Mordaunt was so much master of his racket, and was so vigorous, that he would always wager on hitting the line from the over-all, a distance of thirty yards, once in three times. As a matter of fact he could beat most people with a common round ruler. Card-playing, however, was the Colonel's particular passion. He was an expert at most games, being besides acquainted with all the ordinary tricks in the shuffling, cutting, and dealing way. The following is an instance of his skill. On a certain occasion Mordaunt observed that one of his adversaries at whist was remarkably fortunate in his own deals; and, as he was rather a doubtful character, thought it needful to watch him. When Mordaunt came to deal, he gave himself thirteen trumps! This excited the curiosity of all, but particularly of the gentleman in question, who was very pointed in his observations on the singularity of the case. Mordaunt briefly said, "Sir, this was to show you that you should not have all the fun to yourself," and rising from his seat, left the blackleg to ruminate on the obvious necessity of quitting India! Here, however, Mordaunt's goodness of heart showed itself, for he obtained a promise from the whole party to keep the secret, provided the offender instantly left the country; which he did by the first conveyance. It was well known that the Colonel could arrange the cards according to his pleasure, yet such was the universal opinion of his honour, that no one hesitated to play with him, sober or otherwise, for their usual stakes. His decision, in cases of differences, was generally accepted as final, and many references were made to him, by letter, from very distant places, regarding doubtful points connected with gaming. It may readily be supposed that Mordaunt was more ornamental than useful in General Clavering's office; however, the latter could not help esteeming him, and had he lived, would probably have effected Mordaunt's removal from the Madras to the Bengal army. The Madras officers never failed to comment, sometimes, indeed, in rather harsh terms, upon the injustice of having on their rolls an officer who never joined his regiment for nearly twenty years, and whose whole time was passed in the lap of dissipation. Being on a party of pleasure to the northward, and near to Lucknow, the capital of Oude, and the residence of the Nawab of Oude, Asoph ud Doulah, the young soldier was naturally curious to see this potentate and his Court. The free, open temper of Asoph pleased Mordaunt, whose figure and manner made a great impression on his illustrious host, who was devoted to most forms of gambling and sport. The Nawab in question was an original character. Being desirous of becoming a highly efficient swordsman, he determined to get the best practice possible and exercise his arm to some purpose. For some time he used daily to order from his stables five horses and a couple of bullocks, which he would cut down; the same fate befell five tigers, the same number of bears, and two or three nylgaus. In a short time Mordaunt became such a favourite, that he was retained by the Nawab at his Court, in the capacity of aide-de-camp, though he never attended at the Palace except when in the mood to do so, or for the purpose of shooting or gambling with its ruler. During this period the various sarcastic attacks directed against Mordaunt, as an absentee from his corps for so many years--amusing himself a good two thousand miles away--were disregarded both by himself and by the supreme Government, of which all the members were personally attached to the Colonel. Mordaunt was now in the receipt of a handsome salary, and possessed many distinguished privileges under the patronage of the Nawab, who often used to refer Europeans to him on occasions requiring his advice; this he not infrequently did when he needed an excuse for not complying with some demand. Mordaunt's influence, it should be added, was generally used in a very kindly manner. Old Zoffany, who had come out to India and resided at Lucknow as Court Painter to the Nawab, once, in a humorous moment, painted a full-length picture of that potentate in high caricature. Zoffany lived at Colonel Martine's, whose house was frequented by immense numbers of natives, a number of whom, when the Nawab wanted money, took his jewels to the Colonel's to be pledged. The picture, of course, was seen by some of these men, and it was not long before the Nawab was informed of the joke. The latter, in the first moments of irritation, was disposed to shorten the painter by a head, and to dismiss the Colonel, who was his chief engineer, and had the charge of his arsenal. He was, however, unwilling to do anything without his "dear friend Mordaunt" to whom a message was despatched, requiring his immediate attendance, on "matters of the utmost importance." This being a very usual mode of summoning his favourite, who would attend, or rather visit, only when it pleased himself. As a matter of fact the message would probably have been disregarded, had not the bearer stated that the Nawab was incensed against Martine and Zoffany. Accordingly the Colonel betook himself to the Palace, where he found the Nawab foaming with rage, and about to proceed with a host of rabble attendants to the Colonel's. Mordaunt, however, having got the story out of the Nawab as well as he could, argued him into a state of calmness, sufficient to let his sinister purpose be suspended until the next day, and retired as soon as he could prudently do so; he then, as privately as possible, sent a note to Zoffany warning him of the intended visit. The bold painter lost no time, and the laughable caricature was in a few hours changed by his gifted hand into a superb portrait of a most decorative kind, bearing far more resemblance to the Nawab than any hitherto painted at regular sittings. Next day the potentate arrived, his mind full of anxiety for the honour of his dignified person. He was attended by Mordaunt, whose feelings for his friend's fate were speedily dissipated, when, on entering the portrait-chamber, the picture in question shone forth so superbly as to astonish and delight the Nawab, who, beaming with pleasure, hurried the picture home, gave Zoffany ten thousand rupees for it, and ordered the person who had informed him of the supposed caricature to have his nose and ears cut off. Mordaunt, however, again interposed, and was equally successful in obtaining the poor fellow's pardon; and as the Nawab declined to keep him as a servant, very generously made him one of his own pensioners. At another time, the barber who cut the Nawab's hair happened by a slip to draw blood. This was considered an offence of the highest atrocity, because at that time crowned heads throughout India became degraded if one drop of their blood were spilt by a barber. A drawn sword was always held above a barber performing his duty, to remind him of his fate in case of the slightest incision. In consequence of this prejudice the barber had been condemned to be baked to death in an oven, when Mordaunt applied for his pardon. He could only obtain it conditionally, and certainly the condition was both ludicrous and whimsical. Balloons were just invented when this happened, and Colonel Martine being very ingenious, had made one which had taken up a considerable weight for short distances. The Nawab changed suddenly from great wrath to a wild hilarity, which continued so long as to alarm Mordaunt; who at last was relieved to hear that instead of being baked, the barber was to mount in the balloon, and to brush through the air according as chance might direct him. In due course the balloon was sent up in front of the palace, and the barber carried through the air more dead than alive at a prodigious rate. The poor man, however, sustained no injury, the balloon finally descending to earth some five miles from the city of Lucknow. Mordaunt never allowed the Nawab to treat him with the least disrespect or with hauteur; indeed, such was the estimation in which he was held by that prince, that, in all probability, the latter never showed any sign of wishing to exert his authority. Mordaunt's independence is shown by the following anecdote. The Nawab wanted some alterations to be made in the howdah of his state elephant, and asked Mordaunt's opinion as to the best mode of securing it; the latter very laconically told the Nawab he understood nothing of the matter, he having been born and bred a gentleman, but that probably his blacksmith (pointing to Colonel Martine) could inform him how the howdah ought to be fastened. This sneer, no doubt, gratified Mordaunt, who, though extremely intimate with Martine, and in the habit of addressing him by various ludicrous but sarcastic nicknames, seemed not to relish that fondness for money, and other doubtful practices, of which he was said to be guilty. Lord Cornwallis was either unwilling to compel Mordaunt to return to the Madras establishment, or was prevailed on by the Nawab to let him remain on his staff. The Marquis, one day, seeing Mordaunt at his levee, asked him if he did not long to join his regiment. "No, my Lord," answered Mordaunt, "not in the least." "But," continued he, "your services may perhaps be wanted." "Indeed, my Lord," rejoined Mordaunt, "I cannot do you half the service there, that I can in keeping the Nawab amused, while you ease him of his money." As a bon-vivant, as a master of the revels, or at the head of his own table, few could give greater variety or more complete satisfaction than Mordaunt. He had the best of wines, and spared no expense, though he would take very little personal trouble in providing whatever was choice or rare. He stood on little ceremony, especially at his own house, and, at his friends', never allowed anything to incommode him from a bashful reserve. Whatever was in his opinion wrong, he did not hesitate to condemn. These observations were very quick, and generally not devoid of humour. His old friend, Captain Waugh, dining with him one day, made such a hole in a fine goose as to excite the attention of Mordaunt, who, turning to his head servant, ordered aloud that whenever Captain Waugh dined at his house, there should always be two geese on the table, one for the Captain, the other for the company. Colonel Mordaunt was an excellent pistol shot, who could hit the head of a small nail at fifteen yards. Nevertheless when he and a friend engaged in a quarrel of a very serious nature with a third, whom they had accused of some improper conduct at cards, he missed his adversary, who, on the other hand, wounded both Mordaunt and his friend desperately. This was not owing to agitation, but, as Mordaunt expressed in very curious terms at the moment of missing, to the pistol being too highly charged. The Colonel never entirely recovered from the effects of the pistol shot which he had received in his breast, and though possessed of a vigorous constitution, seemed to descend, as it were, down a precipice into his grave. A very Rochester of his day, inordinately fond of women, he seemed, when at length stricken down, to regret his condition chiefly as depriving him of their society. For some time before this, actuated by that mistaken pride which so often urges men who have done wonders not to allow their decrease of vigour to be noticed or suspected, he had attempted to continue his usual mode of life, and neglecting the warnings given him by one or two serious attacks on his liver, had thus hastened his approach to a most untimely end. He died in the fortieth year of his age, beloved and regretted by a number of friends to whom his many genuine qualities were known. An especial reason for the influence enjoyed by Mordaunt over the Nawab was the latter's intimate knowledge of everything connected with the branch of barbarity known as cock-fighting. So devoted was the Prince in question to this form of sport that he often neglected to attend to important business with the residents at his Court in order to indulge in a "main" with him whom he called his "dear friend Mordaunt." The well-known print representing Colonel Mordaunt's cock-fight depicts a famous battle fought at Lucknow in 1786. Amongst the figures are the Nawab, Colonel Mordaunt, and Colonel Martine, who founded the Martine colleges at Lucknow, Calcutta, and Lyons, and Zoffany himself. The picture, which was painted for Warren Hastings, was carefully preserved in the Palace at Lucknow, but most unfortunately met with a disastrous fate during the Mutiny, when with others of great value it was destroyed. A water-colour drawing of "The Cock-fight" was, however, made under the last King of Oude in 1853, by "Masawar Khan," a Court miniature-painter, and other copies also exist. The mezzotint of this picture, together with the scarce engraved key published in May 1794, are here reproduced. Zoffany was a great favourite of Royalty. After the establishment of his reputation in England, he passed many years of his life in India, though in spite of the favour of the Nawab he does not seem to have returned from Lucknow in very opulent circumstances, his industry not having equalled either his reputation or his ability. An excessive devotion to women, and to the Asiatic customs and luxuries, totally precluded the execution of many works which would have brought this painter prosperity. Many of his pictures, however, achieved great popularity. This was especially the case with the "Water Cress Girl," which is engraved. The model, it may not be generally known, was a girl of about sixteen who had achieved a certain notoriety by having been one of a group of nymphs, who ran from the fields of Paddington, to their lodgings in the vicinity of St. Giles's, at noonday, unencumbered with one single habiliment or rag, from head to foot. It was in the summer season, and they had been bathing in a pond, when some wicked wag bundled up and made off with the whole of their clothes. "The Cock-fight" was certainly one of the most successful works ever executed by Zoffany; the portrait of Mordaunt in particular, according to those who knew him, giving an excellent idea of his manly and elegant appearance. [Illustration: THE COCK-FIGHT AT LUCKNOW. Engraved by R. Earlom, after Zoffany. From a Print in the possession of Messrs. Robson & Co., 23 Coventry Street, W.] [Illustration: KEY TO THE COCK-FIGHT.] The Colonel is represented as in the act of handing a cock, which he has backed heavily, in opposition to a bird belonging to the Nawab, who is portrayed in a loose undress on the opposite side of the pit. Colonel Mordaunt's taste for cock-fighting had, of course, originally been acquired in England, where this somewhat brutal sport would appear to have been most popular towards the middle of the eighteenth century. At that time it was no unusual circumstance to insert clauses in the leases of farms and cottages, which ensured the right of walking a certain number of game-cocks. As the century waned the cockpit began rather to fall into disrepute, but about the years 1793-1794 a revival occurred. Great patrons of cock-fighting were Lord Lonsdale (when Sir James Lowther); the Duke of Northumberland, who fought regular annual mains against Mr. Fenwick at Alnwick and Hexham, as did Lord Mexborough with Sir P. Warburton and Mr. Halton at Manchester; the Duke of Hamilton with Sir H.G. Liddell at Newcastle, and Lord Derby with Mr. Wharton at Preston. Amongst other lovers of cock-fighting were Colonel Lowther, Mr. Holford, Mr. Bullock, Captain Dennisthorpe, and Mr. George Onslow, out-ranger[9] of Windsor Forest, who was known as "Cocking George." In 1793 the Cock Pit Royal, St. James's Park, was the scene of more subscription matches than had occurred for some years before, an extra battle, fought on the 13th of December between two red cocks belonging to Colonel Lowther and Vauxhall Clarke for forty guineas, causing particular excitement. Throughout this combat the odds were constantly varying, till Colonel Lowther's cock was suddenly struck down dead at a moment when odds of four and five to one were being laid upon his opponent. One of the most horrible anecdotes connected with cock-fighting was that of a certain Mr. Ardesoif, the son of a rich cheesemonger, who was at one time well-known in the streets of London, it having been his peculiar hobby to drive his phaeton through those thoroughfares which were the most crowded with traffic. Mr. Ardesoif lived at Tottenham, where he kept a number of game-cocks. One of these birds having refused to fight, the cruel owner savagely had him roasted to death, whilst entertaining his friends. The company, alarmed by the dreadful shrieks of the poor victim, interfered, but were resisted by Ardesoif, who threatened death to any who should oppose him; and in a storm of raging and vindictive delirium, and uttering the most horrid imprecations, he dropped down dead. A cockpit was a scene not easily matched. On a race or a prize-fight, the betting is nearly finished when the sport begins; but the same state of affairs did not prevail at a cock-fight, where no one backed a cock till he had had a good look at him. In consequence of this all the betting had to be done in a short time, and the noise and apparent confusion of layers and backers were quite bewildering. The betting changed with considerable rapidity--in many a battle the odds would veer round from 100 to 1 on one cock, to 40 to 1 against the same. The issue of a cock-fight is never quite certain till a cock is actually killed, an apparently moribund bird sometimes proving the unexpected winner. A very striking instance of this once occurred at Mr. Loftus's cockpit at Newcastle, where a gentleman, on a cock being pounded, betted ten guineas to a crown, which he lost in nearly the space of a minute, as the pounded cock, while his antagonist was pecking in triumph, rose, and after a stroke or two, laid him dead. As luck would have it, while the same gentleman was going from the cockpit to the race-course in his carriage, accompanied by some other gentlemen, one of them observed the absurdity of buying money so dear, to which the other replied, he would bet the same on anything, if he thought he could win; the former gentleman said he would take it. "Done," says the gentleman, "I will bet £10 to a crown that my carriage does not break down on 'going or returning from the race-course.'" The bet was accepted; and after going about 100 yards farther, down came the carriage. And thus, in the course of the same day, he lost his two bets of £10 to 5s. In the course of this week's fighting, there were several guineas betted to shillings, and lost, on the various battles. Cock-fights as a rule took place in the evening, seven having been the usual hour appointed for the sport to commence. In the palmy days of cock-fighting there were several celebrated pits in London, the chief of which, of course, was the Cock Pit Royal, which had been much frequented by Charles II. and his courtiers. Another well-known cockpit existed at Moss Alley, Bankside, Southwark, where great battles were contested. At the New Pit, Hoxton, in January, 1794, a number of spirited mains were fought, the gentlemen of Islington having challenged the gentlemen of Hackney for five guineas a battle and fifty guineas the odd battle. Hackney easily proved victorious. The Royal Cockpit in St. James's Park was taken down in 1810, never again to be rebuilt. The Governors and Trustees of Christ's Hospital, to whom the ground belonged, met on the spot, the very day the lease expired; and, as might naturally be expected from the patrons of such an institution, gave directions for the immediate demolition of the building. A curious custom which was long ago sometimes enforced at cock-fights prescribed that any one indulging in foul play or not paying his bets should be put into a large basket and drawn up to the roof of the cockpit. This was called being basketed. A man well-known to the sporting world, being once in this predicament, and notwithstanding that he had no money in his pocket and could not expect his bets to be taken, had the fever of betting so strong upon him that in spite of his situation in the basket, he could not help vociferating, as the odds varied, "I'll lay six to four--two to one--five to two--three to one--four to one--five to one--a guinea to a shilling--the long odds, ten pounds to a crown," to the no small diversion of the auditors and spectators, who, at length, commiserating his case and attributing his imprudence to an insurmountable passion for play, shortened his punishment; and when a gentleman present gave him a small sum he took the long odds all the way through, went off with a hundred guineas in his pocket, and from this source alone became a very distinguished character on the Turf. In Hogarth's print of the cockpit, published in 1759, a shadow of mysterious contour is thrown upon the floor of the pit, the origin of which may be seen to be a gambler who, having been basketed for not paying his debts, is vainly offering his watch as a pledge so that he may be let down and allowed to take his place among the somewhat ill-favoured crowd which is watching the battle. The principal figure in this print represents a nobleman (Lord Bertie) who, though stone-blind, was a zealous patron of cock-fighting, though it is difficult to see how, under these unfavourable circumstances, the sport could have had any attraction for him. The Preston race-meetings used to be a great rendezvous for cock-fighters. Lord Derby long held a distinguished place among the patrons of the sod, and was reckoned one of the best judges of a cock in England. The excellent walks which his Lordship owned on his own estates, and the number of cocks he bred, ensured him a plentiful supply of fine young birds; consequently his birds never had a feather wrong; this, joined to their true blood, which made them show fight to the last, and the skill of Paul Potter, his feeder, caused Lord Derby to be the winner of many a Preston main. The following is a specimen of a challenge to a cock match:-- CHALLENGE The gentlemen of Windsor Forest having lost their annual opponent (who is gone to reside in Somersetshire), wish to show thirty-one in the main for five guineas a battle, and twenty the odds. Adding 10 byes at two guineas a battle for two days' play, to fight at Wokingham, Berks, between the present day and Whitsuntide. Any acceptance of the terms may be made through the medium of this communication, which shall be instantly acceded to and the necessary regulations made in proper form. C.W.T. & M. _February 22nd, 1794._ Though cock-fighting is now forbidden by law in England, a certain amount of it still goes on in secret, whilst the sport flourishes openly in the North of France and in Spain. In former days there were regular families of cock-feeders or trainers. The greatest authority on cock-fighting is said to have been Joe Gilliver, who fought cocks for George III. and George IV. in the Royal Cockpit at Windsor. He it was who fought the famous main at Lincoln in 1815. On the occasion there were seven battles for five thousand guineas the main and a thousand guineas a battle. Five battles were won by Gilliver's birds. The great-nephew of old Joe Gilliver still lives--the last of the cock-fighters--at Cockspur, Polesworth. Over sixty years ago this veteran[10] fought and won a main against Lord Berkeley in Battersea fields, and within the last two decades he vindicated the honour of the English game-cock at Lille, where some birds he took over proved victorious--a particularly fine cock after a successful battle leaping upon the body of its conquered opponent and emitting a series of lusty crows. Game-cocks are extraordinarily bold birds, and records exist of their having even attacked men. A gentleman, for instance, passing down Park Street was once surprised to find something fluttering about his head, and turning round, received the spur of a game-cock in his cheek. He beat off his antagonist, who, however, instantly returned to the charge, and wounded him again in the shoulder. Another gentleman, passing by at the same time, was also attacked by this feathered desperado. A game-cock bred by Mr. Hunt of Compton Pauncefoot, Somerset, in 1814, displayed extraordinary courage when three years old. A fox having seized a hen, her cries drew the attention of the cock, who, discovering the fox in the act of carrying off his prey, flew at reynard, and at one blow killed him on the spot, and saved the life of the hen. In 1820 this cock fought a gallant battle at Epsom Races, and won at high odds against him. The high spirit of the game-cock was once strikingly manifested in a naval action. By some mistake or other a particularly fine bird was sold with a number of other fowls to Captain Berkeley of the _Marlborough_, 74, for his sea-stock. The purchase was made previous to the departure of the British fleet that sailed under the gallant Lord Howe, in the month of May 1794, about which time the cock was deposited in the coops on board, for the purpose of being brought to table. On the glorious 1st of June, the fate of the above ship, the intrepid bravery of whose crew led her into the hottest scene of action, hung in the balance. The enemy's shot had destroyed all the convenience made on her poop for keeping the live stock, and the fowls were flying about in different parts of the ship. Some time after the engagement had commenced, all her masts were shot away by the board, and smoke, hurry, and alarm were general. When the main-mast went, broken off about eight feet from the deck, the cock immediately flew to the stump, where he began to flutter his wings, and to crow with all the exultation so commonly observed in a conquering bird; a circumstance so singular in its nature, that the tars who were viewing it conceived a noble resolution from the example, and actually maintained the same sense of triumph as did the cock, until victory and glory crowned the gallant contest. The spirit of the noble bird became the subject of much observation when the ship arrived in the Hamoaze, and many curious spectators came from different parts of the country to see the feathered hero who had so proudly vindicated the conquering spirit of Old England. Some time after a silver medal was struck by the orders of Admiral Berkeley; it was hung upon the neck of the old game-cock, who in the parks and around the princely halls of Goodwood passed the remainder of his downy days in honoured ease. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 7: He is described in contemporary sporting records as wearing this, though the author has been unable to discover exactly what a "boat hat" was. The French still make use of a similar expression, calling a particular kind of straw hat a "_canotier_."] [Footnote 8: This lady's first husband had been Sir Duke Giffard, and Mrs. Mellish was one of several daughters she had by him. The writer is indebted to Mr. Henry Mellish of Hodsock Priory for this and other interesting details of his ancestor's career.] [Footnote 9: The outrangership of Windsor Forest was originally instituted for the protection of the deer between Windsor Park and the river Wey, but in 1641 it was decided that no part of Surrey except Guildford Park (afterwards granted away) belonged to the Forest, and the post became a sinecure, keeping a salary of £500 a year. About the time of the American War, however, when votes were valuable, this was increased to £900.] [Footnote 10: An interesting interview with William Gilliver appeared in _Fry's Magazine_ for March 1909.] VII Prevalence of wagering in the eighteenth century--Riding a horse backwards--Lord Orford's eccentric bet--Travelling piquet--The building of Bagatelle--Matches against time--"Old Q." and his chaise match--Buck Whalley's journey to Jerusalem--Buck English--Irish sportsmen--Jumping the wall of Hyde Park in 1792--Undressing in the water--Colonel Thornton--A cruel wager--Walking on stilts--A wonderful leap--Eccentric wagers--Lloyd's walking match--Squire Osbaldiston's ride--Captain Barclay--Jim Selby's drive--Mr. Bulpett's remarkable feats. In the eighteenth century the bloods of the day bet on anything and everything. A well-known spendthrift, for instance, made a practice of backing one raindrop to roll down a window quicker than another--a practice which gave rise to the following lines:-- The bucks had dined, and deep in council sat, Their wine was brilliant, but their wit grew flat: Up starts his Lordship, to the window flies, And lo! "A race!--a race!" in rapture cries; "Where?" quoth Sir John. "Why, see the drops of rain Start from the summit of the crystal pane-- A thousand pounds! which drop with nimblest force, Performs its current down the slippery course!" The bets were fix'd--in dire suspense they wait For vict'ry pendent on the nod of fate. Now down the sash, unconscious of the prize, The bubbles roll--like pearls from Chloe's eyes, But ah! the glittering charms of life are short! How oft two jostling steeds have spoiled the sport. Lo! thus attraction, by coercive laws, Th' approaching drops into one bubble draws-- Each curs'd his fate, that thus their project cross'd; How hard their lot, who neither won nor lost! Besides the huge sums which were lost at games (in 1793, £22,000 changed hands in a single day between two players at some billiard-rooms in St. James's Street), a great deal of money was frittered away in matches of an eccentric kind. In 1722, for instance, a number of young men subscribed for a piece of plate, which was run for in Tyburn Road by six asses, ridden by chimney-sweepers. Two boys rode two asses on Hampstead Heath for a wooden spoon, attended by above five hundred persons on horse-back. Women running for Holland smocks was not uncommon; and a match was even projected for a race between women, to be dressed in hooped petticoats. Considerable sums of money are said to have changed hands over these events, whilst a wager of £1000 depended on a match between the Earl of Lichfield and Mr. Gage that the latter's chaise and pair should outrun the Earl's chariot and four. The ground was from Tyburn to Hayes, and Mr. Gage lost through some accident. In 1735, Count de Buckeburg, a well-known German author, on a visit to England, laid a considerable wager, that he would ride a horse from London to Edinburgh backwards, that is, with the horse's head turned towards Edinburgh, and the Count's face towards London; and in this manner he actually rode the journey in less than four days. At the end of the eighteenth century an officer trotted fifteen miles from Chelmsford to Dunmow in one hour and nine minutes with his face to the tail. The eccentric wager made by George, Lord Orford, an ancestor of the present writer, is well known. The latter, in 1740, bet another nobleman a large sum that a drove of geese would beat an equal number of turkeys in a race from Norwich to London. The event proved the justness of his Lordship's expectations, for the geese kept on the road with a steady pace, but the turkeys, as every evening approached, flew to roost in the trees adjoining the road, from which the drivers found it very difficult to dislodge them. In consequence of this, the geese arrived at their destination two days before the turkeys. This nobleman, who, by his eccentricities, had acquired the name of the mad Lord Orford, trained three red deer to draw him in a light phaeton, and in this uncommon equipage he frequently made excursions to some distance, in Norfolk and Suffolk, till a singular adventure taught him the danger of the practice. One morning in winter, when the scent lay well on the ground, he was taking one of his common drives towards Newmarket; his way was over the heath. It happened that a pack of hounds, being out for a chase, took scent of the deer, opened and followed in full cry. The deer caught the death sound, took the alarm, and set off at full speed. It was in vain his Lordship endeavoured to pull them in; fear of death was greater than fear of their lord, and they dashed off towards Newmarket, a place they were well accustomed to. The dogs were at their heels, but the deer were sufficiently in advance to reach the inn they were accustomed to put up at, when they dashed into the yard, with their terrified lord close at their heels, and the hounds not far behind them; the ostlers, however, exerted themselves to get the gates fastened before the hounds came up, when the whipper-in called them off. In 1758, Miss Pond, daughter of the compiler and publisher of _Ponds Racing Calendar_, wagered a thousand guineas that she would ride a thousand miles in a thousand hours. This feat she accomplished (it is said on one horse) by the 3rd of May, having begun in April. A few weeks later Mr. Pond rode the same horse in two-thirds of the time. Even the most trivial things were utilised for losing or winning money. A Yorkshire sportsman won a considerable bet on the extreme extent to which a pound of cotton could be drawn in a thread by one of the Manchester spinning jennies; the loser betted that it would not reach two miles in length; but, upon measurement, it was found to exceed twenty-three. A young man of the name of Drayton undertook for a considerable sum to pull in a pound weight at the distance of a mile, that is, the weight had to be attached to a string a mile in length, and Drayton to stand still and pull it to himself. The time allowed for this singular performance was two hours and a half. The odds were against him, but he won his wager. A printer at Chester for a wager picked up 100 stones each a yard apart, returning every time with them to a basket at one end of the line, in 44-1/2 minutes, it having been betted that he would not complete his task within 47 minutes. So great was the love of betting amongst sporting men that when they were on a journey they would wager as to what they might meet with next. This method of gambling was afterwards made into a regular game which was called "Travelling Piquet." This was defined as a mode of amusing themselves, practised by two persons riding in a carriage, each reckoning towards his game the persons, or animals, that passed by on the side next them, according to the following estimation:-- A parson riding on a grey horse Game An old woman under a hedge do. A cat looking out of a window 60 A man, woman, and child in a buggy 40 A man riding with a woman behind him 30 A flock of sheep 20 A flock of geese 10 A post-chaise 5 A horseman 2 A man or woman walking 1 Death itself was not infrequently made the subject of a wager. Just before two unfortunate men, hung at the Old Bailey, were _dropped off_, a young nobleman present betted a hundred guineas to twenty "that the shorter of the two would give the last kick!" The wager was taken, and he won; for the other died almost instantly, whilst the shorter man was convulsed for nearly six minutes. So great was the mania for wagers at this epoch, that even the clergy were affected by the prevailing craze. A young divine, in the vicinity of Edinburgh, declared himself ready to undertake for a wager of a hundred guineas to read six chapters from the Bible every hour for six weeks. The betting was ten to one against him. In France matters were much the same as in England. The Duc de Chartres, the Duc de Lauzun, and the Marquis de FitzJames once competed in a foot-race from Paris to Versailles for two hundred livres; this was won by the Marquis de FitzJames. The Duc de Chartres bet a considerable sum with the Comte de Genlis that the latter would not go from Paris to Fontainebleau and back before he (the Duc de Chartres) had pricked 500,000 pinholes in a piece of paper. The Comte de Genlis was the winner by several hours. The wager of the Comte d'Artois as to the building of Bagatelle is historical. He bet Marie Antoinette 100,000 livres that he would erect a palace on a certain site in the Bois de Boulogne in six weeks. Nine hundred workmen were employed night and day, whilst patrols of the Swiss Guard seized any building materials which might be of use on the roads in the vicinity--these, it must, however, be added, were paid for. At the end of the six weeks the Comte d'Artois entertained Marie Antoinette at a splendid fête in the completed house. Matches against time were common. In 1745 Mr. Cooper Thornhill rode three times between Stilton and Shoreditch--two hundred and thirteen miles--in eleven hours and thirty-four minutes on fourteen different horses. Six years later, Captain Shafto won £16,000 by winning a wager that he would cover fifty miles in two hours. He was allowed as many horses as he pleased. Not a few of these matches against time were carried out under most whimsical conditions. On 22nd August 1774, for instance, Anthony Thorpe, a journeyman baker, at the Artillery Ground, ran a mile tied up in a sack, in eleven minutes and a half. In 1773 a London to York match was run, the winner, a mare, taking forty hours and thirty-five minutes to complete the journey. A sensational match of a more sporting description was the ride of George IV., when Prince of Wales, to Brighton and back, a journey of one hundred and twelve miles, which the Royal sportsman is said to have performed on one horse in ten hours. A wonderful ride was that performed in 1786 by a featherweight jockey at Newmarket, who rode one horse twenty-three miles in two or three minutes under the hour. The Duke of Queensberry ("Old Q.") was at one time fond of sporting matches, in which he generally came off victorious, for he was a shrewd man. In 1789, during the Newmarket October Meeting, he and Sir John Lade, mounted on a brace of mules, rode from the Ditch in for £1000. This ludicrous race, which was very anxiously and obstinately contested, terminated in favour of the Duke. Mr. Thomas Dale was also the hero of a donkey match at Newmarket, where he rode one hundred miles in twenty-two hours and a half on an ass; £100 to £10 was laid against this being done within twenty-four hours. Old Q., when Earl of March, for a wager, sent a letter fifty miles within an hour by hand, which was cleverly effected by the missive in question being enclosed in a cricket ball and thrown from one to the other by twenty-four expert cricketers. On another occasion Old Q. made a bet of a thousand guineas that he would produce a man who would eat more at a meal than any one Sir John Lade could find. The bet being accepted, the time was appointed, but his Grace, not being able to attend the exhibition, wrote to his agent to know what success, and accordingly received the following note:-- MY LORD,--I have not time to state particulars, but merely to acquaint your Grace that your man beat his antagonist by a _pig and apple-pye_. (Signed) J.P. A curious wager which led to litigation was one between Old Q., when Lord March, and Mr. William Pigot. The latter and Mr. Codrington being together at Newmarket, it was proposed to run their fathers against each other. Mr. Pigot's father was upwards of seventy, and Mr. Codrington's father little more than fifty. The chances were calculated, and Mr. Codrington, thinking them disadvantageous to him, declined the bet, whereupon Lord March agreed to stand in his place, and mutual notes were interchanged. Mr. Pigot's note was:-- I promise to pay to the Earl of March 500 guineas if my father dies before Sir William Codrington. WILLIAM PIGOT. The Earl's was:-- I promise to pay to Mr. Pigot 1600 guineas in case Sir William Codrington does not survive Mr. Pigot's father. MARCH. The fact was that Mr. Pigot's father was then actually dead, but that was wholly unknown to the parties. It was contended on the part of Mr. Pigot, that, as he could not possibly win, he ought not to lose, and it was compared to a ship insurance. If the policy upon a ship had not the words "lost or not lost" inserted, and the ship should be actually lost at the time of making that policy, it would be void. For the plaintiff it was argued that the contract was good, because the fact being wholly unknown to the parties, it could not influence either. The wager was held to be good, and the plaintiff obtained a verdict of £500, the amount of his wager. The most important match made by the "evergreen votary of Venus," as Old Q. was called, was in 1750, when, as Lord March, he bet Count O'Taafe, an Irish gentleman notorious for eccentricity, one thousand guineas that a carriage with four wheels could be devised capable of being drawn at not less than nineteen miles within an hour. Wright of Long Acre exhausted all the resources of his craft to diminish weight and friction; the harness was made of silk combined with leather. Four thoroughbreds, with two clever light-weight grooms, were selected, and several trials, causing the death of some horses, were run. On August 29, 1750, the match came off over a course of a mile at Newcastle, many thousands of pounds being wagered on the result, which was favourable to Lord March, the carriage being drawn over the appointed distance well within the hour. Three of the four horses which drew the machine had won plates. The leaders carried about eight stone each, the wheelers about seven, and the chaise, with a boy in it, about twenty-four. The time was 53 minutes 27 seconds. The print (here reproduced) was published in 1788 by J. Rodger, after the original painting by Seymour, which is now, I believe, in the possession of Lord Rosebery. Large sums were laid upon very trivial and useless performances, and a certain number of individuals, well-known for their physical strength, used to undertake to carry out all sorts of queer tasks. In 1789 a man called Shadbolt, a respectable innkeeper at Ware, called Goliath on account of his great muscular powers, undertook, for a considerable wager, to run and push his cart from Ware to Shoreditch Church (a distance of twenty-one miles) in ten hours, which he easily performed within the space of six hours and a few seconds, without the least appearance of fatigue. Great sums were won and lost on the occasion. All sorts of curious wagers were laid in Ireland. The celebrated Buck Whalley, for instance, once jumped over a carrier's cart on horse-back for a bet. This he did from an upper story of a house, quantities of straw being laid on the other side of the cart. Thomas Whalley, known as Jerusalem Whalley, owing to the journey which he made for a wager to Jerusalem, was the son of a gentleman of very considerable property in the north of Ireland. His father, when advanced in years, married a lady much younger than himself, and left her a widow with seven children. [Illustration: THE CHAISE MATCH.] Thomas Whalley was the eldest son of this family, and had a property of £10,000 per annum left him by his father. At the age of sixteen he was sent to Paris to learn the French language and perfect himself in dancing, fencing, and other elegant accomplishments. The tutor selected to accompany him was not able or desirous of checking young Whalley's extravagance. The latter purchased horses and hounds, took a house in Paris, and another in the country, each of which was open for the reception of his friends. His finances, ample as they were, were found inadequate to the support of his extraordinary expenses, and, with the hope of supplying his deficiencies, he had recourse to the gaming-tables, which only increased his embarrassments. In one night he lost upwards of £14,000. The bill which he drew upon his banker, La Touche, in Dublin, for this sum was sent back protested, and it became necessary for him to quit Paris. On his return to England, however, his creditors (or rather the people who had swindled him out of this money) were glad to compound for half the sum. Whalley then went back to Ireland and took a house in Dublin, where he lived in the most expensive manner, but quickly tiring of rural life decided to return to the Continent. While he was still hesitating as to his exact place of destination, some friends, with whom he was dining, and who had heard that he was intending to go abroad, made inquiry of him whither he was going. He hastily answered: "To Jerusalem." Upon this, certain that he had no such intention, they offered to wager him any sum he did not reach that city. As a result of this, in spite of the fact that he originally had not the faintest idea of such an expedition, he was so much stimulated by the offers made him that he accepted bets to the amount of £15,000, and at once made preparations for his journey. A few days later he set out, and having accomplished what was then an adventurous journey, eventually returned to Dublin within the appointed time, and in due course claimed and received from his astonished antagonists the reward of his most unexpected performance. After staying some time in Dublin, Whalley again went to Paris, and was witness to the very interesting scenes which occurred in the early part of the Revolution in France. He remained in Paris till after the return of the King from Varennes; and, when it became no longer safe for a subject of the King of Great Britain to remain in France, he returned to Ireland. Being of a very active disposition, Whalley made constant trips to England, where he frequented the gaming-houses in London, Newmarket, and Brighton, and soon dissipated a large part of his remaining fortune. He then retired to the Isle of Man, where he employed himself in cultivating and improving an estate he possessed there, and in educating his children. He at the same time drew up memoirs of his own life, which were discovered a few years ago and published under the title of _Memoirs of Buck Whalley_. Another sporting character well known in Ireland was the celebrated Buck English, who spent the latter part of his life in litigious turmoil, and was a man who experienced infinite vicissitudes of fortune. Born to a large estate, the earlier part of his life was spent in scenes of the most unbounded dissipation; but these were curtailed when he got into the hands of a litigious attorney, who, for years, kept him out of his property. Mr. English was tried for his life, for the murder of Mr. Powell, and was with difficulty acquitted, and escaped narrowly from being torn to pieces by the mob in Cork. Previous to this, he threw a waiter out of a window, and desired him to be "charged in the bill!" In his career, he fought two duels with swords, in the streets of Dublin; was a Member of Parliament, and an excellent speaker; was thrown into a loathsome prison for debt, where his constitution was totally destroyed. He died almost immediately after his liberation, just as he recovered his fortune. In October 1791, at the Curragh Meeting in Ireland, Mr. Wilde, a sporting gentleman, made bets to the amount of two thousand guineas, to ride against time, viz., one hundred and twenty-seven English miles in nine hours. On the 6th of October he started in a valley, near the Curragh course, where two miles were measured in a circular direction; each time he encompassed the course it was regularly marked. During the interval of changing horses, he refreshed himself with a mouthful of brandy and water, and was no more than six hours and twenty-one minutes in completing the one hundred and twenty-seven miles; of course he had two hours and thirty-nine minutes to spare. Mr. Wilde had no more than ten horses, but they were all thoroughbreds from the stud of Mr. Daly. Whilst on horse-back, without allowing anything for changing of horses, he rode at the rate of twenty miles an hour for six hours. He was so little fatigued with this extraordinary performance, that he was at the Turf Club-house in Kildare the same evening. The Right Honourable Thomas Conolly also rode for a wager of five hundred guineas on the Curragh. He was allowed two hours to ride forty miles with any ten hunters of his own. He with ease rode forty-two miles in an hour and forty-four minutes on eight hunters. At this time much money was wagered both in Ireland and England upon the leaping powers of the horse, and occasionally the methods employed were none too honourable. A young sportsman, for instance, having boasted of the powers of a recently purchased hunter which he offered to back at jumping against any horse in the world, a friend ridiculed the idea, and said he had a blind hunter that should leap over what the other would not. A wager to no inconsiderable amount was the consequence, and day and place appointed. The time having arrived, both parties appeared on the ground with their nags; when laying down a straw at some distance, the friend put his horse forward, and at the word "over" the blind hunter made a famous leap; while neither whip nor spur could induce the other to rise at all. A very sporting bet was decided in the most fashionable part of London in 1792. On the 24th of February in that year was accomplished the feat of leaping over the high wall of Hyde Park from Park Lane. A bet of five hundred guineas was reported to have been laid between a Royal personage and Mr. Bingham, that the latter's Irish-bred brown mare should leap over the wall of Hyde Park, opposite Grosvenor Place, which wall was six feet and a half high on the inside, and eight on the out. Mr. Bingham having sold his mare to Mr. Jones, the bet, of course, became void. Mr. Jones offered bets to any amount that the mare should do it, but his offers were not accepted. Mr. Bingham, to show the possibility of its being done, led his beautiful bay horse, Deserter, to the same place, who performed this standing leap twice without any difficulty, except that, in returning, his hind feet brushed the bricks off the top of the wall. As the height from which he was to descend into the road was so considerable, he was received on a bed of long dung. The Duke of York, Prince William of Gloucester, the Earl of Derby, and a number of the nobility joined the vast concourse of impatient spectators, who were pretty well tired out before the jumping began. Another remarkable feat was the leap over a dinner-table with dishes, decanters, and lighted candelabra, performed by Mr. Manning, a sporting farmer, on a barebacked steed in the Rochester Room at the White Hart Inn, at Aylesbury, during the steeplechases in 1851. Wagers entailing considerable risk and endurance were popular in the past. Two gentlemen at a coffee-house near Temple Bar once made an extraordinary bet of this nature. One of them was to jump into seven feet of water, with his clothes on, and to entirely undress himself in the water, which he did within the appointed time. The present writer, when an undergraduate at Cambridge, witnessed a somewhat similar exploit performed in the Cam on a particularly cold winter's day. On this occasion, however, the undergraduate, a man of herculean frame, who had wagered that he would undress in the water, was allowed to cancel his bet after he had discarded everything but one sock. As he appeared to be much exhausted, all bets were declared off by mutual consent. The layer of the wager was in a terrible state on leaving the water, but entirely recovered the next day. Those fond of shooting frequently wagered on their powers as shots. In 1800 the celebrated Colonel Thornton made a bet that he killed 400 head of game at 400 shots. The result was, he bagged 417 head of game (consisting of partridges, pheasants, hares, snipes, and woodcocks) at 411 shots. Amongst these were a black wild duck and a white pheasant cock; and at the last point he killed a brace of cock pheasants, one with each barrel. On the leg of the last killed (an amazing fine bird) was found a ring, proving that he had been taken by Colonel Thornton when hawking, and turned loose again in 1792. Colonel Thornton could not bear to hear that any one had outdone him at anything. On one occasion a foreigner was boasting of the sporting powers of the Comte d'Artois, afterwards Charles X., and asserted that the Prince in question was, without doubt, considered the greatest shot in Europe. On hearing this the Colonel looked highly offended, when the foreign sportsman added, "except Colonel _Tornton_" (thus pronounced), "who is acknowledged to be the longest shot in the world." There was a great deal of bitter-sweet in this, but the Colonel wisely interpreted the phrase in a sense complimentary to himself. Colonel Thornton, though his name has come down to us as a great sporting character, was not by any means universally popular in his own day. Notwithstanding that he was of quite respectable descent, and had inherited a comfortable fortune, he was never on familiar terms with the aristocratic sportsmen of his age, with whom it was his darling passion to be able to associate. A well-known member of the Jockey Club, when the Colonel's name was mentioned, once said: "Oh! Thornton, never let us hear that fellow named; we don't know him." The Colonel provoked much ridicule by his overwhelming ambition to excel everybody in everything--a notable instance of which was his taking Thornville Royal, a palatial house of which his family and suite could only occupy one corner, his means being inadequate to keep up the house and domain in proper style. Incapable of restraining an innate tendency to exaggeration, Colonel Thornton was known to many as "Lying Thornton," a nickname which was in some degree justified by the palpably mendacious accounts of his exploits, which his craving for notoriety prompted him to disseminate. His conceit was gigantic. He once actually sent an apology for not being present at a Royal Levee, which absurd conduct caused a great personage many a hearty laugh. The Colonel's extravagance, and the lawsuits in which he indulged, often reduced him to great straits for ready money. Nevertheless, he was always possessed of considerable property. Colonel Thornton undoubtedly deserves to be remembered as a sportsman, though his reputation as such would have been greater had he not sought to excel all men in bodily activity and physical exertion, as well as eclipse them in the extent and variety of land and water sports, which was naturally an impossible feat. Much given to litigation in life. Colonel Thornton gave the lawyers employment even after his death. By his will he bequeathed all his remaining property to an illegitimate daughter by Priscilla Druins, leaving his wife, Mrs. Thornton, nothing, and his son by her only £100. The will was disputed by the lawyers both in France and England. In the English Courts it was decided that the Colonel had never ceased to be a British subject, and that, therefore, the will must be valid. The French Court, passing a contrary judgment, decreed that the Colonel had petitioned in 1817, and obtained a complete naturalisation; that his real domicile being therefore in France, the will must be decided by its laws; and that the property having been willed to a child born in adultery, and otherwise contrary to the laws of France, the will was null and void; and they adjudged accordingly, with costs in favour of Mrs. Thornton, the lawful wife. The Colonel's real property appeared to be very little. He inhabited the Château de Chambord only as a tenant, but he had purchased the domain of Pont le Roi, and the vendors sued the Colonel's legatees for the purchase money. At the dawn of the nineteenth century long-distance matches continued to be in vogue. The distance between Burton, on the Humber, and Bishopsgate, in the City of London, one hundred and seventy-two miles, was covered in something like eight hours and a half by a sportsman in 1802, who had bet that, with the fourteen horses allowed him, he would accomplish the journey in ten hours. In April 1806 a very singular bet, or agreement, was made at Brighton between Lieutenant-General Lennox and Henry Hunter, Esq. The former, after some remarks on the prevalent winds at Brighton, proposed to give to the latter, during the space of twenty-eight days, whenever the wind blew from the south-west, one guinea per diem, provided the other would forfeit to him the same sum, during the same period, every day that the wind should blow from the north-east, which proposal was instantly accepted. For the ensuing thirteen days the wind lay mostly in the south-west quarter, upon which Mr. Hunter remarked that, in spite of south-west gales not being to every one's taste, this was merely another proof of the old adage that "It is an ill wind that blows nobody good." In 1807, Captain Bennet, of the Loyal Ongar Hundred Volunteers, engaged to trundle a hoop from Whitechapel Church to Ongar, in Essex, in three hours and a half, a distance of twenty-two miles, for the wager of one hundred guineas. He started on Saturday morning, November 21, precisely at six o'clock, with the wind very much in his favour, and the odds about two to one against him. Notwithstanding the early hour, the singularity of the match brought together a numerous assemblage. The hoop used by Captain Bennet on the occasion was heavier than those trundled by boys in general, and was selected by him conformably to the terms of the wager. The first ten miles Captain Bennet performed in one hour and twenty minutes, which changed the odds considerably in his favour. He accomplished the whole distance considerably within the given time, as the Ongar coachman met him only five miles and a half from Ongar, when he had a full hour in hand. A cruel wager was the following, made in December of the same year, when a Mr. Arnold, a sporting man who resided at Pentonville, bet Mr. Mawbey, a factor of the Fulham Road, twenty guineas that the former did not produce a dog, which should be thrown over Westminster Bridge at dark, and find its way home again in six hours, as proposed by Arnold. The inhuman experiment was tried in the evening, when a spaniel bitch, the property of a groom in Tottenham Court Road, was produced and thrown over from the centre of the bridge. The dog arrived at the house of her master in two hours after the experiment had been made. Little consideration was shown for animals in those days. On a Saturday evening in August 1808, a crowd of people assembled at Hyde Park Corner to watch the start of a pony which was, for a stake of five hundred guineas, matched to start with the Exeter Mail and be in Exeter first, with or without a rider. A man leading the pony was at liberty to take a fresh post-horse whenever he liked. The backer of the pony won the match, for though the odds were against it, the game little animal arrived at Exeter in very good condition, forty-five minutes before the Mail reached that city. Several thousands of pounds were wagered on the result. It should be added that the pony drank ale during the journey, and several pints of port in addition. The distance from London to Exeter is about one hundred and seventy-four miles. In 1809 a very extraordinary wager was decided upon the road between Cambridge and Huntingdon. A gentleman of the former place had betted a considerable sum of money that he would go, a yard from the ground, upon stilts, the distance of twelve miles, within the space of four hours and a half: no stoppage was to be allowed, except merely the time taken up in exchanging one pair of stilts for another, and even then his feet were not to touch the ground. He started at the second milestone from Cambridge in the Huntingdon Road, to go six miles out and six miles in; the first he performed in one hour and fifty minutes, and did the distance back in two hours and three minutes, so that he went the whole in three hours and fifty-three minutes, having thirty-seven minutes to spare within the time allowed him. In the winter of 1810-1811 a bet of £500 was made by the Duke of Richmond, then Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, with Sir Edward Crofton (who afterwards committed suicide), that the latter should not produce a horse who would leap, in fair Irish sporting style (which allows just touching with the hind feet), a wall seven feet high. Sir Edward brought forward a cocktail horse, called Turnip, being got by Turnip, a thoroughbred son of old Pot8o's (a horse imported, like the celebrated Diamond, into Ireland by Colonel Hyde), out of a common Irish mare. On the day appointed, a gate was removed from its place in a very high park wall, near the Phoenix Park, and, men and stones being ready, was built up to the required and specified height, in the presence of his Grace. While this was being expeditiously accomplished by men used to building up such fences. Turnip was kept walking about, by a common groom in jacket and cap. When all was ready, and the signal given, over he went, but had so little run that the Duke, thinking the rider was going to turn him round and give him a race at it, turned his head at the moment, and did not see the leap; to reassure him, however, the horse was put over it again. He was a slow horse, and died afterwards from the effects of a severe run with the Kildare hounds in an open country, where, though the fences would in England be reckoned severe, they were nothing to the walls of Roscommon and Galway. About 1811 there appears to have been a recrudescence of the craze for eccentric wagers. A good deal of interest was excited in January of that year by the strange performance of a soldier in the Guards, who had betted two guineas that he would mark a cross on every tree in St. James's Park, that was within his reach, in an hour and ten minutes. He started at ten o'clock in the morning from the first tree in Birdcage Walk, and completed his task in three minutes less than the time allowed him. A great number of bets depended upon the result. In the same year a French cook, in the employ of Lord Gwydir, wagered a considerable sum in the neighbourhood of Lincoln, that he could roll a round piece of wood like a trencher from Grimsthorpe to Bourn, a distance of nearly four miles, church-steeple road, at one hundred starts. The bet having been accepted, the Frenchman had a groove formed round the edge of the wood, and, with the aid of a piece of cord, he accomplished his task in ninety-nine starts. In the same year an ostler of the Dragoon Inn, at Harrowgate, undertook, for a wager of one guinea, to drag a heavy phaeton three times round the race-course there, being nearly four miles, in six hours. He started at six in the evening, and at fifteen minutes to nine he had performed his singular task. In 1812 Scrope Davis, then a Fellow of King's College, Cambridge, betted five thousand guineas that he would swim from Eaglehurst, the seat of Lord Cavan, near Southampton Water, to the Isle of Wight. This feat, however, he did not attempt, as he received seven hundred and fifty guineas forfeit from the sporting gentleman with whom he made the wager. Scrope Davis was a particularly cultivated man, who for a time frequented the gaming-table with considerable success. Eventually, however, like the great majority of gamblers, he found himself with little to live upon except his Cambridge fellowship. He retired to Paris and bore his altered fortunes with the greatest philosophy, whilst occupying himself in writing a diary which has unfortunately disappeared. In 1813 another literary man of sporting tendencies--a Mr. Thacker, who had been an assistant master at Rugby--undertook at Lincoln, for a wager of £5, to make two thousand pens in ten hours; this he performed nearly two hours within the time. It was stipulated that they should be well made; and a person was appointed umpire who examined every pen as he made it. The pens were afterwards sold by auction at the Green Dragon, where the bet had been decided. In 1814 a somewhat novel wager was decided in a tavern in the City. Two gentlemen undertook to drink against one another, one to drink wine, and the other water, glass for glass, and he that gave in was to be the loser. They drank the contents of a bottle and a half each, but the wine-drinker was triumphant. The unfortunate water-drinker was afterwards taken ill, being confined to his bed with an attack of the gout. In February 1815 a journeyman baker performed a wonderful feat of winning a bet of fifty pounds to ten laid him by a gentleman that he would not stand upon one leg for twelve hours. A square piece of carpet was nailed in the centre of the room, and the time fixed was three o'clock in the afternoon, when the baker made his appearance without shoes, coat, or hat, and proceeded to take up his position upon his right leg. After standing eight hours and a half, before a great number of people, the gentleman, seeing the agony which the baker appeared to be in, offered him one-half of the wager to relinquish the bet; but, to the great astonishment of the spectators, the man refused, saying he would have the whole, or at least try for it; the perspiration was then running off him like rain, but he still persisted, when the bets were fifty to one against him. Nevertheless he performed what was in its way a wonderful feat, remaining on the one leg three minutes longer than the stipulated time, when he was put into a chair, and carried home. In May of the same year, a novel bet of £500 was laid in a coffee-room in Bond Street. The wager in question stipulated that a gentleman should go from London to Dover, and back, in any mode he chose, while another made a million of dots with a pen and ink upon a sheet of writing-paper. In 1826, Lloyd, the celebrated pedestrian, started, on Monday the 19th March, at eight in the morning, to perform thirty miles _backwards_ in nine successive hours, including stoppages, at Bagshot, Surrey. He went on during the morning at the rate of four miles an hour, although the ground was much against him, and finished his task with apparent ease fourteen minutes within the time. He immediately mounted a friends horse, and proceeded to Hartford Bridge, where he took up his quarters for the night, and walked on to Odiham the next morning (Tuesday), where he undertook to walk twenty miles backwards in five hours and a half, which, with the advantage of a good road, he again accomplished seven minutes and a half within his time. The same year a gentleman made a bet that he would cause all the bells of a well-frequented tavern in Glasgow to ring at the same period without touching one of them, or even leaving the room. This he accomplished by turning the stop-cock of the main gas-pipe, and involving the whole inmates in instant darkness. In a short period the clangor of bells rang from every room and box in the house, which gained him his bet amidst the general laughter and applause even of the losers. As the nineteenth century crept on, life grew more strenuous, and the eccentric wagers, once so popular, went out of fashion; sporting matches, however, were occasionally made. In 1831, Squire Osbaldiston, of historic sporting memory, when forty-four years old and over eleven stone in weight, won a thousand guineas by riding two hundred miles in eight hours and thirty-nine minutes, the conditions of the wager stipulating that he should go the distance in ten hours. No less than twenty-eight horses were utilised in this historic match. At 3.15 A.M., July 13, 1809, at Newmarket, Captain Barclay, the famous pedestrian, successfully ended a walk of a thousand miles in a thousand successive hours at the rate of a mile in each and every hour. This great walker had three-quarters of an hour to spare and completed his task with great ease, 100 to 1 being offered upon him on the last morning of his walk. About £100,000 depended upon this match, of which £16,000 was won by Barclay himself. Seventeen years later Captain Polhill easily accomplished the task of walking, driving, and riding fifty miles in twenty-four consecutive hours, the whole distance of a hundred and fifty being negotiated with five hours to spare. Jim Selby's coaching feat of driving to Brighton and back in eight hours is still fresh in the memory of many. A thousand pounds to five hundred was laid at the Ascot meeting of 1888 against such a performance. Selby started from the White Horse Cellar, Piccadilly, at 10 in the morning of July 13, and reached the Old Ship at Brighton at 1.56. Immediately starting on the return journey, he arrived at the White Horse Cellars at 5.50, and thus won the bet by ten minutes. In the same year an extraordinary sporting feat was performed by a friend of the writer, Mr. Charles Bulpett (thirty-seven years old at the time), who took £500 to £200 that he would ride a mile, run a mile, and walk a mile--three miles in all--within sixteen minutes and a half. This he was successful in doing, the exact time occupied being sixteen minutes and seven seconds. It should be added that the extraordinary athletic powers displayed on this occasion were greatly enhanced by the fact that Mr. Bulpett was suffering from a game leg. The same gentleman also won another sporting match of an original kind. Dining one evening at the Ship at Greenwich (formerly a great resort and the scene of an annual ministerial fish dinner) with some friends, the subject of swimming came under discussion, and in the course of the conversation some one, pointing across the river, spoke of the difficulty of swimming the Thames at this spot in ordinary clothes. "I will," said Mr. Bulpett, "lay you £100 to £25 that I do it." The bet was taken and the next day, according to the terms of the wager, Mr. Bulpett entered the water at the Ship dressed in a frock coat, top hat, with a cane in his hand. A boat with his friends in it followed his progress. He reached the opposite shore with the greatest ease, though he was carried a mile and a quarter down by the tide, and when he got there offered to lay the same bet that he would then and there swim back to the other shore, but there were no takers. Had the wager been repeated, there is little doubt but that another £25 would have found its way into the pockets of this redoubtable athlete. A feat of a somewhat similar kind to Mr. Bulpett's was performed in 1891 by Mr. J.B. Radcliffe, who within the space of fifteen minutes rowed, swam, ran, cycled, and rode a horse the distance of a quarter of a mile, successfully covering the mile and a half in the appointed time. VIII Gambling in Paris--Henry IV. and Sully--Cardinal Mazarin's love of play--Louis XIV. attempts to suppress gaming--John Law--Anecdotes--Institution of public tables in 1775--Biribi--Gambling during the Revolution--Fouché--The tables of the Palais Royal--The Galeries de Bois--Account of gaming-rooms--Passe-dix and Craps--Frascati's and the Salon des Étrangers--Anecdotes--Public gaming ended in Paris--Last evenings of play--Decadence of the Palais Royal--Its restaurants--Gaming in Paris at the present day. There has always been much gambling in Paris, and up to the middle of the last century that city was the stronghold of public gaming, the Goddess of Chance wielding absolute sway in the Palais Royal, where licensed gaming-tables existed. The toleration of public gaming in Paris dated as far back as the reign of Henri IV. In 1617 there were forty-seven "Brelans" frequented by any one who cared to play, each of which paid a daily tribute of one pistole to the Lieutenant Civil, who held an office in a great measure corresponding with that of the modern Prefect of Police. Henri IV. himself was much addicted to gaming, and the celebrated Sully attempted to reform him. The King in question having once lost an immense sum of money at play, Sully let his royal master send to him for it several times without taking any notice; at last, however, he brought it and spread the coins before him upon a table. The King fixed his eyes upon the vast sum--said to have been enough to have bought Amiens from the Spaniards--and at last cried out to Sully, "I am corrected, I will never again lose my money at gaming while I live." The gaming-resorts of old Paris were filled with people whose reputations for probity were generally a good deal more than doubtful. In one of the best of these _tripots_ a gentleman, whose turn to hold the hand had come, delayed the game by insisting on searching for a few pieces of gold which he had dropped on the floor. The other players, eager to pursue their game, remonstrated with him saying, "You know we are all honest people here." "I know that," was the reply, "honest people, one of whom gets hung every week when the law is in a mood to do its duty." Scandals of the most disgraceful kind were of constant occurrence, and in consequence of the numerous quarrels relating to unpaid wagers, Francis the First once proposed to create a special court of jurisdiction to deal with such cases. A list of judges and officials was even drawn up, but the scheme was never actually put into execution. Whilst the ordinary folk flocked to more or less obscure gaming-houses, the _noblesse_ in the seventeenth century were great patrons of the tennis-court known as the "Tripot de la Sphère," in the Marais. A considerable amount of etiquette prevailed, and not a few careers were wrecked owing to the overbearing demeanour of some of the great nobles. Cardinal Mazarin, however, introduced games of chance at the Court of Louis XIV. in 1648, and having initiated the King and the Queen Regent into the pleasures of the gaming-table, as an indirect consequence caused the decadence of tennis, mail (pall mall), and billiards. Games involving strength, skill, and exercise became neglected, and the population somewhat demoralised. Gaming spread from the Court to Paris, and from thence to provincial towns, in many cases producing a very disastrous effect. Louis the Fourteenth was fond of backgammon, at which one day he had a doubtful throw. A dispute arose, and the surrounding courtiers all remained silent. The Count de Gramont happened to come in at that instant. "Decide the matter," said the King to him. "Sire," said the Count, "your Majesty is in the wrong." "How," replied the King, "can you thus decide without knowing the question?" "Because," said the Count, "had the matter been doubtful, all these gentlemen present would have given it for your Majesty." Cardinal Mazarin himself was generally ready to bet about anything. He was driving in the country one day with a certain Count, when the latter proposed that they should wager on the number of sheep they should pass in the fields on each side of the road, one taking the right and the other the left side. The Cardinal was a heavy loser over this, as, much to his surprise, both going and returning the side selected by his companion simply swarmed with sheep, whilst very few were to be seen on the other. As a matter of fact, as he afterwards genially hinted, the Count had taken measures not to lose his bet, but the Cardinal, who was good-natured in such matters, bore him no ill-will. Another great ecclesiastic who was equally good-humoured about losses at play was the Cardinal d'Este, who, one day entertaining at dinner a brother prince of the Church, the Cardinal de Medici, played with him afterwards, and quite carelessly allowed the latter to win a stake of some ten thousand crowns, because, as he told an onlooker, he did not wish his guest to go away in a bad humour, or feel that he had been made to pay for his dinner. Hoca was a very popular game about this time. Certain Italians who had come into France in the train of Cardinal Mazarin contrived to obtain a concession from the King which enabled them to establish places in which this game might be played, and as they took care always to keep the bank themselves, they soon began to attract unfavourable notice owing to the large sums which fell into their maw. The game in question was prodigiously favourable to the bank, the players having only twenty-eight chances against thirty. In consequence of the public scandal which resulted, the Parliament of Paris stepped in and threatened severe punishment against these men, whilst it was made punishable by death to play hoca at all. Nevertheless, it continued to be in high favour at the Court, where many were ruined by gambling. In 1691, Louis XIV. determined to put a stop to the evil, and issued an order that no one should engage at faro, basset, and other games of chance on any consideration; every offender was to be fined 1000 livres, and the person at whose house any such game was played incurred a penalty of 6000 livres for each offence. Gamblers were also to be imprisoned for six months. The order in question, however, appears to have effected nothing, for some years later the same prince published a still severer edict, by which he forbade, on pain of death, any gaming in the French cavalry, and sentenced every commanding officer or governor who should presume to set up a hazard-table to be cashiered, and all concerned to be immediately and rigorously imprisoned. About the commencement of the Regency all Paris went mad over gaming; many of the houses of the great nobles were virtually _tripots_, special lights outside announcing this to passers-by. Horace Walpole declared that at least a hundred and fifty people of the highest quality lived on the play which took place in their houses, which any one wishing to gamble could enter at all hours. At the mansion of the Duc de Gevres persons desirous of taking the bank paid about twelve guineas a night. Such proceedings were deemed to be no disgrace to the nobles. Soon the gambling fever assumed a far more dangerous form than cards or dice, owing to the wild speculation brought into fashion by Law. This man, who was born in 1688, was the son of a lawyer at Edinburgh. Coming up to London he fell in love with the sister of a peer, who, disapproving of such a marriage with an adventurer, challenged Law, and fell in the duel. Law immediately escaped into Holland, and was tried, convicted, and outlawed in England. Perhaps it was in Holland he acquired that turn of mind which revels in immense calculations; anyhow he became an adept in the mysteries of exchanges and re-exchanges. From thence he proceeded to Venice and other cities, studying the nature of their banks. In 1709 he was at Paris, avid as ever of speculation. At the close of the reign of Louis XIV., the French finances were in great disorder; and Law, having obtained an audience of that monarch, had almost convinced the bankrupt king of the feasibility of his speculative projects. He had offered to pay the national debt by establishing a company, whose paper was to be received with all possible confidence, and who were to make immense profits by their commercial transactions. The minister, Desmarest, however, took alarm and, to get rid of Law, threatened him, by one of his emissaries, with the Bastille. Law quitted Paris, and became a wanderer through Italy. He then addressed himself to the King of Sardinia, who refused the adventurer's assistance, curtly declaring that he was not powerful enough to ruin himself! At the death of Louis XIV., the Duke of Orleans was Regent. Law saw his chance and ventured again to Paris, where he found the Regent docile enough. The latter, indeed, was placed in a most trying situation: the finances were all confusion, and no one appeared competent to settle them. At first the Regent listened somewhat reluctantly to Law, doubtful as to what consequences must follow such colossal schemes as those in which the adventurer dealt. Matters, however, going from bad to worse, the numerical quack was called in to relieve, by his powerful remedy, the disorder which no one else would even attempt to cure. Law commenced with most brilliant prospects. He established his bank, was chosen director of the East India Company, and soon gave his scheme that vital credit which produced real specie. In that distracted time, every one buried or otherwise concealed his valuables; but, when the spells of Law began to operate, every coffer was opened, while the proprietors of many estates seemed to prefer his paper to the possession of their lands. All Europe appeared delighted; Law acquired millions in a morning; whilst the Regent, thoroughly duped, felicitated himself on his possession of so great an alchemist. Law was honoured with nobility, and created Comte de Tankerville; as for marquisates, he purchased them at his will. Edinburgh, his native city, humbly presented him with her freedom, in which appears these remarkable expressions:--"The Corporation of Edinburgh presents its freedom to John Law, Count of Tankerville, etc., etc., etc., a most accomplished gentleman; the first of all bankers in Europe; the fortunate inventor of sources of commerce in all parts of the remote world; and who has deserved so well of his nation." From a Scotchman (says Voltaire) he became, by naturalisation, a Frenchman; from a Protestant, a Catholic; from an adventurer, a Prince; and from a banker, a minister of state. Law's novel system of finance was perhaps most aptly defined by a dissipated and spendthrift member of the French _noblesse_, the Marquis de Cavillac, who, much to the Scotchman's disgust, bluntly accused him of plagiarising from his own methods, which, as he added, consisted in drawing and giving bills which would certainly never be met. Meanwhile a veritable rage for speculation prevailed. Fortunes were made in a month, and stock-jobbing was carried on even in the narrowest alleys of Paris. Singular anecdotes are recorded of this time. A coachman gave warning to his master, who begged at least that he would provide him with another as good as himself. "Very well," was the reply, "I have hired two this morning; take your choice, and I will have the other." A footman set up his chariot; but, going to it, got up behind, where from force of habit he remained till reminded by his own servant of the mistake. An old beggar, who had a remarkable hunch on his back, haunted the Rue Quincampoix, which was the crowded resort of all stock-jobbers; here he acquired a good fortune by lending out his hunch for five minutes at a time as a desk. Law himself was adored; the proudest courtiers were humble reptiles before this mighty man; dukes and duchesses patiently waited in his ante-chamber; and Mrs. Law, a haughty beauty, when a duchess was announced, exclaimed, "Still more duchesses! There is no animal so tiresome as a duchess!" The Court ladies never left Law alone. One morning, when he was surrounded by a body of _grandes dames_, he was going to retire. They inquired the reason, which was of such a kind as should have silenced them; but on the contrary, they said, "Oh! if it is nothing but that, let them bring here a _chaise percée_ for Mr. Law." When the young king was at play, and the stakes were too high even for his Majesty, he refused to cover them all; young Law (the son of the adventurer) cried out, "If his Majesty will not cover, I will." The King's governor frowned on the boy of millions, who, perceiving his error, threw himself at the king's feet. The infatuation ran through all classes, and even the French Academy solicited for the honour of Law becoming their associate--this Scotchman was the only speculator they ever admitted into their body. The evil hour, however, at last arrived; the immense machine became so complicated that even the head of Law began to turn with its rapid revolutions. In 1719 he created credit; but in May 1720, uncounted millions disappeared in air. Nothing was seen but paper and bankruptcy everywhere. Law was considered as the sole origin of the public misfortune, no one blaming his own credulity. The mob broke his carriages, destroyed his houses, and tried to find the arithmetician in order to tear him to pieces. He escaped from Paris in disguise, and long wandered in Europe incognito. After some years, he found a hiding-place in Venice, where he lived, poor, obscure, yet still calculating. Montesquieu, who saw him there, said: "He is still the same man; his mind ever busied in financial schemes; his head is full of figures, of agios, and of banks. His fortune is very small, yet he loves to game high." Indeed, of all his more than princely revenues, he only saved, as a wreck, a large white diamond, which, when he had no money, he used to pawn. Voltaire saw his widow at Brussels. She was then as humiliated, as miserable, and as obscure, as she had been triumphant and haughty at Paris. After the collapse of Law's schemes the stream of gaming returned to its ordinary channels, and high play continued as formerly to be the pastime of the _noblesse_, some of whom kept more or less public gaming-tables. Not, however, till 1775 were public gaming-tables, somewhat resembling those still flourishing at Monaco, licensed in Paris. In that year Sartines, the celebrated "Lieutenant of Police," began to authorise regular "maisons de jeu," the profits of which were in principle supposed to be devoted to the foundation of hospitals, but in reality failed to reach their destined goal of philanthropy. The most popular game played was called "la belle." Certain privileged ladies, it may be added, were accorded permission to preside at the twelve gaming-tables of Paris twice a week. The bankers gave these attractive sorceresses six louis at each sitting, and paid all other expenses. A third day in the seven was set aside for the benefit of the police, who, once every week, ungallantly pocketed the six golden pieces of each of the presiding goddesses, most of whom were battered baronesses and ruined marchionesses, who had petitioned for the somewhat dubious honour of presiding at these _tripots_. Amongst them were Madame de Thouvenère, la Baronne de Gancière, and la Marquise de Sainte Doubeuville. The ladies were generally represented by deputies of the fair sex, who received a fair share of the wages of iniquity. The directors of the gaming-houses in question were as a rule the valets of grand seigneurs, the best known being a man called Gombaud, who acted as cashier-general. The success of the authorised "houses" led to the establishment of rival and clandestine _tripots_. The most celebrated of these private pandemoniums, which were practically "Hells," were kept by Madame de Selle, Rue Montmartre; la Comtesse Champeiron, Rue de Cléry; and Madame de Fonteneille. Rue de l'Arsenal. It was at the last-named place that Sartines, who often visited such places as a private individual for his own pleasure, narrowly escaped the blow of a poniard, on being recognised by a ruined gambler. A good deal of crime and misery was declared to arise from the existence of these gaming-houses, and at length, in 1781, after many suicides and bankruptcies innumerable, they were temporarily prohibited. The main cause, however, was that the brother of a favourite mistress of a pet courtier, after ruining himself and robbing a friend in order to obtain funds with which to play, had put an end to his existence, by blowing out his brains, at a gaming-house kept by Madame de la Serre, Place des Victoires. After this the demon of gaming took refuge at the Court, where shady financiers and well-dressed scoundrels carried on a very lucrative traffic almost under the nose of His Most Christian Majesty. The privileged hôtels of the ambassadors, where the police had no control, became also the _sanctum sanctorum_ of the vampires of that period. In addition to this, after a short lapse of time, the original Golgothas were re-licensed, the game called "biribi" displacing "la belle," and becoming the popular road to ruin of the day. Biribi is now probably quite obsolete. It was played upon a table which contained seventy numbers, to which there were corresponding numbers enclosed in a bag. These the banker drew out one by one, the player whose money was on the corresponding number on the table being paid a sum equivalent to sixty-four times his stake. As at roulette, there were a great number of other chances--_pair_ and _impair_, _noir_ and _rouge_, _du petit et du grand côté_, _la bordure du tableau_, _les terminaisons_, and the like. There were nine columns of numbers, each of which contained eight, with the exception of the middle column, which was the banker's; this consisted of six numbers only, which were considered zeroes. Unattractive as this game must appear to a more sophisticated generation, biribi became a regular craze. About this time another epidemic of domestic horrors and public crimes caused the Hells to be denounced to Parliament, which cited the redoubtable lieutenant of police, Sartines, to its bar, and after a good deal of gesticulation and ultra-moral oratory--most of it from those members of the Parliament who themselves kept privileged receptacles of gaming--it was decided that the high court of peers should be convoked, in order that they might deal severely with those minor ruffians, who, in contravention of the laws, carried on clandestine play. The patrician moralists shortly after issued a decree, sanctioned by Royalty, that the bankers of unauthorised gaming-houses should be liable to the _carcan_ (pillory), branding with a hot iron, and the _fout_ (flogging). After this the licensed Hells carried on their golden commerce in full security, but not entirely without competition, in spite of the aforesaid pains and penalties which were in several cases enforced. A curious and characteristic consequence of such a state of affairs was the use to which certain diplomatic representatives put their mansions, making good, or rather bad, use of the immunity from interference which their office of Envoy conferred. M. le Chevalier Zeno, the Venetian Ambassador, turned his house into a regular casino, admitting any one into it who would play. For those of the lowest degree a particular room was reserved, known to its habitués as "l'enfer." Remonstrances and representations from the authorities were powerless to effect the cessation of what became a public scandal, the Venetian Embassy continuing to be little but a gambling-hell, till the departure of the Ambassador in question. Three other Ministers also maintained establishments of a similar kind. These were the Prussian Envoy, who resided in the Rue de Choiseul, the Envoy of Hesse-Cassel, whose house was in the Rue Poissonnière, and the Ambassador of Sweden, whose gambling establishment was on the Place du Louvre, at a house bearing the inscription "Écuries de M. l'Ambassadeur de Suède." The somewhat singular methods employed by the enterprising Diplomats in question were very freely commented upon in a report issued by the "Lieutenant de Police" in February 1781, nothing, however, being done to check the scandal. On the contrary, certain members of the _noblesse_, being struck with the pecuniary advantages to be reaped from keeping a gaming-house, followed the example of the Ambassadors, M. le Marquis and M. le Comte de Genlis presiding over establishments of this kind in the Place Vendôme and in the Rue Bergère. It became no uncommon thing for Chevaliers de St. Louis to act as bankers or croupiers. Owing to the decoration they wore they were not subject to the same jurisdiction as ordinary mortals, besides which, many of them were excellent swordsmen. This naturally gave them a great advantage in the case of any protest on the part of the players against the methods employed by the bank, a circumstance which eventually led to a royal prohibition of further gaming enterprises being undertaken by Chevaliers of this Order. As the stormy days of '89 approached, gambling became more and more prevalent, and during the Revolution, notwithstanding the Spartan austerity which it was declared was to be a characteristic of the new era, gaming was freely tolerated by the authorities. Later, when Fouché assumed the office of Minister of Police, the privilege of keeping gambling-houses was let out as openly and as publicly as the King's Ministers had farmed out the duties upon salt, tobacco, or wine to the "fermiers généraux" of the revenue. Cards of address to gambling-houses were distributed in all parts of France in the same manner as circulars in London. The sum of money which this system of toleration brought into Fouché's pocket reached upwards of ten thousand pounds per month. The Prefect at Lyons, Vermignac, learnt, to his cost, how dangerous it was to meddle with this _lawful_ income of Citizen Fouché; for, having ordered the suppression of all gambling-houses in that city, Fouché represented him in such a light to Bonaparte that he lost the honourable place of Prefect, and was sent, in disgrace, as Minister to Switzerland, a situation no Prefect's secretary would by choice accept, on account of the unsettled state of that country, and the disagreeable and difficult part a French Minister had at that time to perform there. Besides what the farmers of the gambling-houses paid to Fouché every month, they were obliged to hire and pay 120,000 persons employed in their houses at Paris, and in the provinces, as croupiers, from half a crown to half a guinea a day; most of these 120,000 persons were also supposed to be spies for Fouché. In 1789, Thiroux de Crosne, Lieutenant de Police, estimated that there were fifty-three houses in Paris where illegal games were played; other authorities of that time gave figures far in excess of this. _Tripots_ existed in the Rue Notre Dame des Victoires, Rue des Petits Pères, Place des Petits Pères, and Rue de Cléry. No. 35 Rue Traversière, Saint Honoré, No. 18 Rue de Richelieu, and No. 10 Rue Vivienne were all well-known gaming places. In the Palais Royal, however, thirty-one different establishments were ready to allure the votaries of fortune. At No. 33 a man named Dumoulin, who had been a lackey in the service of the Dubarry, acted as croupier; No. 50 was known as the rendezvous of Royalists; No. 113 enjoyed a bad reputation as being the cause of a great number of suicides; No. 36 was very decorously conducted, no woman being allowed to enter its doors, whilst non-alcoholic refreshments and a light beer were alone provided in order that the players should run no risk of exciting themselves. In order to further safeguard their clients, the proprietors of No. 36 maintained a regular armed guard who effectually prevented the incursion of undesirable characters. There existed at this period a regular gang of black-mailers, who, headed by a ruffian named Venternière, made a practice of entering gaming places and extorting money from the executive under the threat of creating such a disturbance as to cause the tables to be suppressed. The gang in question were, however, thoroughly routed in November 1793 when making a determined incursion into No. 36. They were very roughly handled, their leader being laid senseless upon the pavement. A celebrated Parisian gamester at the time of the Revolution was Monsieur de Monville, who was a great deal in the company of the Duc d'Orléans--a Prince whose passion for play was notorious. Whilst the projected arrest of the Duc was being debated in the Convention, this gentleman was engaged in a particularly spirited gambling duel with the regicide Philippe Égalité; the players indeed were so absorbed in their game as to cause dinner to be served on the very table at which they were playing. At this moment Merlin de Douai burst into the room with the announcement of the impeachment of the Duc, who, horror-struck at such news, deplored the ingratitude of his accusers, after the many proofs of patriotism which he had given. Then turning to Monville he cried, "What do you think of such an infamy, Monville?" The latter, whilst leisurely squeezing a lemon over his sole, said in the calmest manner in the world, "It is certainly horrible. Monseigneur, but what did you expect? The rascals have got all they could out of your Highness, who is now of no more use; consequently they are going to treat you as I do this lemon." He then, in the most elegant manner in the world, threw the remains of the fruit in question into the fire-place, remarking the while, "One must never forget. Monseigneur, that a sole should be eaten quite hot." M. de Monville was a great frequenter of the gambling-rooms over which presided the beautiful Madame de St. Amaranthe, whose tragic fate on the scaffold excited so much pity. The _tripot_ over which she cast her smiles was at No. 50 in the Palais Royal, which has been mentioned before, and was the most luxurious in Paris. It was said, indeed, that it resembled nothing so much as Versailles in the days before the Revolution, and here many Royalist conspirators were wont to assemble. Denunciations of what was described as a reactionary stronghold were being constantly received by the Committee of Public Safety, and the popularity of the presiding goddess of this shrine of chance with the Royalists eventually led to her execution. The Revolutionary authorities saw reaction in everything, even in playing-cards, and in 1792 they arrived at the conclusion that the kings were but antiquated symbols of tyranny, and attempted to substitute a card called the "pouvoir exécutif" in their place. Players using these new-fashioned cards, instead of speaking of the king of hearts or clubs, were obliged to say the "pouvoir exécutif" of hearts and so on. Citizens Dajouré and Jaume, however, improved upon this, and invented a new sort of pack in which the king became "le génie," the queen "liberty," the knave "equality," and the ace "law." Hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds were changed into peace, war, art, and commerce. The cards in question, it may be added, made no successful appeal to gamblers, who continued to prefer the sort still in general use. They were, however, extremely prettily designed, and are now reckoned amongst the artistic curiosities produced by the Revolution. During our war with France some French prisoners at Deal were once rather amusingly rebuked for their anti-monarchical tendencies by a private of the West Essex Militia, which regiment was then quartered at Deal. The man in question had been begged by the prisoners to procure them a pack of cards, which he did when off his duty; but before he delivered the cards, picked out the four kings. The Frenchmen, discovering the deficiency, said the pack was imperfect, having no kings in it. "Why," replied the soldier, "_if you can fight without a king, surely you can play without one_!" The Palais Royal, called during the Revolution the Palais Égalité, soon became the most famous gambling-resort in the world--to-day it is but a pathetic shadow of its former self. Built in imitation of the Piazza San Marco at Venice by Cardinal Richelieu and bequeathed by him to Louis XIII., the palace in question was in course of time given by the Roi Soleil to his brother and thus became the property of the Orléans family. Fantastically extravagant and crippled by debts, Philippe Égalité first conceived the idea of putting the noble building raised by the great Cardinal to a commercial use, continuing to obtain a very large sum by letting out suitable parts as shops, gaming-houses, and restaurants, some of them of a rather questionable nature. The Palais Royal, before it contained shops and gaming-tables, had been the resort of all that was most aristocratic in Paris. Walks and flower-beds abounded, whilst on the southern side was an alley of ancient chestnut trees of great antiquity, the destruction of which provoked much indignation and sorrow. The transformation of the historic palace and grounds into a bazaar effected a great change in the habits of the Parisians, who, without distinction of rank or class, flocked to the spot which, since the stately days of Anne of Austria, had been the evening promenade of good society alone. Louis XVI. is said, after hearing of his cousin's decision in this matter, to have remarked: "I suppose we shall now only see the Duc d'Orléans on Sundays--he has become a shop-man!" The Prince in question, however, cared little about this as long as he was able to procure the large sums necessary for his wildly extravagant mode of living. The centre of Parisian activity, the Palais Royal was the incarnation of Paris in the eyes of all pleasure-loving Europe, the famous Galeries de Bois becoming the resort of all the profligate frivolity of a somewhat unbridled age. The old gardens, sad and deserted to-day, have witnessed some strange scenes in their time. Here it was that one summer's day Camille Desmoulins uttered those burning words which heralded the approach of the Revolution. It was on the Palais Royal that Philippe Égalité let his eyes linger as the tumbrel bore him through a hooting mob, past the splendid old home which he had once inhabited, to where the guillotine awaited him in the Place de la Révolution--now the Place de la Concorde. From the windows of that self-same Palais Royal, in July 1830, did the son of Égalité look hopefully yet half-fearfully expectant on another mob, yelling and triumphant, which, after storming the Louvre and sacking the Tuileries, came screeching the Marseillaise, roaring "Vive la Charte!" "Vive la République!" "Vive Lafayette!" and most portentous of all for him, "Vive Louis Philippe!" The last cry won the day; and Louis Philippe, Duke of Orleans, went forth from the Palais Royal to become the Citizen King. Many queer characters haunted the galleries of the Palais Royal. As late as the early years of the reign of Louis Philippe there could on most days be seen there an aged individual who was pointed out as "Valois Collier." He had been the husband of the infamous Jeanne de St. Remy, "Comtesse" de la Motte, who was wont to boast (mayhap with some probability of truth) that a strain of the royal blood of the Valois ran in her veins. On the side of the Galerie d'Orléans were the famous Galeries de Bois, the resort of all lovers of careless gaiety during the Directory, the Consulate, the First Empire, and the Restoration. In 1815 these galleries were nicknamed, owing to the extensive Muscovite patronage which they enjoyed, "Le Camp des Tartares." The Palais Royal in its palmy days was the centre of luxury--an emporium of every alluring delight. While its brilliantly-lit piazzas were viewed with real or pretended horror by the austere, it was a very Mecca to the pleasure-seekers of the world. In England the place was often called "the Devil's Drawing-room," it being said that here a debauchee could run the whole course of his career with the greatest facility and ease. On the first floor were cafés where his spirits could be raised to any requisite pitch; on the second, gaming-rooms where he could lose his money, and salons devoted to facile love--both, not unusually, ante-chambers to the pawnbrokers who resided above; whilst, if at the end of his tether and determined to end his troubles, he could repair to some of the shops on the ground floor, where daggers and pistols were very conveniently sold at reduced prices--every facility being thus provided for enjoying all the pleasures of life under one roof. Besides the licensed gaming-tables there were also many forms of unsanctioned dissipation in divers subterranean chambers. A number of billiard-rooms, each containing two or three tables, provided further opportunities for passing the time. Women were everywhere, and from about midday till three o'clock in the morning, the galleries of the Palais Royal were thronged by crowds of gaily-attired nymphs ready to lend their aid in charming the dream of life. In the days of the Terror they absolutely dominated the whole place. It was an epoch when many knew that the guillotine was being made ready to receive them, and for this reason were seized with a veritable frenzy to snatch as much enjoyment as possible. The close connection which at that time existed between illicit passion and death was well typified in the personality of one of the most popular sirens. Mademoiselle Dubois, known as "la fille Chevalier," who was a reigning favourite of the gardens. The girl in question possessed no great beauty, her chief attraction being that her father was the executioner at Dijon, who had sent numbers of people into the other world. [Illustration: THE PALMY DAYS OF THE PALAIS ROYAL. From a contemporary print.] The gaming-rooms were on the southern side of the Palais Royal. To enter them you ascended a staircase and opened the door of an ante-chamber, where several hundred hats, sticks, and great-coats, carefully ticketed, were arranged, under the charge of two or three old men, who received either one or two sous from every owner for the safe delivery of his precious deposit. No dogs were admitted into these sacred apartments, nor anything which was likely to disturb the deep attention and holy quiet which pervaded them! From this ante-chamber opened a folding-door, which led to a large, well-lighted room, in the centre of which was a table surrounded, at a moderate estimate, by two hundred and fifty or three hundred persons anxiously inspecting a game. The salons in the various establishments opened one into another, and in some there were as many as six rooms which contained tables. At one time a curious condition was imposed upon the proprietors of the gaming-tables. They were obliged to furnish every one who entered their rooms with as much table-beer as they chose to call for. Waiters were therefore perpetually running backwards and forwards with overflowing tumblers of this refreshing beverage--six or seven crowded on a tray. On the restoration of the Bourbons, public play in Paris continued to flourish with unabated vigour. There were in 1818: 7 Tables of Trente-et-un. 9 " Roulette. 1 " Passe-dix. 1 " Craps. 1 " Hazard. 1 " Biribi. -- 20 These twenty tables were divided into nine houses, four of which were situated in the Palais Royal. To serve the seven tables of trente-et-un there were: Francs. 28 Dealers, at 550 francs a month, making 15,400 28 Croupiers, at 380 " " 10,640 42 Assistants, at 200 " " 8,400 For the nine roulette tables and one passe-dix: 80 Dealers, at 275 francs a month 22,000 60 Assistants, at 150 " " 9,000 For the service of the craps, biribi, and hazard: 12 Dealers, at 300 francs a month 3,600 12 Inspectors, at 120 " " 1,440 10 Aids, at 100 " " 1,000 6 Chefs de Partie at the principal houses, at 700 francs a month 4,200 3 Chefs de Partie for the Roulettes, at 500 francs a month 1,500 20 Secret Inspectors, at 200 francs a month 4,000 1 Inspector-General at 1,000 130 Waiters, at 75 francs a month 9,750 _Cards every month_ cost 1,500 Beer and refreshments 3,000 Lights 5,500 The refreshments for the grand saloon, including two dinners every week, cost 12,000 -------- The total expenses every month thus amounted to 113,930 The amount produced by the gaming-houses of Paris in 1823 was given as follows:-- Francs. Francs. Rough Revenue 15,000,000 Expenses: upkeep of gaming-houses, pay of croupiers and the like 1,000,000 Annual tax to Government 5,000,000 Fifteen per cent for the poor 500,000 --------- 6,500,000 ----------- Total profits of proprietors 8,500,000 The scale of payment received by the croupiers and employés would seem to have somewhat closely approximated to that in vogue at Monte Carlo to-day. Every establishment employed the services of a functionary called _l'homme de force_, whose duties seem to have exactly corresponded with those of the less picturesquely named "chucker-out" of to-day. The lowest stake permitted at trente-et-quarante was five francs--in certain rooms gold only was allowed--a lower limit of two francs being imposed at roulette. In this respect, matters were much the same as at German gaming-tables, which began to be put an end to after the war of 1866. The regulation now prevailing at Monte Carlo, which prescribes twenty francs at trente-et-quarante and five francs at roulette, is a very salutary one, preventing as it does a certain class of player from risking small sums which he can ill afford to lose. During the existence of the Paris gaming-tables there was at times a good deal of agitation in favour of raising the limit at roulette, the lowness of which was said to be responsible for widespread ruin amongst the working-classes. Occasionally, however, fortune was kind towards some of her humble worshippers. A cook employed at a Paris restaurant happened one day to stroll into the gaming-rooms established at No. 113 in the Palais Royal. He had no money, so amused himself looking at the people and eating oranges, a number of which he had brought with him. The rooms were hot, and a thirsty player offered to give the man six sous for one of the oranges, which the cook accepted. He then proceeded to throw the six sous on the biribi table, where he won six francs, which were increased to two hundred at roulette. At trente-et-quarante he was even more lucky, and after playing with the greatest success for some time found himself with a profit of some five hundred thousand francs. His master, the restaurant-keeper, who was a wise man, with some difficulty persuaded him to invest these large winnings in sound securities, whilst pointing out the folly of any further gambling. The cook never played again, and ended his days in affluence. He is said to have been the only man of this class who ever made a fortune at the Parisian gambling-tables. Numbers of people who frequented the gaming-houses of the Palais Royal came there when they were already ruined, and, losing the small sums which still remained to them, afterwards created disturbance and scandal. [Illustration: A GAMING TABLE IN THE PALAIS ROYAL.] A case of this sort which attracted a good deal of attention was that of an English half-pay colonel, who, having lost all his money at one of the Palais Royal Hells, determined to kill himself and every one in the place besides. With this object in view he smuggled into the place a canister full of explosive powder, which he put under the table and furtively set alight. Though players and croupiers were very unpleasantly astonished at the result, no one was hurt except the Colonel, who was very roughly handled and was thrown into prison, from which he was after a time sent over to England as a madman. Amongst the games played were two which are now quite forgotten; these were passe-dix and craps. Passe-dix is said to be the most ancient of all games of chance. According to tradition it was at this game that the soldiers played for the garments of Christ after the crucifixion. There is one banker and any amount of players, each one of whom holds the box in turn. When a point under ten is thrown all the players lose their stake. If, however, a point above ten is thrown the banker pays double on all stakes. At private play every player banks in his turn, but in the Palais Royal the bank was, of course, held for the proprietors of the gaming-rooms. The game of creps or craps mentioned in the list of tolerated games is now obsolete as a medium for any serious gambling in Europe. Curiously enough, however, it still survives in another continent, being even at the present day a favourite game in mining camps in Alaska, where it is well known in the gaming-saloons which are almost inevitable accompaniments of such settlements. The game would appear to consist of a board, something like an enlarged and glorified backgammon board, on which are emblazoned an anchor and five other emblems. The banker, when the money has been staked on these emblems, shakes out six dice, each of which bears on its facets devices corresponding with the designs on the board, the players being paid in proportion to the number of dice showing the figure they have selected. The boards used in Alaska are said to have been copied from similar ones brought by French emigrants to California during the famous gold fever in the 'forties. In some cases the identical boards exported from France are said to be still in use. The bankers at craps claim that the odds are perfectly even as between the bank and the players, a statement which, however, would not resist the test of serious mathematical investigation. The farmer-general of all the metropolitan houses of play at this time was Monsieur Benazet, Colonel of the Garde Nationale of Neuilly. M. Benazet, after the Revolution of 1830, was decorated by Louis Philippe with the cross of the Légion d'honneur, on account of his loyalty. Besides the officials who have been enumerated, there was a horde of attached spies, providers, pickers-up, and hangers-on, paid for doing the "dirty work" of the houses, both in and out of doors. The name, rank in life, presumed fortune, habitation, and habits of each gaming-house guest were registered; and, if they became regular customers, a sobriquet, or nickname, was given to each. By this means the constant players were, in a certain degree, known to the police. The salaried satellites of the _maisons de jeu_, when they entered upon their office, were peremptorily told that "it was their duty to regard every man who played at the tables as an enemy." Three of the gaming-houses catered almost entirely for players of means, Frascati's and the Salon des Étrangers being well-known to all the gamblers of Europe. No. 154 in the Palais Royal, it should be mentioned, was also a favourite resort of high gamblers during the occupation of Paris by the Allies. Marshal Blücher lost very large sums there. This rough old soldier was a most irascible player, and when he lost (which was more often than not) he would rap out volleys of German oaths whilst glaring at the croupiers. He usually played very high, and would grumble at the limit of 10,000 francs imposed as a maximum; so great was the sensation that he created, that any table at which he might be playing was always uncomfortably crowded. In 1814 the stakes on the tables of the French gaming-houses consisted of the coins of all nations, it being not uncommon to see French napoléons and louis d'or, English guineas and crowns, Dutch ducats, Spanish doubloons, Russian roubles, as well as the various moneys of Prussia, Italy, and Germany, on the tables at the same moment. Notes were somewhat rare, though occasionally some daring gamester would stake a French one for a large amount. The Salon and Frascati's were situated close together at that extremity of the Rue Richelieu which opens into the Boulevards; they both presented a highly aristocratic exterior, and both professed to be aristocratically exclusive and to admit no person without a suitable and satisfactory introduction. From this rule, however, Frascati's in its latter days departed; and the Cerberus who guarded the portals of that pandemonium very, very seldom refused admittance to any one whose exterior afforded evidence that he possessed any material wherewithal to feed (it were too much to say, satisfy) the devouring appetites of the bank. Frascati's opened rather later than the other gaming-houses, its portals being only thrown open at one in the afternoon. The Salon des Étrangers, also a favourite resort of Marshal Blücher, was frequented chiefly by that class who could afford to frequent gaming-houses, the ambassadors of foreign potentates frequently presiding at its sumptuous and magnificent entertainments. The opening of these houses took place with nearly as great regularity as that of any bureau in Paris. A well-known figure at the Salon was an old gentleman whose existence was bound up with that of this gaming-house. He had been completely ruined by play, and the proprietors of the Salon allowed him a pension to support him in his miserable senility--just sufficient to supply him with a wretched lodging, bread, and a change of raiment once in every three or four years! In addition to this he was allowed a supper (which was his dinner) at the gaming-house. Thither, at about eleven o'clock at night, he went. Till supper-time (two) he amused himself in watching the games and calculating the various chances, although he was destitute of the means of playing a single coup. At four he returned to his lodging, retired to bed, and lay till between nine and ten on the following night. A cup of coffee was then brought to him; and, having dressed himself, at the usual hour he again proceeded to the Salon. This had been his round of life for several years; and during all that time (except on a few mornings about midsummer) he had not beheld the sun! Another constant frequenter of the Salon des Étrangers during the occupation of Paris by the Allies in 1814 was a Mr. Fox, a popular Secretary of the British Embassy, who was notorious for his easy-going disposition. Though usually most unfortunate at play, he once had an extraordinary run of luck, when having taken up the dice-box, he threw eleven successful throws, broke the bank, and took home some sixty thousand francs as winnings. All of this he spent in buying presents for ladies, which he declared was the only way to prevent the rascals at the Salon from getting back their money. At the same gambling-place Lord Thanet lost enormous sums, whilst a young Irishman, Mr. Gough by name, was totally ruined there, and in consequence blew out his brains. On the green cloth of the Salon des Étrangers also melted away the fortune of Sir Francis Vincent, who, having dissipated the whole of a fine property at play, entirely disappeared from the gay world. Frascati's--a more amusing resort--was in its palmy days regularly haunted by an aged gentleman well dowered with means, who was daily carried by his servant to the rouge-et-noir table. There he sat playing from three o'clock until five, at which hour, precisely, the servant returned and carried him (for he had entirely lost the use of his legs) back to his carriage. He was a man of large fortune, and the stakes he played were not considerable; yet he was elated by every lucky coup, and at every reverse he gnashed his teeth and struck the table in rage. No sooner, however, had the moment for his departure arrived, than he regained his equanimity, utterly regardless as to whether he had been a winner, or a loser, by the proceedings. "I have outlived all modes of excitement," said he, "save that of gaming: it is that that takes the fastest hold on the mind and retains it the longest; my blood, but for this occasional agitation, would stagnate in my veins--I should die." Ten fêtes were given during the year at Frascati's, the sole gaming-place to which, after 1818, women were allowed admittance. The disinclination of the Parisian authorities to throw open the public gaming-rooms to women was founded upon very substantial grounds, for at the beginning of the nineteenth century, great scandals had arisen owing to ladies becoming desperate after unsuccessful play. In 1804, for instance, a young and beautiful Hanoverian Countess, who had lost 50,000 livres, planned and executed the robbery of a fine coronet of emeralds, which she contrived to purloin at a ball given by the owner, Madame Demidoff. The youth, beauty, and high rank of the thief caused a great agitation in favour of her being pardoned, but Napoleon, who was never moved by mere sentimental considerations, refused to annul the sentence which had been passed upon her. When they take to gambling, Frenchwomen become passionate devotees of play, as may be verified at any casino in France when baccarat and petits chevaux are in full swing. Very often they become so fascinated by the spirit of speculation that they can think of nothing else. An instance of this was the lady who, confessing to her priest, owned she was desperately fond of gambling. The confessor, after pointing out the evils of such a passion, advanced several arguments against play, amongst which a principal one was the great loss of time which it must inevitably occasion. "Ah," said the lady, "that's just what vexes me--so much time lost in shuffling the cards!" Besides the licensed gaming-houses there were at this time a number of "maisons de bouillotte," which, though unlicensed, were more or less under the surveillance of the police. Here a good deal of play went on practically unchecked, an added attraction being the female society of no very rigorous morality which frequented such resorts. The favourite game played in these bouillottes was not the "bouillotte" from which they took their name, but écarté, in some ways a modification of the old French game of "la triomphe." Écarté in its present form would seem to have been first played in the early part of the nineteenth century in Paris, whence it made its way to England about 1820. Whilst such places, together with Frascati's and the Salon des Étrangers, were the resort of the fashionable world, humbler gamblers betook themselves to half a dozen houses which were frequented by all classes of the population, the most popular being Nos. 9, 129, and 113 in the Palais Royal. Play began at twelve in the morning, except on Sundays and holidays, when one was the hour fixed; on certain Saints' Days and at Christmas all the gambling houses were compelled by law to close at midnight, except the Salon des Étrangers and No. 9 in the Palais Royal, two of those curious exceptions for which the authorities in France have always had (and still have) a liking, being made in their favour. On January 21, the day on which the unfortunate Louis XVI. had been guillotined, a special regulation forbade any play at all. In 1819, however, no notice was taken of this, which led to a great outcry; and the following year the gambling-houses did shut their doors on the day in question, but the keepers demanded a rebate on the sum paid to the Government as compensation for their loss of profits. The evil days of the Palais Royal as a pleasure-resort began about the time of the Revolution of 1830, when it became evident that a determined effort was going to be made to alter the character of the place entirely. In 1831, stringent measures were adopted with regard to the class of persons allowed to frequent the galleries, the amusements permitted being exposed to a rigorous censorship, whilst every effort was made to efface the traditions of light-hearted frivolity and licence which had hung about the old place since the days of the Revolution. Numbers of the tradesmen who owned shops in the Palais Royal had called for these measures. They were imbued with the somewhat pharisaical respectability which is so often the appanage of their class, and entertained the totally fallacious idea that the purification of the gardens would cause a greater number of visitors from abroad to frequent and make purchases at their shops. It soon became evident that the fate of the gaming-tables was sealed, a great outcry being raised against the toleration of what was characterised as a public scandal, and was denounced as such in the Press. English opinion particularly was said to be bitterly hostile to the tables, and the deluded tradesmen of Paris entertained an idea that the doubtful pleasures of the Palais Royal prevented much foreign money from pouring into their pockets. Finally in 1836, chiefly owing to the efforts of a Mr. Delessert, it was decided that the gaming-houses of Paris should be closed two years from that date, and on the 1st of January 1838 the Palais Royal ceased to offer any attractions appealing to the gambler. At the time when the agitation for the suppression of public gaming in Paris was going on, a good deal of abuse was heaped upon the proprietors of the tables, who were denounced as vampires sucking the blood of the poor. One of them, M. Borsant by name, was exempted from censure, being noted for many favourable traits not often to be met with in those drawing their revenue from gaming. This gentleman once actually restored 17,000 francs lost by a young man to his astonished parents. The actual date of the cessation of public play in Paris was Sunday, December 31, 1837. So numerous had the visitors been during the last few weeks preceding this date, that an additional police force had been found necessary for the maintenance of order. In consequence of the excitement, the manufacturers and tradesmen of Paris had come to a general agreement not to pay their workmen's wages before twelve o'clock on Sunday night, lest the money might be carried to swell the last day's receipts of the great joint-stock company to which all the Parisian gaming-houses belonged. On the last evening, which was a Sunday, the rooms at Frascati's were so thronged that there was scarcely a possibility of stirring in them. The tables were overladen with money. At ten o'clock such was the crowd inside that it was found necessary to shut the street doors. Placards stuck up in all the rooms warned the gamblers that the play would not be suffered to extend a single minute beyond midnight, which was the hour specified by the law. The Salon or Cercle des Étrangers, still the most fashionable of the gambling-houses, which usually was opened only at eleven at night and closed at three or four in the morning, opened on Sunday evening at nine o'clock, a notification to such effect having been sent round to the habitual frequenters of the place. On Saturday and Sunday all the gambling-houses of Paris, especially No. 154 of the Palais Royal and Frascati's, were immensely crowded. Several dramatic incidents occurred. A workman destroyed himself on quitting No. 113, and two young men who had lost large sums disappeared entirely. In accordance with the edict previously announced, the game ceased exactly at midnight. The gambling during the last days of the tables had been very high, and crowds flocked to witness the end. Disturbances were anticipated, and the municipal guards were in consequence posted in considerable force about the various rooms. At Frascati's an immense crowd of visitors assembled, but they dispersed peaceably, after encountering the shouts and hisses of the mob that had collected in the Rue de Richelieu outside to witness their final exit from that historic haunt of pleasure. A dramatic incident occurred, one unhappy wretch shooting himself as the doors closed for ever. He had lost heavily, and was in despair at the prospect of being unable to retrieve his losses. In 1838 a case came on for trial before the Court of Assizes, Paris, which excited a good deal of interest. The prisoner, a clerk to a merchant, had gambled on several occasions, and had lost at Frascati's and the gaming-houses licensed by Government upwards of 100,000 francs, the property of his employer. In the course of the trial, Benazet, the lessee of these establishments, stated that in the course of a year there was thrown on the tables of the gaming-houses comprised in his licence 800,000,000 francs (£32,000,000): that, independently of the annual sum paid to Government for the licence (which was 6,000,000 francs or £240,000), the clear profit on the tables during the last year of their life, 1837, was no less a sum than 1,900,000 francs (£76,000), but that three-fourths of this sum was paid over to the city of Paris; the other fourth (£19,000) was his proportion of the gain. M. Benazet eventually declared that he would refund his part of the sum lost by the prosecutor's clerk if the city of Paris would equally pay back the three-fourths of it which had passed to its credit. The average number of gamblers admitted to those houses had been three thousand a day, another thousand having been denied entrance. From the moment that the tables were suppressed, the prosperity of the shops in the former Palace of Cardinal Mazarin began to wane. As the years rolled on, visitors became fewer and fewer, till the place assumed the forlorn aspect which it wears to-day, when even the tourist scarcely deigns to visit its deserted galleries. At the time of the Revolution there had been a number of first-class restaurants in the Palais Royal. The café kept by Méot, for instance, enjoyed a great reputation for its cellar. Here could be procured twenty-two sorts of red wine, twenty-seven of white, and sixteen different kinds of liqueurs, most of which had come from the cellars of the _noblesse_. Méot's was essentially a Royalist restaurant, and contained little rooms where aristocratic clients could dine in luxurious privacy. Beauvilliers, once cook to the Prince de Condé, also kept a restaurant much frequented by adherents of the old régime, and here Rivarol Champcenetz and others used, while dining, to compose articles for the famous Royalist sheet--_Les Actes des Apôtres_. A well-situated restaurant was Véry's, which paid no less than 196,275 livres a year as rent for No. 83. Véry's was founded in 1790: here it was that Danton gave dinners to his friends, and pointed out to them "that their turn had come to taste the delights of life; and enjoy the sumptuous mansions, exquisite dishes, rare fabrics, and beautiful women which were the legitimate spoils of the victors." This restaurant was much frequented by foreigners, with whom it had a great reputation; every Englishman of means who visited Paris made a point of dining there once or twice. At No. 73 was the restaurant Venua, where the Girondins used to dine at ten francs a head. Robespierre also used to frequent its gaily-decorated saloons, and men alive in the middle of the last century well remembered the sinister profile and sky-blue coat of the "sea-green incorruptible" reflected in the mirrors which adorned this café. A badly-lit, ill-appointed restaurant was that kept by Fevrier; nevertheless, its democratic lack of luxury attracted austere patriots. Lepelletier de St. Fargeau, dining here on the 20th of January 1793, at five o'clock in the afternoon, was accosted by a young man who stabbed him to death as one who had voted for the execution of Louis XVI. [Illustration: VERY'S IN 1825.] As Paris gradually recovered from the fever of the Revolution, many other first-class restaurants were established in the Palais Royal, several of which survived up to our own time. All of these have now long disappeared from the spot which was once a shrine for the gastronomers of Europe. To-day the very name of Véfour is forgotten. Les Trois Frères Provençaux, the Café Corazza, and other resorts, once famous for their cuisine, have long ceased to make any appeal to the modern gourmet, whilst even the less pretentious cafés, which, in the early days of the third Republic, offered the passing traveller a sumptuous dinner for two or three francs, have almost, without exception, closed their doors. From time to time schemes have been mooted which were to galvanise the Palais Royal into some semblance of life; the latest of these is a plan to pierce a street, or rather a drive, right through it, by which means the place would become a thoroughfare and regain its lost vitality. Sad and mournful as the old gardens are to-day, it is not altogether without the bounds of possibility that they will in the future once again become the resort of the wealthy pleasure-seekers of the world. The fine shops which formerly abounded beneath the colonnades are memories of the past, all the great shopkeepers having migrated from what has become a little city of the dead. A number of the shopkeepers in the Palais Royal lived to regret bitterly the rigorous measures for which they had once so vehemently called, and there is no doubt that the unfortunate commercial results which followed, once it had ceased to be a pleasure-resort, made a deep and lasting impression upon the mind of the Parisian tradesman, who to-day thoroughly realises that visitors to Paris are attracted by some amusement of a speculative kind. The Parisian shop-keeper would probably welcome the revival of public gaming-tables for he is a warm supporter of French racing, where the betting is legalised and carried on by the State, well knowing the commercial benefits which indirectly accrue to the city of Paris. During the Second Empire, Doctor Louis Véron, ex-dealer in quack medicines, ex-manager of the Grand Opéra, and ex-proprietor of the _Constitutionnel_ newspaper, offered an enormous royalty to Government for the privilege of establishing a gambling-house in Paris. The Emperor Napoleon III., however, declined to consider the proposal. At the present day, though no public tables exist, there are ample facilities for play in Paris, and baccarat flourishes in many a Club to which admission is not difficult. The great evil of the gaming-houses of the Palais Royal was that they especially appealed to a class which could not afford to lose their hard-earned money--the poor being lured to ruin. Such a state of affairs is non-existent in modern Paris, where gambling, as far as possible, is limited to those able to afford to indulge in it. A Frenchman cares little for Clubs without play, and many a _Cercle_ draws its principal support from the cagnotte at baccarat; this amounts to about ten per cent on the sum put into the bank, which goes to the highest bidder up to five hundred louis, when, if there are two or three competitors, they draw lots for it. The percentage in question, however, varies as the bank increases, and is not levied after a certain amount of renewals. In former years the management of some of these gambling-clubs was somewhat lax, and occasionally undesirable characters entered the rooms and passed themselves off as members. At a certain well-known resort, which formerly flourished not far from the Place de l'Opéra, high gambling was the order of the day just before dinner. One fine afternoon there was as usual somewhat spirited bidding for the bank, which was eventually secured for some four hundred louis by a very distinguished-looking man whose face was new to the usual frequenters of the place. The individual in question, taking the banker's seat, the cards having been shuffled and cut, produced no money but merely told the croupier opposite, "Il y a quatre cents louis en banque," upon which that official, with all the dignity of his race, tapped a piece of red cardboard and repeated, "Quatre cents louis à la carte." The stakes were made and the cards dealt--neuf on the right, huit on the left--both sides won. "Caissier," cried the banker to the official who exchanged money for counters and vice versa at the desk, "donnez dix mille francs." The result of this was, however, unsatisfactory, for the caissier most politely explained that he had no authority to advance money to members, and certainly not to members whom he did not know. "Well," said the banker, "if that is the case I must go and get my pocket-book from my coat; it will be the matter of an instant." This optimistic forecast, however, was hardly justified by subsequent events, for the banker never returned, and eventually the expectant and anxious players became so enraged that the management of the Club thought it best to pay them their winnings. The banker, it afterwards transpired, had been a notorious sharper. It was at a Club of the same sort, where the membership was rather mixed, that a certain English nobleman, finding that his pocket-book, containing several thousand francs, had been taken out of his coat hanging in the hall, did not hesitate to tell the committee that it must have been purloined either by the waiters or the members, and received the reply, "We can answer for the _waiters_!" Not very far from Paris, at the Casino of Enghein, much baccarat is played, which has rendered the resort in question very popular, so much so indeed that the criminals known as "apaches" have begun to haunt the road from Paris. Not very long ago a band of these pests contrived to stop a motor, one of them lying down in the road in front of it, and the rest attempting to rob the occupants when the car was pulled up. The miscreants were on the point of wrenching a valuable pearl necklace from a lady's neck when another car arrived and put the assailants to flight. About a couple of years ago roulette was played--practically without let or hindrance--at St. Germain. No wheel, however, was employed, its place being supplied by a dial on which by an ingenious device the winning number and colour appeared on a croupier firing a sort of rifle. The result was the same as at ordinary roulette, and just as in the old-fashioned form of the game most people lost their money. This resort, it should be added, was eventually closed by the authorities, who were aroused by the great increase of gaming in Paris owing to the introduction of baccarat with one tableau. This will be dealt with at the end of the next chapter. IX Public gaming in Germany--Aix-la-Chapelle--An Italian gambler--The King of Prussia's generosity--Baden-Baden--M. de la Charme--A dishonest croupier--Wiesbaden--An eccentric Countess--Closing of the tables in 1873--Last scenes--Arrival of M. Blanc at Homburg--His attempt to defeat his own tables--Anecdotes of Garcia--His miserable end--A Spanish gambler at Ems--Roulette at Geneva and in Heligoland--Gambling at Ostend--Baccarat at French watering-places--"La Faucheuse" forbidden in France. In former times a great deal of public gaming was carried on at Aix-la-Chapelle, where the alluring rattle of the dice-box was to be heard from morning till night. Here there were fixed hours for play, one bank opening as another shut--biribi, hazard, faro, and vingt-et-un being the favourite games. The chief banker paid a thousand louis per annum for his licence during the season; and it was said that his profit in general exceeded four thousand, and sometimes double that sum. There were two gaming-houses a mile or two from the town, and each gambling-house, each room, nay, each part of a room, had its fashionable hours. From the commencement of play to the conclusion (that is, from ten in the morning to two or three the next morning), only two hours were allotted for meals. In 1792 a little Italian created a considerable sensation at this gaming-resort, to which he had come as an adventurer, with a few louis d'or in his pocket, determined to try the favour of fortune. His first attempt was at hazard, where he played crown stakes, which, as fortune smiled on him, were increased to half a guinea, guinea, and so on to bank-notes. In the space of twenty-four hours he had stripped the bank of upwards of four thousand pounds; and the next morning, resuming his operations, broke the bank entirely, his winnings amounting to more than nine thousand pounds. One would have imagined that a poor needy adventurer, who most probably had never seen a twentieth part of such a sum before, would at once have pocketed his winnings and returned (in his own mind a prince) to his native country. Content, however, was a stranger to his mind, and the accession of one sum only brought with it anxiety for a greater. He continued to be successful; and for several days the bankers ceased to play, so completely had he reduced them to their last stake. When a fresh supply of cash did at last arrive the little adventurer recommenced operations--for a few hours with his usual success. The luck, however, at last changed, and from being the possessor of ten thousand pounds he left the bank reduced to his very last louis. He next proceeded to negotiate a loan of about thirty pounds, and returned to the tables, much to the discomfort of the bankers, who, from the success that attended his play, had conceived no small dread of him. His usual run of good luck attended him, and from being master of only thirty pounds, he left the table with more than ten thousand. He remembered a resolution he had formed in his fit of poverty, went to an inn, ordered a carriage, and packed up his baggage. In the interim, however, one of the directors of the bank, learning his intention, set off to interview him, resolved to use all the rhetoric he was master of to persuade him to relinquish his design. His arguments were too specious not to destroy the resolution of the poor Italian, whose fortitude vanished in a moment, and instead of making for his native country he returned to the gaming-table, where, in a very few hours, he was stripped of every _soldo_ he had in the world, and left to reflect on the diversity of fortune which he had known in the space of so short a time. The moment he got back to his lodgings he sold the greater part of his clothes, and by this means raised a few louis which he took to his old haunts, where he now cut a sorry figure. [Illustration: ROULETTE IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.] A considerable sensation was once caused at the principal faro-table at Aix-la-Chapelle by the success of a plainly-dressed stranger, who, after playing in modest stakes for some time, suddenly challenged the bank for the whole of its capital, carelessly tossing his pocket-book to the banker, that the latter might not question his ability to pay in case he lost. The banker, surprised at the boldness of the adventurer, and no less so at his ordinary appearance, at first hesitated to accept the challenge; but on opening the book and seeing bills to a prodigious amount, and on the stranger sternly and repeatedly insisting on his complying with the laws of the game, with much reluctance he shuffled the cards in preparation for the great event. Excitement ran high, and all eyes were soon attentively riveted upon the trembling hands of the affrighted banker, who, while the gambler sat unruffled and unconcerned, turned up the card which decided his own ruin and the other's success. The bank was broken, and the triumphant stranger, with perfect coolness and serenity of features, turned to a person who stood at his elbow, to whom he gave orders to take charge of the money. "Heavens," exclaimed an infirm old officer in the Austrian service, who had sat next the winner at the table, "if I had the twentieth part of your success this night I should be the happiest man in the universe." "If thou wouldst be this happy man," replied the stranger briskly, "then thou shalt have it"; and, without waiting for a reply, disappeared from the room. Some little time afterwards the entrance of a servant astonished the company with the extraordinary generosity of the stranger as with his peculiar good fortune, by presenting the Austrian officer with the twentieth part of the faro bank. "Take this, sir," said the servant, "my master requires no answer"; and he suddenly left him without exchanging another word. The next morning all Aix-la-Chapelle was agog with the news that the lucky and generous stranger was no less a personage than the King of Prussia. In more recent times Aix-la-Chapelle appeared only destined to end its gambling days as a trap for incautious travellers, many of whom, in consequence, never saw the Rhine, and returned to England with very misty ideas about Germany. About 1840 several other German pleasure-resorts began to include gambling amongst the attractions offered to visitors. After the closing of the Parisian gaming-houses the proprietors, who found the business much too profitable to be tamely resigned, turned their gaze beyond the Rhine, where a fair field for their exertions in the pursuit of a livelihood presented itself. After many weary negotiations with the several governments, a syndicate of bankers, with M. Chabert at their head, simultaneously opened their establishments at Baden-Baden, Wiesbaden, and Ems. It was a very hard contest between the Regents and the Frenchmen before the terms were finally settled, and the latter expended much money and many promises in getting a footing. But they eventually succeeded, and a few years saw their efforts richly rewarded. As they had a monopoly, they could do pretty much as they pleased, and made very stringent and profitable regulations relative to the _refait_ and other methods of gaining a pull. On the retirement of M. Chabert with an immense fortune, the company was dissolved, and M. Benazet became ostensibly sole proprietor of the rooms at Baden-Baden. The terms to which he had to subscribe were sufficient to frighten any one less enterprising than the general of an army of croupiers; he was compelled to expend 150,000 florins in decorating the rooms and embellishing the walks round the town; and an annual sum of 50,000 florins was furthermore demanded for permission to keep the establishment open for six months in the year. At Baden-Baden a well-known figure for many years was the old ex-Elector of Hesse, who made his money by selling his soldiers to England at so much a head, like cattle, during the American War. The Prince in question was easily to be recognised by the gold-headed and coroneted rake he always had in his hand. A constant player, he was a most profitable customer to the bank. Eventually, however, the superior attractions of Homburg led him away. The Revolution of 1848 frightened or angered him to death. At Baden the bank at roulette had two zeroes, an enormous advantage, which rendered the certainty of success in the long run, which the bank must of course possess, almost ridiculously easy. Nauheim, on the other hand, was modestly content to claim only a quarter of the _refait_ at trente-et-quarante, a good deal less than that taken by the present Monte Carlo tables. The keen competition of its rivals, Wiesbaden and Homburg, was the cause of this generosity. In the late 'sixties a gaming hero, M. Edgar de la Charme, created a great sensation at Baden, where, for a number of days together, he never left the gaming-room without carrying off a profit which usually did not fall far short of a thousand pounds in English money. At the end of several days of almost unparalleled good fortune, M. de la Charme, reflecting that there must be an end even to the greatest run of luck, packed his portmanteau, paid his bill, and strolled down to the railway station, accompanied by some of his friends. There, however, he found the wicket closed, there being still three-quarter's of an hour before the departure of the train. "Well," he exclaimed, "I will go and play my parting game," and, taking a carriage, drove back to the Kursaal, though his friends made every effort to prevent him. Arrived at the Casino, he sat down at the trente-et-quarante, where in twenty minutes he broke the bank again. He then left, but, while getting into his cab, caught sight of the inspector of the tables walking to and fro under the arcades, and said to him in a tone of exquisite politeness, "I could not think of going away without leaving you my P.P.C." The society at Baden was said to be as mixed as that frequenting the Paris boulevards. There was indeed a good deal of Parisian Bohemianism about this charming spot, which, since the closing of the tables, has been forced to rely upon its proximity to the Black Forest and other natural attractions--poor substitutes to the gambler for the whirl of the roulette wheel and the chanting of the croupier at trente-et-quarante. The rooms which re-echoed to these exciting, if none too reputable sounds, to-day seem somehow to present a rather sad and almost wistful appearance. Surely, "if aught inanimate e'er grieves," the Kurhaus must sigh for the vanished days of the Second Empire, and for the gay, careless folk who thronged its halls, now so decorous and staid. Old gamblers used to say that the croupiers at Baden were recruited from the same families who had held the rake in the gambling-rooms of the Palais Royal. Certain veterans were even pointed out as being survivors of the great days of Frascati's and the Salon. Baden made no pretence to any particular exclusiveness. Here all men and women were equal, people sitting down cheek by jowl with any one at trente-et-quarante or roulette, a practice not much in favour at aristocratic Ems, where the fashionable lounger was more given to tossing down his stake carelessly as he or she strolled through the rooms. Though the croupiers at Baden-Baden were generally above suspicion, the bank was swindled by its employés on more than one occasion. A notable instance was that of an official who was discovered to have carried on a system of plunder for a long time with security. He used to slip a louis d'or into his snuff-box whenever it came to his turn to preside over the money department; he was found out by another employé asking him casually for a pinch of snuff, and seeing the money gleam in the gaslight. On the whole the croupiers at Baden were admirable, sometimes preserving their self-control under the most trying circumstances. On one occasion when a young Englishman, of high repute and bearing an honourable name, vented his rage at losing by breaking a rake over the head of the croupier, the latter merely turned round and beckoned to the attendant gendarme to remove his assailant and the pieces of the rake, and then went on with his parrot-like "_rouge gagne, couleur perd_." The croupiers in general seemed to unite the stoicism of the American Indian with the politeness of the Frenchman of the _ancien régime_. Impassive under all circumstances they seemed to fear neither God nor man; for when a shock of the earthquake of 1847 was felt at Wiesbaden, though all the company fled in terror, they remained grimly at their posts, preferring to go down to their patron saints with their rouleaux, as an evidence of their fidelity to their employer. It is not unlikely that they regarded the earthquake as a preconcerted scheme to rob the bank! The public buildings of Wiesbaden were charming, especially the Kursaal, with its open "Platz," its colonnades and magnificent ball-room, its "salons de jeu," reading-rooms, restaurant, and charming gardens behind. Here were lakes, fountains, running streams, which made it as pretty a place as any of its kind on the banks of the Rhine. Towards the last days of the gambling at Wiesbaden the majority of the players belonged to the middle and lower middle classes, leavened by a very few celebrities and persons of genuine distinction. The general run of visitors, indeed, was by no means remarkable for birth, wealth, or respectability, and it used at that time to be said that all the aged, broken-down courtesans of Paris, Vienna, and Berlin had agreed to make Wiesbaden their autumn rendezvous. One of the well-known eccentric notabilities of Wiesbaden at that time was a certain Countess--an aged patrician of immense fortune, whose very existence seemed bound up with that of the tables. She used daily to be wheeled to her place in the "temple of chance," where she usually played for eight or nine hours with wonderful spirit and perseverance. A suite of eight domestics were in attendance upon her, and when she won, which was not often, she invariably presented each member of her retinue with--twopence! This was done, she would naively declare, "not from a feeling of generosity, but in order to propitiate Fortune." On the other hand, when she lost, none of them, save the man who wheeled her home and who received a donation of six kreuzers, got anything at all but hard words. Unlike her contemporary, a once lovely Russian Ambassadress, she did not curse the croupiers loudly for her bad luck, but, being very far advanced in years and of a tender disposition, would shed tears over her misfortunes, resting her chin on the edge of the table. This old lady was very intimate with one or two antediluvian diplomatists and warriors, whom she used to entertain with constant lamentations over her fatal passion for play, interspersed with bits of moss-grown scandal, disinterred from the social ruins of a bygone age. Radetzky, Paul Eszterhazy, Wrangel, and Blücher had been friends of her youth; and, to judge from her appearance, no one would have been surprised to hear that she had attended the Jeu du Roi in the galleries of Versailles, or played whist with Maria Theresa. Wiesbaden boasted a financier from Amsterdam, who usually played on credit--that is to say, he pocketed his winnings, but, if he lost, borrowed money of the banker, squaring his account, which was generally a heavy one, at the end of the week. Another well-known character was an English baronet, who always brought a lozenge-box with him. When this was filled with gold he would leave the rooms. He seldom had to remain long, for he possessed his own luck, and that of some one else into the bargain. Wiesbaden, like the other German gaming-places, was made virtuous by compulsion rather than choice. When Nassau was annexed by the astute Bismarck, the law which abolished legal gambling affected this place as it did Homburg, Ems, and other Spas. It should, however, be added that its provisions showed a scrupulous regard for vested interests. As the fateful 1st of January 1873--the day on which all public gaming throughout the German Empire was to cease--approached, there was considerable excitement, not only amongst the usual frequenters of the tables, but also amongst the general population of the place, who fully realised the financial benefits which had accrued to them through roulette and trente-et-quarante, the impending prohibition of which they deplored. At midnight on the 31st December 1872, after a hundred years of existence, the Kursaal clock at Wiesbaden sounded the close of play. There was considerable disorder in the rooms on the last night, the place being converted into a bear-garden. During the last week the rooms got so enormously thronged that the administration found it necessary to admit only by tickets. 1872 was a splendid financial year, for, after paying all the enormous expenses (5000 florins a day), including the yearly tax of 200,000 florins to the Prussian Government, the shareholders received interest on their capital at the rate of 107 per cent per annum. A number of the eighty or ninety croupiers were retained by M. Blanc for service at Monaco, whilst the rest it is believed went into trade. On the last night an immense throng gathered in the rooms, eagerly crowding round the tables. The play, however, was unusually dull, and on the green cloth, which had usually been liberally sprinkled with gold, only a few spare florins were to be seen. The croupiers did their best to dispel the depression which hung over the gamesters; and as the final moment approached, shouted louder and louder, adding to their usual formula, "Faites vos jeux, Messieurs," the words "le troisième dernier!"--the third last chance; "le deuxième dernier!"--the second last; and finally "le dernier!" which seemed to sound like a death-knell. Their appeals had little effect, the moment being of such solemnity as to stifle all emotion and paralyse every movement. Here and there some small stake was noiselessly placed on the table by some timid and unfamiliar hand, but the audacious spirit of the real gambler was for the moment lulled to rest, and no one seemed eager to try a last serious struggle with the goddess of chance. The closing of the gaming-tables was a veritable convulsion of nature as regards Wiesbaden. On the 1st of January 1873 there was universal confusion in hotel and lodging-house, and the streets were thronged with departing travellers and overladen porters, while the railway stations were blocked with eager applicants for tickets. With a haste bordering on indecency the old gambling-saloons were taken possession of by the municipal authorities, and stripped of their furniture; windows and doors being thrown open to the air, and the halls, formerly devoted to chance, handed over to a host of painters, white-washers, and scrubbers. The green tables, which had caused so many emotions, were thrown out, and cast into heaps, preliminary to being carted away as old furniture. The results to the town were disastrous. Many of the hotels fell into bankruptcy and were forced to close their windows--their doors they might have left open, for there were no guests to enter them. The shopkeepers, more especially the jewellers, who generally were pawnbrokers too, and all dealers in articles of luxury, were also great losers by the change. The joint-stock company, which had owned the tables, dissolved, after having divided a large amount of surplus. The shareholders had indeed no cause for complaint, yet one of the two directors took the dissolution so much to heart that he soon after drank himself to death. A few days after the cessation of play hardly a gambler remained in the place. One exception, however, there was, who for some years was pointed out as a rare specimen of an extinct race by the few officials of the rooms who had been retained as door-keepers and the like in the building from which all life had fled. Still clad in the torn, somewhat shabby livery of more prosperous days when "Trinkgeld" was abundant, these men would describe to visitors how this Englishman, a man bearing an historic name, had created a sensation at the tables, where he had been notorious for his ill-luck. To all appearance entirely ruined, he had suddenly been left some twenty thousand pounds, which had soon followed the rest of his fortune into the coffers of the bank. Reduced to his last florin, fortune for a moment had seemed to relent, and he had left the rooms with about seven thousand pounds in his pocket. Having deposited this at his banker's, he had then declared his intention of never playing again--in less than a week the sum had been withdrawn and lost. His friends, now believing him to be incorrigible, settled upon him a small allowance, which was paid quarterly, and with unfailing regularity found its way to the green cloth. Seemingly stunned by the closing of the rooms, this Englishman lingered on for some years, mournfully marching about the spot which had engulfed his fortune, the loss of which, however, caused him less concern than being deprived of the means wherewith to gratify the passion that had dominated his life. All the gambling companies had to pay large sums in return for the privileges which they enjoyed, but still they progressed most successfully till they were frightened from their propriety by Monsieur Blanc. This gentleman, after struggling against immense opposition on the part of the Frankfort merchants, who were naturally alarmed at the danger to which their _commis_ and cash-boxes would be exposed by the proximity of a gambling-table, obtained a concession from the Elector of Hesse to establish a bank at Homburg-von-der-Höhe. Play was soon in full swing, with the additional attractions of being open all the year round, and of having only a _trente-et-un après_ (known as the _refait_) for the players to contend against. Some time after, Wilhelmsbad was opened as a rival to Homburg, with no _après_ at all; and the above mentioned, with the addition of Ems, Aix-la-Chapelle, and Cöthen, formed the principal establishments where "strangers were taken in and done for" throughout Germany. Wilhelmsbad scarcely attracted the outside world at all, being frequented almost exclusively by Germans. Wildungen might have been called a child left out in the cold; the accommodation was indifferent, and the place itself cheerless and devoid of charm, besides which it was not so easy to get at. Modestly conscious of its slender claims to consideration, the authorities presiding over the tables allowed a minimum stake of 10 groschen (1 franc 25 cents), and only enforced a tax of a quarter of the _refait_ at trente-et-quarante and a quarter of the zero at roulette, a state of affairs which should have been far from unfavourable to the players. As a matter of fact, public gaming, whatever may be said against it, left those places where it formerly flourished in a high state of prosperity--the Kursaals and gardens of German health-resorts, such as Homburg and Baden-Baden, owed their inception entirely to gaming, whilst several other insignificant places were converted into agreeable pleasure-resorts by the influence of trente-et-quarante and roulette. In spite of the doubtful morality of the enterprise carried on by the proprietors of the tables they certainly metamorphosed several miserable German townlets into cities of palaces. They planted the gardens; they imported the orange trees; they laid out the parks; enclosed the hunting-grounds; and, as it were, boarded, lodged, washed, and taxed the inhabitants. Homburg, for instance, was entirely the creation of M. Blanc. The story of the commencement of the immense fortune accumulated by M. Blanc is curious. One fine day in 1842 the two brothers Blanc, who were temporarily disgusted with France owing to a daring and unsuccessful speculation connected with the old semaphore telegraph (which electricity rendered obsolete), arrived at Frankfort. Their stock-in-trade consisted of a few thousand francs, a roulette wheel, and an ancient croupier, a veteran of Frascati's who knew everything worth knowing about gambling and cards. The purpose of this visit was to convince the authorities of Frankfort that their city would derive great benefit from affording facilities for public play, but with this, however, they were not disposed to agree. In consequence of its cool reception, the little party then wended its way to the obscure village of Homburg, where the elder of the two brothers, after some negotiations, obtained permission to set the roulette wheel going in one of the rooms of the principal inn. [Illustration: GUIDE DU SPÉCULATEUR au TRENTE-QUARANTE et A LA ROULETTE avec la manière de faire EN SIX MOIS PLUS DE =50= CAPITAUX. 1er Capital. 1,400 Florins. (3,000 Francs.) Par un ancien notaire. HOMBOURG-ÈS-MONTS. 1856. LOUIS SCHICK, IMPRIMEUR-ÉDITEUR. As at Monte Carlo to-day, infallible "guides" to success at the tables were to be obtained in the Homburg book-shops. The above is a facsimile of the title-page of one of the most curious of these booklets.] The next year an exclusive concession was granted to the Blancs to establish games of hazard within the dominions of the Landgraf. They agreed to build a Kursaal, lay out public gardens, and pay about 40,000 florins (something over four thousand a year) to the Landgraf. A company was formed, and soon the fashionable world flocked to Homburg--ostensibly to drink the waters, but, in reality, to lose their money at trente-et-quarante and roulette. The general policy pursued by M. Blanc at Homburg was very similar to that afterwards adopted at Monte Carlo, which is still in its essential features followed by the present administration. The hours allotted to play were from eleven in the morning to eleven at night, which was also the case at Monaco up till quite recent years. The proceedings at Homburg before play began, that is to say, the counting of money and other preparations for the day's campaign, were also much the same as at Monte Carlo, though the actual opening of the rooms for play was more dramatic. As the clock struck eleven the strains of martial music were heard and the doors of the "salons" were thrown wide open, admitting a stream of people, amongst whom were many officers, a note of colour being struck by their uniforms, which were principally white or green. In the early days of Homburg, owing to an extraordinary rainfall, a flood of water once made its way into the gaming-rooms and caused the players to beat a precipitate retreat. A fat old German Princess, however, who was devoted to play, was too heavy to get out in time, and had to be hoisted up on to one of the roulette tables, where she placidly remained till matters were put right and the play had resumed its normal course. In the Kursaal were the Café Olympique, private rooms for parties, and, most important of all, a big saloon and two smaller ones. Here from eleven in the forenoon to eleven at night, Sundays not excepted, all the year round, people from every part of the world came to throw their gold and silver upon the tables. As a town Homburg was practically created by the Kursaal. The hotel-keepers and tradesmen lived by it as well as the Landgraf, whose main source of revenue was derived from it. This sovereign, of course, was practically sold to the Kursaal, the Board of Directors being the real rulers of Hesse-Homburg. The prosperity which the advent of M. Blanc had brought to his dominions cheered the declining years of this Prince, who was the oldest reigning sovereign in Europe at the time of his death, which occurred on the 24th of March 1866. He had attained the great age of eighty-three when he expired in the arms of two weeping widowed women--one his niece, the Princess Reuss, the other his aged sister, the Dowager Grand Duchess of Mecklenburg-Schwerin. This event caused a temporary cessation of play, which had been continuous since the 17th of August 1843. The insidious fascination connected with gambling was once strikingly exemplified at Homburg. The story, though a well-known one, will bear repetition. M. Blanc had been pondering what to give his wife on her birthday, when a peculiarly attractive parasol caught his eye as he was strolling amongst the shops; so he went in and inquired the price, which was twenty marks. The founder of the great gaming establishment was a careful man, and it seemed to him that to pay so much for a parasol was extravagant. Nevertheless, he ordered it to be put aside for him, saying that he would call and pay for it later. On his way to the Casino the thought suddenly struck him: "To win twenty marks in the rooms is quite easy--numbers of people do it, but they don't stop; which is the reason I make so much money. Why shouldn't I win the price of this parasol--make my twenty marks and walk out?" Walking up to a trente-et-quarante table and unobtrusively stationing himself behind a group of players, M. Blanc furtively slipped twenty marks on the red--black won. Forty marks on the red--black again won. Eighty marks on the black--red won. He now became excited and, the money he had in his pocket being exhausted, edged towards an astonished _chef de partie_, to whom he was, of course, well-known, and instructed him to place one hundred and sixty marks on red. The croupier dealt the cards, and announced that red had lost. By this time every one had realised that M. Blanc was staking against his own tables, and the whole room flocked to see such an extraordinary sight. The croupiers concluded that their chief had gone mad, for he stood looking fixedly at the cards, entirely absorbed in the effort to recover his losses and win the price of the parasol. To make a long story short, he continued to stake till he had lost about £1000, when of a sudden he realised the situation and rushed out of the rooms. He was, of course, considerably chaffed about this exploit, which was said to have been the only occasion on which he had been known to play. For many a long day afterwards, he used regretfully to say: "That was the dearest parasol I ever bought in my life." M. Blanc, who was more assailed than any other banker, was once nearly made the victim of a stratagem, which might have entailed serious results. A scoundrel contrived to get into the "Konversationhaus" by night, and blocked up all the low numbers in the roulette machine in such a manner that the ball, on falling in, must inevitably leap out again. On the next day he and his accomplices played and netted a large sum by backing the high numbers. They carried on the game for two or three days, but were fortunately overheard by a detective while quarrelling about the division of their plunder in the gardens behind the establishment. They were arrested and the money recovered. A very dangerous design was also formed against M. Blanc by one of his croupiers, who, being discontented with his lot, determined to make his fortune at one _coup_. The plan he contrived was this. He procured a pack of prearranged cards, which he concealed in his hat, and when it came to his turn to deal he intended to drop the bank cards into his _chapeau_ and cleverly substitute the others; but this artfully-concocted scheme was upset by one of his confederates who considered that he might make a better and safer thing of it by telling M. Blanc beforehand. A great attack was once made by a Belgian syndicate upon the tables at Homburg, and for a time had some appearance of ultimate success. In the end, however, M. Blanc emerged triumphant from the contest, which is mentioned by Thackeray in the _Kickleburys on the Rhine_. It was at Homburg that the celebrated Garcia once created an enormous sensation by asking the bank to double the limit of 12,000 francs. According to one account a meeting of the Directors was hastily summoned by M. Blanc, who was in favour of letting Garcia have his way; but it was finally decided that no alteration should be made. Another version is that M. Blanc consented to double the limit if Garcia would play sitting down and not standing up, the veteran banker's opinion being that any one standing up was much more likely to depart with winnings than a player seated at the table. Garcia accordingly sat down, and though at first very unlucky, eventually rose a winner. Garcia is said to have come to Germany with two thousand francs--his whole fortune--in search of employment. Whilst at Frankfort he determined to go and try his luck at the Homburg tables, and being fortunate enough to get on several runs of his favourite colour--red--he won about £20,000 in three weeks. An Englishman, it is said, was so convinced that the runs on red must end, that he watched for what he deemed a propitious moment and began staking maximums on black against Garcia, with the result that in a few days he left Homburg without a penny. Garcia continued to play on after his rival's defeat, and though at one moment he was reduced to a capital of six thousand francs, he retrieved his fortunes by a run of fourteen reds, and eventually left Homburg with some £50,000--some say more. He now declared that he was determined never to play again; but this resolution was soon broken, for within a couple of years he was trying to break the bank at Baden. Black turned up too often for him, however, and he lost heavily. He then thought he would try Homburg again, and was there eventually reduced to beggary after a few months' play. This gambler subsequently figured in a most unsavoury card scandal which took place in Paris in February 1863 at the house of Madame Julia Barucci. This lady, who was young and attractive, was always surrounded by a large circle of admirers, and the party which she gave to celebrate her first evening in a new abode was therefore particularly animated, about thirty guests being present, amongst whom was Signor Calzado, the well-known manager of a Paris theatre. Calzado, it should be said, was disliked by the party generally--Garcia alone being on terms of intimacy with him--not only because he was a gamester, but probably because he had the reputation of being a card-sharper, which he was, and a very bold and original one too. (Calzado once went to Havana and bought up every pack of cards in the place, having previously freighted a vessel with marked playing-cards, which arrived just in time to supply the dealers, whose stocks were completely exhausted. With the cards he had prepared and imported, Calzado played incessantly, and for high stakes, being, as an inevitable result, a constant and heavy winner.) The most popular guest was Signor Miranda, Gentleman of the Queen of Spain's household, a constant and honourable gamester, well-known as being capable of losing large sums. He came with about 100,000 francs in his pocket. As soon as possible Garcia arranged a rouge-et-noir table, at which his countrymen, Calzado and Miranda, took their places, the latter soon winning 30,000 francs. After supper baccarat was proposed; whereupon Garcia absented himself from the room for half an hour under the pretext of wishing to smoke a cigar in the air. Retiring into a private chamber, he disposed about his person several packs of cards which he had brought with him, and then returning to the gaming-table began to play for high stakes. His success was extraordinary, and in a short time he won 140,000 francs, chiefly from Signor Miranda. Calzado, who followed Garcia's lead, also won a large sum. The extraordinary good luck of Garcia, and the marvellous character of the cards which he held, aroused the astonishment of the players as well as the suspicions of those looking on, and it was at length perceived that some of the cards in Garcia's hand were of a different design from that of the packs provided by the hostess. He was charged with foul play; whereupon, somewhat confused, he admitted having introduced cards of his own, though stoutly maintaining that he had played fairly, and had brought certain packs from his club merely because they always proved lucky cards to him, which in this instance was certainly true. He offered as a matter of courtesy and as a favour, being, as he said, desirous of avoiding a scandal, to refund his winnings, if the whole affair were hushed up. At the same time he produced the sum of 50,000 francs; but those whom he had cheated were not to be tricked into accepting a third part of their losses in place of the whole, and an extraordinary scene followed. Seeing that his position was desperate, and fearful lest he should be forcibly despoiled of his ill-gotten winnings, Garcia tried to escape. Finding the door bolted, he rushed all over the house, finally hiding himself in a corner of an obscure room, from which he was chased by his amazed pursuers, who seized him and roughly stripped him of all the money in his possession. It was now the turn of Calzado, who was then asked to display the contents of his pockets, or suffer himself to be searched. He refused to do either, but stealthily allowed a roll of bank-notes, to the value of 16,000 francs, to slip down his trousers and fall on the floor. The roll was picked up and handed to him, but he denied all knowledge of it. Eventually the brother cheats were permitted to leave the house, but after their departure it was reckoned that, in spite of everything, they had carried with them at least 40,000 francs. Garcia and Calzado were both tried for swindling. The former appeared in person; Calzado, however, had fled. Both were convicted of malpractices, Garcia being sentenced to five years' and Calzado to thirteen months' imprisonment, in addition to fines of 3000 francs each. They were also ordered to pay jointly 31,000 francs to Miranda. The hostess, Madame Barucci, escaped punishment, but was placed under strict police supervision, lest she should again allow prohibited games to be played in her house. Garcia died in great misery about 1881. In 1872 the gambling-establishment at Homburg became a thing of the past. A great number of the townspeople of that resort were shareholders, and all, more or less, derived some profit direct or indirect from the play. During the war between Austria and Prussia they began to be somewhat perturbed, and on their annexation to the latter country, they hoped against hope that Bismarck, whatever he might do with kings, would leave what to them was far more important than dynasties and kingdoms--the bank--alone. In 1867, however, the blow fell, and the directors of the gambling-rooms, summoned to appear before the Governor, were informed that all play was to cease in 1872. It should be added that an arrangement of a not unfair kind protected the interests of the shareholders. [Illustration: GAMBLING AT HOMBURG. Drawn by the late G.A. Sala. (_Impasse_ should of course be _Impair_.)] During these last days of play at Homburg a great crowd had been coming in, but still the tables were not inconveniently crowded, and people were able to stake their money with ease though without comfort. There was, however, a good deal of pilfering and snatching of money, which had always been rather a feature at this resort, shrill-tongued harpies being apt to pounce on the couple of five-franc pieces just won by any simple Englishman ignorant of the German tongue. As the end approached the usual high play still prevailed, but the administration was a good deal disturbed by the advent of workmen, shopmen, and others, a very different class of people from their aristocratic clients of the summer season. These new visitors were sturdy, brutal customers, who became frenzied if they lost a florin, and seemed not unlikely to revenge themselves by some lawless raid. This very unlucrative crowd continued to increase, and it became known that on the last two days the forces would be recruited by yet larger bands. The administration, wisely reckoning that the result might be a general riot organised for purposes of plunder, took measures to avert such a crowning catastrophe. On the Sunday, then, while numbers of speculative individuals at Frankfort and other towns were arranging for one grand final expedition, and were looking forward to being in at the death, it was determined to end play for ever suddenly and without notice. Before five o'clock this had been done, much to the indignant surprise of the new arrivals, and the rage and fury of the less scrupulous. This, perhaps, was no undignified end; and Homburg, from a gambling point of view, may be said to have "died game." The administration maintained its honeyed, courteous phrases to the last, and on the Monday stuck little proclamations all over the walls, to the effect that the "Administration begged to inform _la société_ that there would be no play on the 30th and 31st inst. Signed: The Kurhaus Direction." Nevertheless on the back sheet of the Belgian papers was a huge advertisement proclaiming to all whom it concerned that there would be play to the last day of the month. Such an oversight was scarcely fair to the friends and admirers of the tables, some of whom travelled from a great distance to bid a final adieu to the Halls of Chance. The appearance of the gambling-house on the day after the cessation of play was indescribable, resembling a badly-set scene by daylight. Numbers of charwomen and men-servants hung about in groups; officials, like those of a bankrupt hotel, went about with keys; chairs were piled on the long gaming-tables by irreverent hands; everything looked as though there was going to be a sale by auction. The ball-room, however, still had its chairs all set out in order, as if company were expected, whilst the orchestra played in the gardens, which already presented a neglected air. Even the theatre looked shabby, though behind the frame of wire network was to be read the announcement of the last--the very last in all truth--appearance of the "Diva Patti" in _La Sonnambula_. Ems was another gambling resort. This was essentially a rendezvous of all the pleasure-loving aristocracy and fashionable financiers of the day--unlike Wiesbaden and Homburg, which were rather the chosen battle-fields of well-known and seasoned gamblers. A Spaniard at Ems made a very comfortable living by a method of playing he had invented. He placed three louis d'or on the manque, which contains all the numbers to eighteen, and two louis on the last series of twelve; that is, from twenty-four to thirty-six. Thus he had only six numbers and two zeroes against him. If manque gained, he won three louis and lost two; if a number in the last twelve came up, he won four and lost three; but a continuation of zeroes would have ruined his calculation. Russians in particular were very fond of Ems. Many played very high, and a good deal of private gambling was done there on the quiet. At Geneva in the 'sixties trente-et-quarante was somewhat furtively played in a _Cercle des Étrangers_. Roulette, however, was not allowed. The authorities perhaps feared that the noise of the little ball flying round on its course to a numbered compartment might awaken Calvin from the quiet of his tomb. There was once what was practically a regular gaming-house on English soil. This was in the 'fifties, when mild roulette was played on the island of Heligoland. A miniature roulette-table there was much frequented by joyous Israelites and English officers from the mainland. In 1856, however, an outraged English tourist wrote a furious letter to _The Times_, complaining of such horrors existing under the British flag. He denounced the scandalous desecration of the English name, and so forth; and in consequence the Governor issued an edict against the roulette. Play, however, on a diminutive scale continued there some time longer. The closing of the gaming-tables in Germany was the cause of many rumours as to the future of gambling enterprise. The Valley of Andorra in the Pyrenees was said to have been selected by some French speculators as the scene of their operations for the ensuing year, a well-known financier being declared to have obtained a monopoly of theatres, hotels, casinos, railways, and almost everything else that this valley lacked and might be supposed to want. There was also a rumour that efforts were being made to start tables at St. Moritz, in Switzerland, very tempting offers having been made to the authorities. These anticipations were not, however, realised, and Monte Carlo remains the only regular public gaming-place in Europe, though intermittent public gambling has been tolerated at certain Belgian pleasure-resorts, notably at Ostend. Two or three years ago public gaming was altogether prohibited there, but it now appears to flourish much as before. It is almost superfluous to add that when it was announced that the Belgian authorities had determined to suppress all public play there was much enthusiastic congratulation from this country. The usual time-worn phrases as to the demoralising effects of gambling were unctuously presented to a public whose conscience, it was declared, had too long been outraged by the proximity of such a dangerous temptation; and the Belgians were told that they might anticipate reaping a golden harvest as the result of the high-principled attitude which had been adopted, for the English would now be able to visit their pleasure-resorts without fear of contamination. A large number of the Ostend shopkeepers really believed that the suppression of play would bring more foreign money into their pockets; but they soon realised their mistake, for when the visitors from across the channel found that there was no chance of enlivening their stay at Ostend (a resort of few natural attractions) with a little flutter, they beat a precipitate retreat, and the prosperity of the town began to suffer severely. Eventually, as the result of serious protest from the local shopkeepers and others who saw ruin staring them in the face, a species of compromise has been adopted; and baccarat with one tableau (of which more anon) is now allowed in the _Cercle_, election to which is not very difficult. A short time ago roulette without a zero was here held out as a great attraction to visitors. As a matter of fact this game was only played for a limited number of hours every day, and these were precisely those when visitors would in the ordinary course of events be taking their meals. The game was merely kept going as a lure to the more profitable baccarat, the authorities being well aware that roulette without a zero is unlikely to prove a great source of profit to the bank. Experience teaches that for some reason not very clearly understood single tableau baccarat would seem to be particularly favourable to the banker. So great, indeed, has been the havoc wrought by this game that the French have given it the name of "La Faucheuse,"--"the mowing-machine"! Those who cried out so loudly for the suppression of the trente-et-quarante at Ostend have, like so many well-meaning people, done little but harm, for the suppressed trente-et-quarante was a far less dangerous game. Trente-et-quarante, it should be added, is played at St. Sebastian, where up to the present year there was also roulette. At French watering-places gaming flourishes as merrily as ever during the season. At Trouville, Biarritz, and Aix-les-Bains the game of baccarat forms one of the chief attractions. There is a good deal of high play at Trouville at the time of the races. During the present year one player alone--a very rich gambler fond of high stakes--lost no less than a million francs. No inconsiderable portion of this sum must have gone in the percentage which the French Government now levies upon banks at baccarat. During the last year there was also a great deal of play at Nice, where the game in question was as popular as the classic roulette and trente-et-quarante of Monaco. It is almost impossible to conceive how the vast majority of French summer pleasure-resorts would contrive to exist were baccarat and petits chevaux to be suppressed, for a certain portion of the large profit derived from play is devoted to the upkeep of the Casinos, which furnish visitors with excellent entertainment. It is, indeed, owing directly and indirectly to the toleration of play that the French _plages_ are proving such formidable rivals to the miserably dull English seaside resorts, which offer so little to visitors who are fond of a little exciting amusement. In 1907 the French Government promulgated a new code of regulations to be enforced at Casinos, all of which were closed for two or three days throughout France--an operation which, of course, evoked a mass of hypocritical and totally inaccurate comment in England. France was congratulated upon her determination to stop every form of that gambling which had for so many years shocked English visitors, who would, of course, warmly welcome the stern measures about to be enforced, and flock across the Channel in largely increased numbers as a result. As a matter of fact, the Casinos were closed merely to emphasise the fact that the Government intended to see that the new regulations which they imposed, amongst which was one regulating a tax upon baccarat banks, should be respected. The very rumour that it was proposed permanently to prohibit gambling terrified the local authorities, a large number of whom at once went up to Paris to ascertain whether there was any foundation of truth in such an idea, which to many a watering-place would mean nothing less than ruin. They were, however, soon reassured, for in the end only one small and insignificant Casino was permanently closed. By the decree of June 21, 1907, certain games of chance are permitted at watering-places and health-resorts which have been officially recognised as such by the Minister of the Interior, on the representation of the Municipal Council and the Prefect. These are baccarat, écarté, and the game of petits chevaux and its varieties. A tax of fifteen per cent is levied on the sum produced by the cagnotte at écarté and baccarat. Counters, which were formerly used at Casinos to represent money, were entirely prohibited, a prohibition which, however, does not apply to Clubs. The reason for this was that players were apt to obtain considerable advances from the _caisse_ in baccarat-rooms, a state of affairs not so likely to happen when ready money alone may be staked. Playing in cash is also generally of a more careful kind than play in counters, which for the time being seem nothing at all. A player, of course, has a far greater chance at baccarat than at petits chevaux, where the percentage is very unfavourable to him, one horse out of the nine being the bank's. According to the new law, fifteen per cent is now levied on the gross winnings of the bank at this game every day; should the bank lose it is allowed to deduct the sum lost from its winnings the next day. The sum produced by this tax of fifteen per cent is to be devoted to charity, and to various other objects of public utility and affecting the public health. When this decree was first issued, chemin-de-fer baccarat was not included amongst the list of tolerated games, the French authorities being still horror-struck with the recollection of the single tableau baccarat, called "La Faucheuse" (the game which, thanks to Puritan effort, is played at Ostend), which had provoked such gross scandals in Paris. It was, however, subsequently legalised by a special decree which was promulgated in the _Journal Officiel_ of the 18th August 1907, and is taxed at the same rate as other tolerated games. The main cause of the French Government moving in the matter of gambling at all had been the large increase of so-called gambling clubs in Paris entirely devoted to single tableau baccarat, from which an enormous harvest of gold had been gathered by those holding the banks. It was said that no less than 126 new establishments of this kind had sprung up in Paris, a state of affairs calculated to make the dead proprietors of the long-suppressed and very strictly regulated tables in the old Palais Royal turn in their graves. Many of these Clubs were frequented by women, and it was rumoured that many of the brightest stars of the French _demi-monde_ had lost almost everything they had. Paris began to be seriously alarmed. Drastic measures were adopted; the foreign proprietors of the gaming-places expelled from France; "La Faucheuse" forbidden throughout the country; and gambling generally placed upon the strictly regulated footing which has been described. The results of the very sensible action of the French Government appear to be highly satisfactory, for since the promulgation of the decree regulating play no scandals have occurred, whilst it is anticipated that in the course of time a sum well over two million pounds a year will be available for objects of public utility. Surely the wise regulation of what appears to be an irradicable evil is far more salutary, alike from a financial and a moral point of view, than the unthinking policy of drastic suppression, which, as experience teaches, has ever been powerless to extirpate gambling. X The Principality of Monaco--Its vicissitudes--Early days of the Casino--The old Prince and his scruples--Monte Carlo in 1858 and 1864--Its development--Fashionable in the 'eighties--Mr. Sam Lewis and Captain Carlton Blythe--Anecdotes--Increase of visitors and present democratic policy of administration--The _Cercle Privé_ and its short life--The gaming-rooms and ways of their frequenters--Anecdotes--Trente-et-quarante and roulette--Why the cards have plain white backs--Jaggers' successful spoliation of the bank--The croupiers and their training--The staff of the Casino--The _viatique_--Systems--The best of all. Many years before the tables at the German resorts were closed by the Prussian Government, M. Blanc was quietly seeking for a suitable spot where his roulette wheels might whirl free from interference and his croupiers deal in unmolested peace. Gaming-house proprietors seem in one respect to resemble the monks of old, for almost invariably their establishments have been pitched amidst attractive surroundings commanding lovely views. Thoroughly imbued with this tradition, M. Blanc eventually selected the little Principality of Monaco as being a suitable spot to afford his industry a peaceful and alluring haven. After certain negotiations with the reigning Prince Charles Albert, he obtained the required concession, and a Casino (in its earliest days called the "Elysium Alberti") was erected upon the rocky ground known as the Plateau des Spelugues, which, adversaries of gaming will rejoice to learn, means in Monagasque patois "the plain of the robbers." The ruling family of Monaco, the Grimaldis, had been exposed to many vicissitudes. During the French Revolution their people rose in rebellion and plundered the Palace, which afterwards served as a military hospital during Napoleon's Italian campaign, and later on became the Dépôt de Mendicité for the Department of the Alpes Maritimes. In 1841, however, Florestan I., the reigning Prince, repaired the home of his ancestors, which was thoroughly restored by Charles Albert after the advent of M. Blanc. In the turbulent past the Princes of Monaco at times experienced considerable difficulty in holding their own, and often had to defend their rugged old rock against piratical raids, besides occasionally having to cope with internal troubles, the last of which occurred in 1847, when the Monagasque bitterly resented taxation. The cannon given by Louis XIV. to the Grimaldi of his day may still be seen near the palace. These are fine specimens of the founder's craft, and bear the grim motto "Ultima ratio regum," amidst much ornate decoration. The armed force which the Princes maintained was much improved in uniform and equipment when M. Blanc brought prosperity to Monaco. Even up to quite recent years there existed a smart little army of something under a hundred men, in all probability the best dressed and least offensive troops in all Europe. Their rifle practice, it was always said, was indifferent, owing to the fact that they could not fire inland, because the boundaries of the Principality were so limited; but whatever may have been their efficiency or non-efficiency as a fighting force, their light-blue uniforms--with old-world aiguillette, neat shako, and picturesque cape--were highly ornamental features, which struck a pleasant note of colour in the streets of the Condamine or about the grounds and terraces of the Casino. This little army is now but a memory, for within the last decade the reigning Prince, who is a warm advocate of International Arbitration, realising, it is said, that the maintenance of a standing army was inconsistent with his well-known love of peace, abolished the last relic of military strength left to the Grimaldis. Such sentries as are still required are at present furnished by the gendarmerie, whose dainty cocked hat--most military and attractive of head-dresses--was at the same time superseded by an abominable cloth-covered helmet, which for unalloyed ugliness would easily carry off the prize against all competitors. Thus does it constantly happen in the modern world that, whilst there is much prating about art, cultivation, and taste, the very people who should do their best to preserve every distinctive and decorative reminder of a more artistic past are foremost in the work of obliteration. Old Monaco consisted of a few unattractive streets and a somewhat dilapidated Palace, in which lived the blind old Prince who granted the concession for the tables to M. Blanc, and by so doing converted his poverty-stricken realm into the most prosperous State in the world. At first, the Prince was somewhat troubled by conscientious scruples as to tolerating gaming, but these were appeased by the large sums which were rendered available for religious purposes and the building of churches--the Church of St. Dévote, which stands in the ravine, for instance, is said to have been erected from funds received in exchange for permission to increase the number of roulette tables, whilst the beautiful little cathedral on the Palace rock would never have been built had not M. Blanc made his descent upon the Principality. Much abuse has been lavished on the Prince for granting the concession, but it seems a doubtful question whether he did not do more good than harm when he signed it. Certainly his own people of Monaco (who, except on one day in the year--the Prince's birthday,--are not allowed to enter the Casino) gained very largely thereby. To them the establishment of the Casino has brought lasting prosperity, whilst it has indirectly benefited the whole Riviera, now so popular as a pleasure-resort. On the other hand, a number of people, no doubt, have been ruined at Monte Carlo, but such as these--gamblers at heart--would most probably in any case have lost their fortune in other forms of speculation. It should also be realised that the number of those who have actually been ruined by the Casino is extremely small--as a rule those who lose their last penny at the tables are individuals who, already at their last gasp owing to a long series of gambling reverses, come to Monte Carlo with such funds as they can scrape together in order to indulge in one last desperate plunge. The old Prince was a kindly man at heart, and did not like to think of visitors losing more money than they had actually brought with them. For this reason he forbade the establishment of any Bank in the Principality, and as a natural consequence, numbers of waiters, who carried on a brisk business in money-lending, made nice little fortunes. In later years Smith's Bank was established on French territory; this was afterwards absorbed into the Crédit Lyonnais, which (the prohibition having been revoked) is now quite a prominent feature of Monte Carlo. At the time when M. Blanc made his peaceful conquest of Monaco the place was sparsely populated and miserably poor. The contrast indeed between the Monaco of fifty years ago and the Monte Carlo of to-day is striking in the extreme. The following description of the Principality at that time was given to the writer by one who has seen every phase of its development. In 1858 this gentleman and his wife, being on their honeymoon in France, drove from Marseilles to Cannes, then also quite a small place. A report had recently reached the latter place that the celebrated M. Blanc had started gaming-tables at Monaco, and accordingly the Duc de Vallombrosa, who owned the finest château at Cannes, invited several of the English visitors to go over to the Principality on his yacht, and in due course the party climbed up to the rock, on which stands the Palace. After making inquiries they found the gaming-tables--two roulette and one trente-et-quarante--which were installed in a very unpretentious barnlike edifice somewhere near the spot where the Cathedral is now. The arrival of manifestly well-to-do visitors created quite a sensation amongst a somewhat limited crowd, mostly composed of Italian tourists who were indulging in a little mild play. M. Blanc, it should be added, had merely started these tables as a preliminary step, being at that time engaged in negotiations with the reigning Prince as to the erection of a more serious gambling establishment in the latter's dominions. After playing a stake or two the party made their way down to the little town in the Condamine, where, finding that donkeys could be hired, they determined to picnic out of doors. Accordingly, taking the requisite materials with them, they made their way by a bridle path (which more or less followed the present road) to the plateau, on which the present palatial Casino stands to-day. Monte Carlo (the place was then unnamed) was almost a bare rock covered with rough grass, and here and there a few stunted pine and olive trees, most of the latter of immense age. A few tumble-down hovels were sparsely scattered here and there on the mountain side, in which lived a miserably poor peasantry; the whole spot was as different from the Monte Carlo of to-day as it is possible to conceive. Just about where is now the ornamental plot in front of the doors of the Casino, the party collected some dry bits of sticks, boiled their kettle, cooked an omelette and drank their tea, whilst they revelled in the lovely view, which remains to-day almost the sole feature which the hand of man has been powerless to change. Almost the last of the few survivors of this expedition also described to the present writer the marvellous alteration which he found on his next visit to the Principality some six years later. The first Casino had then been built by M. Blanc, and a small Hôtel de Paris stood where the gigantic modern one stands to-day. M. Blanc, in addition to presiding over the rooms, was in supreme command of the hotel, which was managed on the most liberal principles, bills being never sent in unless they were asked for. Since those days the hotel has been much enlarged and altered. It is now being entirely rebuilt on a palatial scale. When visitors of any standing whatever were about to depart, M. Blanc himself would be present to wish them good-bye, and also to inquire whether they might not like a thousand francs for the expenses of their journey, adding that this could be refunded on their next visit, or sent him at their convenience. In 1864, except the hotel, there were scarcely any houses in Monte Carlo itself, and most of the visitors had to live on the other side of the Bay in the old town. As the journey from Nice by road took four hours, an abominable and, it was said, unseaworthy, small white steamer, the _Palmaria_ (probably the best that could be got), had been chartered by M. Blanc to convey visitors from Nice. This vessel anchored beneath the Castle rock, where its passengers were landed in boats, being met by four-horse omnibuses which plied gratis between the rock and the Casino. The _Palmaria_ made two journeys from Nice a day. If the weather was calm and nothing went wrong, the passage took something like an hour and a quarter. It was a curious sight to see visitors landing in the highest spirits for a flutter, most of them to return in the evening to Nice, weary and sea-sick, without a penny to take a cab to their hotel. In the early days of Monte Carlo there were two zeroes, and the inevitable result was that the _Palmaria's_ evening cargo was usually largely composed of what were facetiously called "empty bottles." The crowd which thronged to the tables was of a heterogeneous description and not at all smart. There were a number of enterprising damsels in pork-pie hats and a considerable sprinkling of raffish Englishmen, looking as if they had seen better days and were likely to see worse. Monte Carlo, though a tiny place, already bore evidences of its future expansion. An air of prosperity pervaded it, and the inhabitants had lost the air of hopeless poverty which was formerly such a characteristic of the Principality of Monaco. In the early days of the Casino not much was heard of its existence, the truth being that M. Blanc, after his experiences at Homburg, feared lest European public opinion might demand the abolition of the tables were their existence to be too prominently thrust before it. In consequence of this as little attention as possible was drawn to the gambling which, if alluded to in the Press at all, was merely mentioned as one of the minor attractions. Knowing the sensitiveness of M. Blanc with regard to publicity, unscrupulous journalists traded upon it, demanding bribes to keep silence, whilst ephemeral newspapers, containing sensational accounts of suicides of ruined gamblers, were published solely in order to extort blackmail. As time went on, however, Monte Carlo began to be regarded as an established institution, and many visitors took to coming there year after year. The development of the Riviera as a pleasure-resort steadily proceeded, and at the present time the coast from Genoa to Marseilles is an almost unbroken line of pleasure-resorts filled with villas, not a few veritable palaces, all of which owe their existence to the advent of M. Blanc with his roulette and trente-et-quarante. Abuse gambling as you may, it has in this instance beyond all question brought wealth and prosperity to the inhabitants--not to the rich, for there were no rich--but to the people of the soil, born and bred along this beautiful coast-line lapped by the azure waters of the Mediterranean. It was after M. Blanc's death in the early 'seventies that the Casino was first enlarged, and the theatre built by M. Garnier. From time to time further additions have been made--an entirely new gambling-room was added only a few years ago, and at the present moment another is being built. Monte Carlo itself, which even in the 'eighties was quite a little place, has now become a regular town with streets stretching up along the mountain side almost up to the gigantic hotel, which is now such a conspicuous feature of the Principality. The earthquake of 1887, though it ruined the season of that year, was probably beneficial to the prosperity of Monte Carlo, for it brought the name of the place prominently before the public eye. Shortly after that date the vast crowds which now throng to the place began to make their appearance, and Monaco quite changed its character. New hotels were opened and numbers of houses built, whilst Monte Carlo quite lost its air of reposeful peace and became a sort of cosmopolitan pleasure-town swarming with excursionists. Before this the Casino used to shut at eleven, after which hour every one went to bed, there being no night cafés to go to such as exist to-day. From about 1882 to 1890 was perhaps the best day of the Principality from a social point of view, for at that time it was the resort of a number of the most distinguished and fashionable people in Europe. All the sporting characters of the day made a point of paying a yearly visit to Monte Carlo--most of them are gone now, including Mr Sam Lewis, who always played in maximums with varying success. Another well-known figure was Captain Carlton Blythe, who is still alive. He was very successful at trente-et-quarante, where his operations were conducted in a most methodical manner. It was his practice to stake only when sequences were the order of the day. By means of men told off to watch the tables, he was kept informed of this, being sometimes sent for even when not in the Casino. His stakes were high, generally about two thousand francs, which, if won, were increased to six thousand, the next being a maximum (12,000 francs), which was left on till the termination of the run. At times this cheery devotee of coaching was extraordinarily lucky; it is said that he once won as much as £10,000 during a deal. I believe, however, that in the end this system, like so many others, broke down. The authorities of the Casino were then rather more particular than at present as to the costume of visitors, and in many cases refused to grant cards of admission to people of the most indisputable respectability on account of their dress not being in conformity with the regulations which they laid down. On one occasion, indeed, the late Lord and Lady Salisbury, who lived close by at Beaulieu, having been seized with a fancy to look into the rooms, presented themselves at the entrance, where cards of entrée are issued either for the day or longer periods. They were both dressed in thoroughly country clothes which the official in command viewed with no kindly eye, as his offhand manner showed. When, however, the visitors, in accordance with the regulations, gave their names, he was convulsed with laughter, and at once told the distinguished couple to go about their business and not try their jokes upon him. The Prime Minister and his wife, who were rather amused at the incident, accordingly retired. Some time afterwards the matter reached the ears of the Administration, who, as a sort of compensation, sent a box at the theatre, but no very profound apology was made. The great gambling monopoly is no respecter of persons, and in the Casino, as on the Turf, complete equality prevails. In the same year, 1892, a curious incident occurred at a trente-et-quarante table. An individual having staked a maximum on the black, red won. He immediately snatched up his (or rather the bank's) notes from the table and ejaculating, "_C'est la dot de ma fille_," strode out of the rooms before any one quite realised what had happened. For some reason or other he was not followed and got clear away. Many rich Englishmen annually found at Monte Carlo relaxation and rest from lives of arduous work in the city; some of these regarded play much as sportsmen do shooting, hunting, or yachting. One of these, now dead, said to the writer: "I have regularly taken a villa here for years, and with hardly an exception have lost the sum which I set apart for gaming every year; but I do not regret it. The amount of amusement which I have obtained has been well worth the money. I might, it is true, have kept a yacht which I should have hated, or taken a shooting which would have been little to my taste. I might, in fact, have spent the money in various ways which would have thoroughly bored me--on the whole I am well content." Another well-known high player, who from time to time has lost large sums at Monte Carlo, once declared that he considered the money well invested. "Many a large landowner," said he, "is not as lucky as I have been, for he is obliged to spend a large sum every year on the upkeep of his estate for which he obtains nothing in return. I, at least, have had a great deal of amusement." To this it may be objected that the money which goes into the coffers of the Casino benefits no one--but this is not strictly true, for the shares are held by all sorts of people, who draw their profits in the same way as from any industrial enterprise. In the 'eighties there were many less hotels than at present and not a great number of villas, whilst the Café de Paris, which has since been rebuilt in an enlarged form, was about the only restaurant apart from the dining-rooms in the hotels. The Gallery, now filled with shops, which is such a favourite morning resort, had not yet come into existence, and except the admirable band in the Casino (which gave two performances a day, free) there was little music in Monte Carlo--a spot which now rings from morning till late at night with the strains of Tzigane bands. After the tables were closed--at eleven--there were no amusements at all, and, instead of sitting up half the night, every one went to bed--contentedly or discontentedly, as they had won or lost. The gambling-rooms were much quieter in those days, the flocks of German excursionists having not yet arrived. Many of these visitors, as a rule somewhat undesirable from a decorative point of view, are divided up into little coteries or bands, each of which elects a leader who is entrusted with such funds as the party is desirous of risking at the tables, where the leader alone stakes for all, winnings or losings being divided in proportionate shares. Of late years the crowds round the gambling-tables have increased to such an extent that except in the early morning or during dinner-time it is impossible to make certain of obtaining a seat. Formerly two or three old men of solemn aspect were always to be found sitting at the trente-et-quarante marking down the run of the game, and on a louis being unostentatiously slipped into their hand they would at once yield up their seat. Of late years, however, they are no longer to be seen, the Administration having banished them from the Casino, much to the discomfort of habitual players desirous of risking substantial sums under comfortable conditions. In old days far more attention was paid in a great many other small ways to visitors who had the appearance of belonging to the upper strata of society. To these the croupiers and other officials made a point of being especially obliging and polite. The authorities of the Casino, however, seem now to have decided on a more democratic policy, no favour being shown to any one. From a financial point of view this is probably not unsound, a vast number of small players, who drop a certain amount of five-franc pieces and then depart to make way for others, being probably more profitable to the bank than a few heavy gamblers, some of whom may hit it very severely. It is more than likely that scarcely one in fifty of the individuals who sit with a pile of silver beside the roulette wheel goes away a winner, whereas amongst the high gamblers at trente-et-quarante success is not so rare as is usually supposed. The proof of what has been stated was furnished by the brief existence of the "Cercle Privé"--a new gaming-room which for a short time was highly appreciated by frequenters of Monte Carlo some seven or eight years ago. The "Cercle Privé" was open only at night in a room upstairs, and men alone enjoyed the privilege of being allowed to play there. There were four tables, three trente-et-quarante and one roulette, a small bar where refreshments could be obtained, smoking was permitted, and the tables, which did not commence operations till the ones downstairs had closed, were kept going very late. From the point of view of players this innovation was highly successful; for, owing to the comparatively small number of persons who frequented the "Cercle Privé," greater comfort prevailed than downstairs, whilst the conditions in general were far more conducive to calculated and calm speculation. A large proportion of the frequenters were well known to one another, and the whole thing somewhat resembled a club, the members of which were leagued together against the bank. Runs, intermittencies, and other tendencies of chance at certain tables could be carefully noted; occasionally there would be no play at all at one table, the whole crowd staking on a run at another; as the room was small, anything of the sort soon reached the ears of every one. Play as a rule was high, and the players, for the most part, were well used to gambling. The results to the bank were most disastrous. On a certain evening it lost more than had ever before been lost in one day by the Casino, and at the end of the year the accounts of the "Cercle Privé" proved anything but an agreeable study for the officials supervising the finances of the great gambling monopoly. The next year it was closed, and there has since been no inclination on the part of the authorities to repeat what was to them a very unprofitable speculation. Amongst various causes which in this instance operated to the detriment of the bank was the difficulty, generally amounting to impossibility, of players obtaining a further supply of money when what they had in their pockets had run out. At such a late hour, when the Bank was closed and the _caisse_ of most hotels shut up, no matter how rich a man might be, he could not obtain any considerable amount of cash. Consequently, should he lose what he had brought with him, he was reduced to playing with such modest sums as could be borrowed from friends, who naturally could not be expected to make any substantial advance, as any moment they themselves might be in a similar predicament. The bank, on the other hand, was equipped with ample funds, and its loss--unlike those of the players, which, after a certain point, were limited by necessity--often extended into a very large figure; consequently, when it was in good luck, it only won a comparatively moderate amount, and when in bad lost very heavily. Another reason for the ill-success of the bank was that the policy pursued in the large rooms downstairs had in the case of the "Cercle Privé" been exactly reversed. In the former there have always been many more roulette tables than tables devoted to trente-et-quarante--upstairs there was only one roulette table as a counter-attraction to the three devoted to the rival game. Trente-et-quarante is mathematically one of the most favourable of games at which a gambler can play, the percentage against him produced by the _refait_ being only 1·28 per cent. Roulette, on the other hand, is, owing to the zero, highly advantageous to the banker. The bank's percentage on all-round play at the tables is more than one-seventy-fourth of all the figures staked; the actual winnings of the bank being about one-sixtieth part of all the money actually placed on the board. At the present time the bank's winnings (gross) are, roughly, £1,200,000 per annum. A large proportion of the gains of the Monte Carlo bank is derived from small players who enter the rooms with the deliberate intention of either making a certain sum or losing what they have in their pockets; these form, as it were, the rank and file of the gambling army which is constantly being decimated by the Casino, and the almost total absence of such an element in the room upstairs reduced the play to a duel between the bank and a number of persons, the majority of whom were, more or less, capitalists and who, as often as not, went home immediately after bringing off one big and successful coup. The gaming-rooms in the Casino at Monte Carlo have often been described as a hot-bed of vice and debauchery, the tables surrounded by a seething crowd of excited figures whose countenances betray the intense emotions which the vitiating effects of play arouse. "Cries of triumph, imprecations, moans and sobs are heard on every side." In certain highly coloured accounts, suicide is spoken of as being an ordinary occurrence, the crowd making way without comment for the passage of the corpse of some unfortunate gambler who, at the end of his tether, has blown out his brains. All this is purely fanciful, and conveys no idea whatever of the real state of affairs prevailing in the rooms, where calm and good order invariably reign. There exists, indeed, an almost religious hush in the halls of this great Temple of Chance. After dinner, and towards the time of close of play, the scene, it is true, becomes more animated, but, as a rule, the only sounds heard are those connected with the games played. What conversation there is is almost exclusively devoted to short comments on such matters as the lack or abundance of runs on one particular colour, the persistent recurrence of certain numbers, the amount of winnings or losings of some well-known player, or the like; people rarely speak, when at the table, of their own vicissitudes in the battle with chance. The real gamblers, that is to say, those to whom speculation is the very breath of life, speak least of all, their whole mind being concentrated upon the system or method of staking which it is generally their practice to adopt. They sit with unmoved faces, which appear neither elated by victory nor depressed by defeat. A well-known Monte Carlo type--more abundant perhaps in the past than to-day--is the _beau joueur_, the man who plays to the gallery and, let it be added, pays handsomely for his performance. Certain and inevitable ruin is the fate of these individuals, who sacrifice themselves to the spirit of vanity. As a rule, the winnings or losings of such people are a great subject of conversation and discussion amongst the frequenters of the tables--they are said to have either won or lost enormous sums--to be at the end of their tether, or to have an enormous fortune behind them. Their fame, however, is of no enduring kind, being at best a nine days' wonder. They are soon forgotten, and their departure, leaving only too often their money in the vaults of the Casino, and an unpaid bill at their hotel, excites not even passing comment from the crowd of spectators whose approving gaze and fleeting admiration has been so dearly bought. Some old players remain watching the game for a considerable space of time without risking a stake at all, till the moment arrives when either superstition or calculation prompts them to take the first steps in the campaign. Many of these come provided with memorandum books filled with column after column of figures, records of past runs on colours, and recurring sequences of numbers carefully inscribed as a guide to fathoming the capricious movements of fortune. Others bring queer little mechanical contrivances, which are manipulated in a manner to show the correspondence between certain chances; whilst yet another section quite frankly display all sorts of fetishes, to some of which they attach a quite serious importance. A piece of the rope which has been used by a hangman is a fetish reputed to be an almost certain passport to good luck. The experience of the present writer with a grim relic of this kind did not, however, give any support to such a belief. As a great favour he was once given a small hempen souvenir by a friend, and armed with the precious talisman he betook himself to a trente-et-quarante table, where a good seat was secured. From the very first, however, it was evident that the gruesome charm was not exercising its occult influence in a direction favourable to its new, and perhaps somewhat sceptical, possessor. When runs were sought for, alternates appeared, and vice versa. _Refaits_ were dealt with unnatural frequency; in fact, disaster followed disaster in an unbroken sequence, with the result that the little bit of rope was all that the player had in his pocket as he somewhat disconsolately strode out of the rooms, rather inclined to wish that the hempen relic had been utilised for its original purpose around the neck of its donor. Gamblers are generally most superstitious folk and swayed by all sorts of whimsical ideas. Years ago an old lady used to give the authorities a good deal of trouble by repeatedly bringing a small portion of ham into the rooms, and, whilst at play, cutting off slices and eating them. For some reason or other she had the fixed idea that, in her case, ham-eating propitiated fortune. The rules of the Casino naturally forbid any proceeding of such a kind in the rooms, and whenever the ham was produced the _chef de partie_ was obliged to point this out. The old lady in question, who was a well-known character, was, however, very rich, and, being a constant and high player, any drastic action would naturally have been disadvantageous to the best interests of the bank. Some compromise was, therefore, eventually arranged, by which the amount of ham consumed was so infinitesimal as to pass almost unnoticed by the general public. Certain players attach considerable importance to the numbers inscribed upon the check handed to them by the attendants who look after cloaks and sticks. Now and then, as must of necessity happen in the ordinary course of events, an individual succeeds in winning a good stake by backing a number at roulette corresponding with that on his wooden ticket; more often, however, he fails, and then proceeds to work out all sorts of combinations of numbers, adding, subtracting and dividing, as the fancy seizes him. The number of the sleeping-berth which has carried the visitor from Paris is also often chosen, as is that of his bedroom in the hotel. The date of a birthday, the sum total of the numbers on a watch, or of the figures on a coin, the number of cigarettes left in a case, or of coins in the pocket, and other similar trifles are all noted with intense interest by a certain class of player, eager for any clue which they believe may assist them in their struggle to achieve success. It used, at one time, to be said at Monte Carlo that the clergyman of the English Church there never gave out any hymns under number thirty-six, as he had discovered that some of his congregation had made a practice of carefully noting down the numbers with a view to backing them at roulette. Most players, even the least superstitious, have some special lucky number of their own, which they make a point of following. Occasionally it turns up two or three times in succession, which, of course, further confirms them in constantly backing it, and, more often than not, losing far more than they have won. The present writer's experiences in this direction have not been of an encouraging nature. Some years ago, being on his way to the Principality, he was much struck by the curiously persistent way in which the number 13 confronted him throughout the journey. His room at Paris was 13; the number of his sleeping-berth in the train to Monaco was 13; and finally he was put into room No. 13 at the Hôtel de Paris on the day of his arrival, the 13th day of the month. All this, to any one with a vestige of superstition, looked as if 13 was a number well worth backing, and accordingly the writer hastened to the rooms, eager to see whether the tip would come off. As a matter of fact the only thing which did come off was the end of his finger, which in his haste to get to the Casino he slammed in his bedroom door. After having been attended to by a surgeon he finally obtained a place at roulette and steadily backed number 13, which, to his intense disgust, appeared rather less frequently than the other numbers. The same unsatisfactory state of affairs prevailed throughout his stay, which on that occasion was a prolonged and unpleasant one. The curious influence which the advent of certain persons, or the occurrence of trivial incidents, appears to exert in matters of luck is well known to all gamblers. Many of them generally regard a number of trifles with feelings of considerable apprehension at the gaming-table, entertaining the most extraordinary likes and dislikes for various people and things, and cherishing queer fancies at which, in ordinary life, they would be the first to scoff. All this, of course, is akin to the superstition of the savage, a queer atavistic reminder of civilised man's humble descent. Though the principles of roulette and trente-et-quarante are known to many, it may not be out of place to give brief descriptions of these games as played at Monte Carlo. Before play begins the money is set out at one end of the table. The gold, after being weighed in scales, is placed in rouleaux, and the bank notes ranged according to their value. Everything is verified by an inspector, who taps each row with a rake and signs his name to a statement on paper. At trente-et-quarante the minimum stake is a louis, the maximum 12,000 francs (£400), and the capital with which each table begins play £6000. "Breaking the bank" merely means that the money at a particular table is exhausted, and that play has to be suspended while more money is being procured. Trente-et-quarante is a game of four even chances--_rouge_ and _noir_, _couleur gagne_ and _couleur perd_. It is played with six packs of cards, which, having been shuffled, are cut by one of the players. There is often a good deal of competition for this ceremony, the cut being by request reserved for some keen player. As a rule, however, others give way when any one who seems in luck--especially a lady of attractive appearance--steps forward to cut the cards. After every one has staked and "_rien ne va plus_" has been called, the croupier deals the first card face upwards, and continues dealing until the cards turned up exceed thirty pips in number, when he must announce the numbers from "trente-et-un" to "quarante." This top line of cards is black, and when it is less in number than the one which is dealt beneath black wins. Another line underneath is then dealt for _rouge_. When the two lines are equal in the number of pips--say thirty-six each--the dealer announces an _après_; thirty-one is the _refait_ when all stakes are _en prison_. When, however, a _refait_ has been dealt, a player may withdraw half his stake if he chooses, or move his money over from the red "prison" to the black "prison." In the case of another _refait_, the money is removed into another space, which is called the second prison. The odds against a _refait_ turning up are usually reckoned as 63 to 1. The bank is said, however, to expect it twice in three deals, and there are generally from twenty-nine to thirty-two coups in each deal. By paying one per cent players may insure their stake. A large white counter is placed by the croupier on or near the money insured, which is unaffected by the _refait_. There are high players, however, who consider it bad policy to insure, and prefer to run the risk of 31 being dealt in both lines. As a matter of fact, from a mathematical point of view, thirty-one is the number which the cards are most likely to make, as any one can easily prove for himself; the combinations formed by the numbers of the pips on the cards being more adapted to produce thirty-one than anything else. It is for this reason, no doubt, that the number in question was chosen for the _refait_, when the game first came into vogue. At trente-et-quarante, besides the even chances of _rouge_ and _noir_, there are also the even chances of _couleur gagne_ and _couleur perd_. The first card dealt determines _couleur_. If, for instance, it is red and _rouge_ (the bottom line) wins--_couleur gagne_--the croupier says, "_rouge gagne et la couleur_"; if it is black and _rouge_ wins--_couleur perd_--the croupier says, "_rouge gagne, couleur perd_." The prison, of course, applies to _couleur_ just as it does to _rouge_ and _noir_. At certain stated intervals, in the presence of a _sous-directeur_ or _chef de partie_, the used packs of cards from trente-et-quarante are carried to a furnace in sealed sacks and scrupulously burnt. A good many years ago the backs of the cards used at trente-et-quarante were plain white; at the present time, however, a slight design, the pattern of which varies daily, is upon them. The reason for the change was said to be that the plain backs once facilitated a fraud, which cost the authorities of the Casino many thousands of francs. The story is a curious one. One morning, as trente-et-quarante was pursuing its usual somewhat monotonous progress, a player with a large pile of money before him, seated next the croupier dealing, entered into an altercation with a neighbour about some stake, in the course of which, owing to violent gesticulations, a whole heap of coins was swept to the ground. Considerable confusion arose, which naturally necessitated the interference of the _chef de partie_ (who supervises the game). The attention of everybody, both officials and players, was drawn to the spot where the dispute was taking place; the owner of the fallen treasure loudly declaiming against rough, bullying swindlers being allowed to enter the rooms at all. However, after much chatter, the money having been all found, peace was restored and the game proceeded on its ordinary course. It was very soon evident that a number of very high players were that morning seated round the table, for quantities of notes and gold began to make their appearance. What was more remarkable was that all the high players seemed to be inspired with the same excellent idea, for every one of them invariably backed the winning chances. So extraordinary was their luck that, after the bank had lost a good deal of money, one of the high officials, who had been watching the game, announced that for the time being further play would be suspended at that particular table, as there was reason to believe that the cards had been tampered with. This naturally provoked a storm of protest, and in the confusion which ensued, the high players slipped unobtrusively away, their pockets well stuffed with the money they had extracted from the bank. An hour or two later an attempt was made by the authorities to trace them, but, curiously enough, not one was to be found in the Principality. They had all crossed the French frontier and had dispersed in various directions. The cards were afterwards carefully counted and examined, and a thorough investigation of that morning's play is said to have proved beyond all doubt that the whole affair had been a cleverly hatched plot against the bank. The two men who had quarrelled at the table were professional swindlers, and had carefully rehearsed the disturbance, in order to divert attention from the dealer, who remained apparently quite unmoved whilst the _chef de partie_ and other officials were inquiring into the dispute. During this time an accomplice on the other side of this croupier had taken advantage of the general turmoil to slip a portion of a prepared pack into the man's hand. This was furtively exchanged by him for a certain number which he was holding ready to deal. Of these the accomplice relieved him. The high players were all swindlers, well aware how the cards had been arranged. The croupier, heavily bribed, was a rare exception, for, as a rule, Monte Carlo croupiers are above all suspicion. His share in the swindle was detected and he appeared in the Halls of Chance no more. As was perfectly obvious, a robbery of this kind was greatly facilitated by the plain white backs of the cards in daily use. It was therefore decided that in future every morning a new design should be produced for the backs of these cards, which, known only to a special department, would effectually prevent any chance of prepared packets being interpolated with the packs issued by the authorities. At roulette as at trente-et-quarante the money is publicly counted out and verified by an inspector before play begins. The roulette wheels are balanced in the presence of the public, and one of the blue-coated _garçons de salle_ goes from table to table with a spirit-level, which is placed upon the rosewood rim of the cylinder, a _chef de table_ verifying the accurate adjustment of the wheel by seeing that the air bubble is exactly in the centre. The maximum stakes allowed on the different chances at roulette are:-- Francs. On one number 180 On two numbers (_à cheval_) 360 On three numbers transversal 560 Four numbers (_en carré_) 750 On 0, 1, 2, 3 750 On six numbers transversal 1200 On one dozen 3000 On one column 3000 On all the even chances 6000 [Illustration: PLAN OF ROULETTE TABLE AS USED AT MONTE CARLO METHODS OF STAKING 1. On one number (3). 2. On two numbers (8 and 9); this is called "à cheval." 3. On three numbers (10, 11, 12); this is called "transversale." 4. On a "carré," or square, of 4 numbers (20, 21, 23, 24). 5. On a transversale of 6 numbers (25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30). 6. On an even chance (Black). 7. On two even chances (Black and Pair). 8. On a dozen (1st dozen). 9. On a column (last column). Maximum stake, 10,000 francs; minimum, 5 francs. Zero sweeps all stakes except even chances, which go into "prison" till next coup, when they are either released or taken.] The amount with which play is begun each day is 80,000 francs, or £3200. Each roulette table has two boards, on which players may stake, the roulette wheel (a cylinder let into the table) lying between the two. The numbers of the roulette are arranged irregularly, though reds and blacks alternate. Zero, which is not counted as a colour, lies between 32 red and 15 black. There are in all thirty-seven little compartments which receive the ball--eighteen red, eighteen black, and zero. The accurate odds, therefore, are 36 to 1 against any particular division; nevertheless the bank only pays 35 to 1, which causes its profit to amount to 1 in 37, nearly 2·865 per cent. The lowest stake allowed at roulette is five francs, the highest 10,000 francs, known as a maximum. The two sides of the roulette table are duplicates of one another, each of them being divided something like a chess-board into three columns of squares, which amount to thirty-six; the numbers advance arithmetically from right to left, and consequently there are twelve lines down, so as to complete a rectangle; as 1, therefore, stands at the head, 4 stands immediately under it, and so on. At the bottom lie three squares marked 12 p, 12 m, 12 d, that is, first, middle, and last dozen. Three large spaces on each side of the numbers are for red and black; even and odd; _manque_ and _passe_, that is, the numbers in the first and second half respectively from 1 to 18, and from 19 to 36 inclusive. At the top of each board is zero, which sweeps all stakes, except those on the even chances, into the coffers of the bank. The stakes having been made a croupier says: "_Le jeu est fait, rien ne va plus_." The wheel is set in motion. At the same time a croupier sends the ball flying round the cylinder, the roulette wheel bearing the numbers being made to revolve in an opposite direction. The ball eventually falls on to the wheel, and as the latter slackens its speed, enters a compartment, the number of which is announced thus: "_Dix-sept, rouge, impair et manque_." When zero is announced all the money on the table is annexed by the bank with the exception of that staked upon the even chances red or black, odd or even, _passe_ or _manque_--the sums on these are moved to the edge of the board, being _en prison_ till the next coup, when they are taken or released according to the colour and chance which wins. The odds laid by the bank work out as follows:-- Stakes placed on any number or on zero are paid at the rate of 35 to 1--a player on the numbers is therefore taking 35 to 1 about a 36 to 1 chance, which must be to his prejudice in the long-run--on any four numbers 8 to 1, on any six numbers 5 to 1. Red or black, odd or even, _passe_ (the numbers after 18) or _manque_ (the numbers before 18) are even-money chances. The dozens and columns are 2 to 1 chances. Stakes are often placed _à cheval_, that is to say, on two adjoining numbers, which together are paid at the rate of 17 to 1. The red numbers and the blacks are unequally divided in the columns. The centre column contains eight black and only four reds; the first column has six reds and six blacks; while in the last column there are eight reds and four blacks. Professor Karl Pearson, when making an exhaustive study of the laws of chance, drew up a series of elaborate tables, with the intention of comparing the results of a number of spins of the roulette wheel with those produced by drawing numbers from a hat and tossing with coins. The conclusion at which he arrived was that, whilst the colours followed the laws of chance as they are generally understood, the other even chances, _passe_ and _manque_, _pair_ and _impair_, exhibited such capriciousness in their recurrence as could not have been expected had roulette been played continuously through the whole period of geological time. The roulette wheels of Monte Carlo are perfectly honest machines. The cylinder of each is sheet copper, carefully balanced and strengthened by bands of metal. It revolves in its bed on a vertical pivot of steel, the top of which has a cup-like hollow, into which oil is poured. A mechanic, whose business it is to clean and prepare the wheels every morning, pours oil also into the gun-metal socket which forms the centre of the wheel, and it is then dropped into its place upon the pivot. The great care which is taken by the authorities to ensure the absolute accuracy of their roulette wheels is based upon very sufficient grounds, for a slight defect in one of those machines once cost them a large sum. Amongst the frequenters of the rooms at Monte Carlo there is always a large number of astute and none too scrupulous individuals quick to note any little circumstance likely to be of advantage to themselves. For this reason some slight tendency of the roulette wheel to stop in such a way as to cause a certain group of numbers to have an advantage over the rest is very quickly noticed and advantage taken of it. A mechanic from Yorkshire, Jaggers by name, once cost the Casino some two million francs. Well aware of the difficulty of maintaining a nicely adjusted machine in a perfectly stable condition, Jaggers engaged six assistants, whom he posted at different tables to note the numbers at roulette all day long, whilst he himself undertook to make an elaborate analysis of the results. After a month's play peculiarities were clearly to be discovered in the appearance of the numbers at each of the tables quite out of consonance with the law of average, some numbers turning up more, some less. Having ascertained this fact Jaggers and his men began to play on the numbers which kept ahead of the rest, and won some hundred and forty thousand pounds. The authorities then realised that all was not right, and changed the roulette wheels from one table to another for every day's play, with the result that the bank recovered £40,000. Jaggers, however, was not yet defeated, for by searching observations he discovered minute marks on most of the six wheels, which enabled him to follow them from table to table--a mere scratch was enough. In a short time he and his assistants knew what numbers would be most likely to recur at certain tables, and the £40,000 which the bank had regained was soon won back. The authorities controlling the play now began to take a serious view of the situation, and in consequence consulted the manufacturer of the roulette wheels in Paris with a view to constructing cylinders capable of baffling Jaggers and his gang. A new set of wheels were constructed with interchangeable partitions, so that the position of the various receptacles to receive the ball might be changed every evening, when practically a new wheel would be produced, the receptacle which had served for one number on any certain day being utilised for another on the other side the next. By these means Jaggers was eventually defeated. He was astute enough to perceive that the advantages which he had so cleverly utilised for his own profit no longer existed and, after having lost back some portion of his gains, retired from Monte Carlo some £80,000 to the good. In order to obviate all chance of anything of this kind happening again, the roulette wheels are carefully examined and tested every day, the most thorough precautions being taken to ensure conditions of the fairest kind. Whatever objections may be urged against the gambling-rooms as an institution, no accusation of unfairness can be raised against the way in which play is conducted at Monte Carlo. In this respect scrupulous and undeviating honesty is the absolute rule. A croupier, like a poet, is said to be born, not made. Many of those employed at Monte Carlo, according to current report, are descendants of those who raked in the money of the Allies (and especially of the English officers) in the old gambling-rooms of the Palais Royal in 1814. A large section belong to great croupier families, members of which dealt the cards and plied the rake in the "conversation houses" and Kursaals of Baden, Homburg, Ems, and other German Spas which have been described. There is something rather stately about these men, most of whom have a peculiar look of detachment not lacking in dignity. Solemn, courteous, suave, and unmoved, they appear little affected by the monotony which must of necessity attach to their calling. They are, it is said, excellent husbands and fathers, of simple tastes, their chief amusement being playing cards for very modest stakes amongst themselves--for they are a class apart. A School of Croupiers exists, at which applicants are trained. The course of instruction in question is located in the Club-room of the Tir aux Pigeons and the Salle d'Escrime. Here during the six summer months are tables exactly like those in the public rooms above, each pupil in turn taking the _rôle_ of croupier, whilst others, personating players, stake money all over the table. The novice croupier learns to calculate and pay out winning stakes with sham money, consisting of metal discs and dummy bank-notes. It takes at least six months to produce a finished croupier. A roulette croupier receives two hundred and fifty francs a month; whilst dealers at trente-et-quarante are paid three hundred francs. The working-day is six hours, in two spells of three hours each; each man being for three days in succession at one table. Every table is controlled by six croupiers, a seventh being held in reserve as a relief. At the tables the suavity of manner and impartiality of croupiers in settling disputes is generally above all praise. The difficulties with which a croupier has to contend are sometimes disturbing in the extreme, but his decision is final and, as the players know, admits of no appeal. Though the tables are surrounded by a mob of persons avid of gain, yet there are times when winning stakes remain unclaimed for several _coups_. When this is observed by the croupiers, the money is set aside for a certain time, after which it goes to swell the funds of the bank. Odd though it may appear, people very often depart leaving winnings behind them on the table--a curious case of this once came under the writer's observation. A lady, who was leaving Monte Carlo, had been sitting all the morning at the roulette, trying with little success to get on a run, and at last left the rooms to go to lunch with the writer, who afterwards, having escorted her to the hotel to prepare for her journey, strolled again into the Casino. Just within the door he was accosted by an excited and voluble Englishwoman, who explained that the lady (whom she had observed with the writer) had left two louis on the red when she rose from her chair. Red had won twice, and the attention of the croupiers had been drawn to the unclaimed eight louis, for which the speaker had then assumed the responsibility, saying she was to play them for a lady who had gone out of the rooms. She had then proceeded to play up the eight louis till they had become sixty-four, when, at her request, the whole sum was taken off the table. The _chef de partie_ meanwhile declared that the bank would not part with the money till the owner of the original two louis returned. After waiting for some time, the woman (who frankly said that she hoped to receive a share of the money for having played it up) became much perturbed at not knowing where to find the only owner whom the bank would recognise, and the advent of the writer, to whom she explained the whole thing, was therefore most opportune. The lady when told that sixty-four louis was waiting for her was naturally much pleased, and on drawing the sum on her way to the station, very cheerfully gave the woman a third of what had been won. Of late years the annual profits of the Casino at Monte Carlo have worked out at about a million, £4000 a day, it is said, flowing into the coffers of the bank during the season. The disbursements, however, are very heavy, amounting literally to hundreds of thousands of pounds. Amongst these must be reckoned £9000 for clergy and schools, £6000 for charity, and £20,000 for police. The arrangement, which was some years ago renewed with the reigning Prince, naturally absorbs a very large sum of money; but, when everything has been paid out, the annual profits do not fall far short of £500,000, the shareholders, even in bad years, receiving something like thirty per cent. The Casino employs about two thousand officials and _employés_; the general management being carried on by a _directeur-général_, who receives 100,000 francs a year, and three _directeurs_. Three _sous-directeurs_, under whom are the _chefs de table_ and the croupiers, have to superintend the gaming-rooms, in which eighteen inspectors walk about the rooms quietly and continually, keeping watchful eyes on _employés_ and players. These inspectors are known only to the initiated, and have the appearance of being ordinary onlookers, fond of watching the play. Amongst other duties these men keep an eye upon the people staking, in order to detect any habitual snatchers of other people's money, and also to report on any one who may apply for the _viatique_. The _viatique_, or sum of money doled out to unsuccessful gamblers by the Casino, consists of the price of a second-class ticket to the applicant's home, together with some small additional funds to enable him to proceed on his journey. The dole in question was in the earlier days of Monte Carlo generally granted without much demur, but at the present time a successful applicant has to comply with some very unpleasant formalities. To obtain the _viatique_, the presumably penniless gamester must present himself at a special office, just off a corner of the central gaming-room, and there he must take an oath that he has lost over £300. Inquiries are then made as to whether the applicant has really lost a large sum at play, which is easily discovered by the evidence of the inspectors and officials presiding at the tables. If these inquiries corroborate the story told, he is handed the money, for which he signs a receipt; and until the advance is repaid, the recipient is not allowed to pass the doors which separate the atrium from the gaming-rooms. As a matter of fact, I believe those who have received the _viatique_ are now photographed so as to be identified by the door-keepers. There have been instances of unsuccessful system players, who, after obtaining the _viatique_, have remained at Monte Carlo, constantly vaunting the virtues of their peculiar method of play, indulgence in which has shut them off from the tables. Whilst the enormous majority of those who frequent Monte Carlo lose, as the princely dividends of the Casino show, certain is it that a number of persons continue to eke out a living by very moderate and careful play. Living in humble lodgings or cheap hotels in the Condamine are many who make it the business of their lives to win one louis, or even ten francs, every day, sitting for hours perhaps in the accomplishment of the task. Some of these are ruined gamblers, who, being reduced to a modest competency owing to their ruling passion, have more or less learnt wisdom and are content to wait for long periods of time without staking at all, whilst quick to grasp the advantage which can be taken from a well-marked run. Old women, with queer handbags and bundles of what resemble washing-books, abound at the roulette tables, some of them being exceedingly shrewd and in a small way not unsuccessful players. When a woman really grasps the spirit of play she is undoubtedly far cleverer than a man, who more often than not regards the gambling as a personal combat between himself and the bank, which he thinks of rather as a living thing than the ruthless inanimate machine which, in sober fact, it is. The majority of women, however, are quite hopeless as gamblers, merely frittering their money away, often quite ignorant of the odds, chances, and general procedure of either trente-et-quarante or roulette, at which their favourite method of staking is to try and back winning numbers. The methods and systems employed by habitual frequenters of the rooms are of every possible description, some being devised to win but a louis, and others to secure a princely fortune. The numbers at roulette are very profitable to the bank, for no system or method, no matter how carefully devised (except the one employed by Jaggers), has ever assisted any one to back a winning number or set of numbers. All this is mere chance, and no calculations as to previous numbers and the like are of the least assistance. Every _coup_ that is played is an absolutely new _coup_, and quite unaffected by anything that has gone before. There is really no reason why one number should not keep turning up during the whole of one day's play except the fact that such a thing has never been known to happen. It appears certain that the general tendency of chances is to equalise themselves at the end of a certain period, but as the player of necessity cannot possibly tell whether any given chance is on the up or down grade, such knowledge is of no assistance whatever to him. A certain number is observed not to have turned up for a considerable length of time, and the conclusion is formed that an increasing stake upon it must in the end prove a good investment. More often than not the very contrary is the case, for there have been whole days at Monte Carlo during which a number at one table has scarcely appeared at all. On the other hand, if a record of every _coup_ at this table had been kept, the recurrence of every number would, in the course of time, be found to be practically the same. Complicated systems have often been devised, the main principle of which was covering a large proportion of the numbers, only a few, supposed by deduction to be unlikely to turn up, being left untouched. Disaster has invariably followed even a moderate run on such numbers, which, of course, occurs in the end, completely draining the players' pockets. The even chances, without doubt, afford a player the greatest likelihood of success. Staking a louis every time on both black and red, or any other even chance, leaving on any winnings in the hope of catching a run, is occasionally not a bad plan. The trouble of staking on both chances can be modified by calculation, though it is somewhat apt to lead to confusion. A great number of players spend their whole time trying to strike a run at trente-et-quarante--this generally occurs when they are absent from their favourite table. The third _coup_ would seem to be the most dangerous: for this reason, when a colour has run twice it is better to withdraw some portion of the sum staked, and then the remainder may be left to double up. The practice of staking on the dozens at roulette is generally very attractive to those fresh to the tables, who like the idea of landing a two to one chance. The same type of player is, as a rule, at one time or another, fascinated by that system (or rather method of staking) which consists in backing two dozens, that is, laying two to one against the bank. Most of such players, however, soon discover how disastrous this may prove, and it should be realised that it is by no means an unusual occurrence for a dozen not to appear for ten or twelve _coups_--seventeen, I believe, is the record number of non-appearances. The great objection, however, to backing two dozens is zero, which sweeps everything but the even chances. Another method of play is to stake against the recurrence of any number of even chances in an identical order. Ten _coups_ at trente-et-quarante, for instance, having resulted thus: Red Red Red Black Red Black Black Red Red Black, the player plays black, black, black, red, and so on in an exactly opposite sense, increasing his stake till successful. As a matter of fact it is not very usual for any given number of _coups_ to recur in exactly the same succession, and played with discretion this system occasionally yields fair results. Another simple method is to stake red, black, alternately, doubling up till the winning colour is caught. This has the advantage of ensuring profit from a run, but a directly opposite series of alternate reds and blacks must, of course, prove ruinous in the extreme. The martingale, which is merely going "double or quits," is the simplest of all systems. There are two martingales, the small and the great. In the small martingale the aim is to get back all previous losses in one _coup_, and to leave you a winner of one unit at the finish. The progression is as follows: 1, 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256, 512, 1024. If you played this system at a roulette table with a unit of five francs, it takes eleven consecutive losses to defeat you, and one loss less at the trente-et-quarante table, where the minimum stake is 20 francs. You may go on playing this martingale for weeks at a time without encountering an adverse run of sufficient magnitude to enable the bank to capture your stake. The only thing you have to fear is a run of 12 against you; you can only double up eleven times, and your last stake will be 5120 francs. Runs of 12, however, are rare. The great martingale aims at getting back all the previous losses and winning one unit for every _coup_ played. The progression is 1, 3, 7, 15, 31, 63, 127, 255, 511, 1023, and the player is defeated by ten consecutive losses at roulette, and nine at trente-et-quarante. When playing the little martingale the player has to double his stake every time he loses, in order to recover his losses and be one unit to the good. Whereas, in the great martingale he not only doubles his stake but adds one unit to each _coup_, and only stands one chance in 1024 of losing at each _coup_, that is, of encountering an adverse run of ten. A popular system is that known as the Labouchere system. Its main principle is to keep scratching out the top and bottom figures whenever you win, till no figures are left, and always to put down your loss when you lose, which, added to the topmost number, forms the next stake. Before beginning to play write down on a card 1, 2, 3, in this order:-- 1 2 3 Your object is to win six units, and you always stake the sum total of the top and bottom figures--1 + 3 = 4. If you win, you strike out the 3 and the 1:-- =1= 2 =3= Your next stake will now be 2. If you win again, your task is over, for you have won your six units. Suppose, however, as alas! most frequently happens, that you lose your first stake 1 + 3, you must add the figure 4 at the bottom of your score thus:-- 1 2 3 4 Your next stake will now be 1 + 4 = 5. We will then say that you win, in which case cross out the 1 and the 4, making your score:-- =1= 2 3 =4= The next stake would be 2 + 3. You lose, and your score stands:-- =1= 2 3 =4= 5 The next stake would be 2 + 5. You win, and you cross out 2 and 5:-- =1= =2= 3 =4= =5= The next stake would be 3, and if you win you cross out 3, and have won the six units that you started out to win. Not infrequently this system, after very nearly proving successful (one number only being left), goes entirely wrong and runs into very big figures, and in such a case the player is very lucky if he succeeds in regaining his losses and winning the six units originally sought for. More often than not he finds himself obliged to desist through lack of capital. The writer's own experience of this system, which he has thoroughly tested on several occasions at Monte Carlo, was that very frequently the six units would be won several times in succession with comparatively slight difficulty--at times, indeed, it appeared almost ridiculously easy to win. In the end, however, there invariably came a day when a very contrary state of affairs prevailed, and the money won returned, with interest, to the bank. It should be added that before the writer embarked upon his efforts to defeat the bank at Monte Carlo by means of this system, he gave it a thorough trial by dealing out the required number of packs of cards at trente-et-quarante, and noting the results of the various _coups_. In almost every case the system proved completely successful, as systems generally do when they are not being played for money. An exception to this was Lord Rosslyn's defeat by Sir Hiram Maxim, when the former's system, played for sham money, was beaten at the 3080th _coup_. Nevertheless the system in question is not a particularly bad one, were it not that it requires a considerable capital. Ten thousand units or more are essential, with £16,000 on the basis of a one-louis unit. If fortune should favour the player, the profit would be from five to six hundred louis a day. The principle of this system is to increase the stakes by one unit every time, without ever decreasing, until all previous losses are wiped out and one louis as well is gained for every _coup_ played. Two exceptions to this rule, however, exist. The first stake is always "one," but if you lose this, instead of your next stake being two, it is three; after that it should be four, five, six, seven, eight, etc., until your task is accomplished. The game is finished when you can wipe out all minus quantities from your score sheet and bring the result to +1. Suppose, therefore, your score sheet shows you to be -3, and your stake in the ordinary way ought to be 7; instead of staking 7 you would only stake 4, in order to arrive at the result of +1 if you win. In the event of your losing the stake of 4, your next stake will be 8, just as if you had staked 7 in the ordinary course of the game the previous _coup_. If you lose the 8, you would continue with 9, 10, 11, and so on. If you win two or three stakes of 1 at the commencement, they are considered as definite gains, and put away quite apart from your capital. In the event of your losing the first two stakes of 1 and 3, your position is:-- First loss -1 Second loss -3 -- Total loss -4 The object of the system being to win a unit per _coup_ as well as to recover any loss, in order to keep a clear record of the amount you require to win, it is best to add one unit to your losses after every _coup_. Supposing that the game is begun with four losing and three winning _coups_, it will be scored as follows:-- First loss 1 to which add 1 more. 1 -- Total -2 Second stake -3 and lose. -- Lost -5 to which add 1 more. 1 -- Total -6 Third stake -4 and lose. -- Lost -10 to which add 1 more. 1 -- Total -11 Fourth stake -5 and lose. -- Lost -16 to which add 1 more. 1 -- Total -17 Fifth stake +6 and win. Lost -11 to which add 1 more. 1 -- Total -12 Sixth stake +7 and win. -- Lost -5 to which add 1 more. 1 -- Total -6 Seventh stake 7 and win. -- Result +1 Result.--_Coups_ played, 7; _coups_ lost, 4; units won, 20. _Coups_ won, 3; units lost, 13. Total won, 7. The last stake, it will be observed, is only 7 instead of 8. This is because you only require to arrive at a result of +1. Had 8 been staked in the ordinary course and won, you would have won a unit more than you needed, but would have taken some unnecessary risk. Those desirous of giving various systems a trial should not omit to study the method of staking set forth in Mr. Victor Bethell's lively little book, _Ten Days at Monte Carlo_. A merit of this system is that it only seeks to win a certain moderate amount every day, and does not allure the player with hopes of immense and impossible gain. Most systems as a rule prove successful for a short time, and while this happy state of affairs prevails, the player, not unnaturally, congratulates himself upon having discovered an infallible method of overcoming the wiles of chance. Sooner or later, alas, comes the day when his laborious calculations prove quite powerless to defeat the bank, and clearly demonstrate that the success, which at one time seemed so certain and easy, was merely the result of having hit upon a vein of good luck. In all probability the best method of staking is the following, which was once carried out for some two months with complete success. The method in question was successfully worked by a gentleman (known to the present writer), who owing to the illness of a relative, was obliged to remain at Monte Carlo for a rather lengthy period of time. He was, it must be understood, very well off, and by no means a gambler. His plan was this: every day he put a hundred-franc note in his pocket, which he changed into five-franc bits in the Casino. With these twenty coins he commenced to play. His stake was usually but one or two of these coins at first, though sometimes he would lose his whole capital in a few moments trying to back winning numbers. If successful, any notes he might receive were put in his pocket-book not to be used for play. It was no uncommon thing for him to leave the Casino with a profit of a thousand francs. On the other hand, it would often occur that for a number of days in succession he would lose his hundred francs without hardly having won a stake at all. In the long run, however, he was a very considerable sum to the good, a comparatively small number of winning days having far more than compensated him for the large number of those on which the hundred francs had been speedily lost. Under no circumstances did he ever risk more than a hundred francs in one day. It was, of course, the system of putting all paper money in the pocket which caused this method to succeed. It should be added that when the hundred francs had rolled up into twenty or thirty louis at roulette the player often tried his luck with them at trente-et-quarante. The essential advantage of this method of staking is the limit imposed upon loss; under no circumstances can more than one hundred francs a day be lost, whilst when in luck a very large sum may be won. The method described above is not a bad one for any one who is making a prolonged stay at Monte Carlo, and is not desperately anxious to indulge in serious gambling; a better course to be adopted by those who are, is to decide exactly how much they are prepared to lose, take the whole of sum in question into the rooms one morning, divide it into a certain number of stakes, and with these play a limited number of _coups_ on the even chances. If successful, repeat this operation the next day with the winnings alone, and so on until a fairly substantial sum has been amassed, when the wisest course is to cease all further gambling for that visit. It must never be forgotten that the fewer _coups_ which are played the more chance there is of winning. Long sittings at the trente-et-quarante or roulette table are absolutely certain to end in loss, besides being inexpressibly tedious, trying to the eyes, and destructive to health. A man who plays a great part of the day and all the evening after dinner must certainly end by being a loser; whereas he who merely plays for a few minutes at a time has a very fair chance of ending up a winner, always provided, of course, that the fates are propitious. In the long run nothing is to be gained by making a toil of gaming, the only justifiable defence of which is that in moderation it affords a good deal of pleasurable though generally costly excitement. There are good methods of staking and bad methods; but there is not, and, so far as can be foreseen, never will be, a thoroughly reliable system. The best is that which minimises loss, acting as a check in the case of an unfavourable run. All complicated mathematical calculations undertaken with a view to defeating the bank are vain, for none of them take into consideration that most important and mysterious factor--_luck_--which so often seems to shun serious gamblers. "If I were resolved to win," said a lover of systems, "I should go very soberly with a hundred napoleons, and be content with winning one." "That would never do," was the reply of a player well versed in the fallacies of gamesters' calculations. "Better go, after a good dinner, with one napoleon, resolved to win a hundred." XI Difficulty of making money on the Turf--Big wins--Sporting tipsters and their methods--Jack Dickinson--"Black Ascots"--Billy Pierse--Anecdotes--Lord Glasgow--Lord George Bentinck--Lord Hastings--Heavy betting of the past--Charles II. founder of the English Turf--History of the latter--Anecdotes--Eclipse--Highflyer--The founder of Tattersall's--Old time racing--Fox--Lord Foley--Major Leeson--Councillor Lade--"Louse Pigott"--Hambletonian and Diamond--Mrs. Thornton match--Beginnings of the French Turf--Lord Henry Seymour--Longchamps--Mr. Mackenzie Grieves--Plaisanterie--Establishment of the Pari Mutuel in 1891--How the large profits are allocated--Conclusion. In the course of some remarks on racing made by Lord Rosebery at the 131st dinner of the Gimcrack Club he said:-- "I don't think any one need pursue the Turf with the idea of gain." This statement, though a discouraging one for sportsmen, is nothing more than the plain, unvarnished truth, as any one who cares to look into the matter can find out for himself. A quicker and more convincing method, open to those with plenty of funds, is to own race-horses. The Turf, as a means of making money, is indeed not to be considered seriously. Certain bookmakers, of course, have made, and do still make fortunes, but bookmaking cannot properly be called going on the Turf. Owners have also existed who, for a time, have reaped a rich harvest by the success of their horses. Over Hermit's Derby Mr. Chaplin is said to have landed an enormous stake, something between a hundred and a hundred and twenty thousand--he never received the whole of the amount which he won. Mr. John Hammond was also at times very successful in winning large sums. He is said to have cleared over £70,000 by the victory of Herminius in the Ascot stakes of 1888. This horse he had bought for two hundred and forty guineas! A singularly lucky owner was Mr. James Merry, who is supposed to have cleared over £80,000 when Thormanby won the Derby. Another big win was that of Mr. Naylor, who is supposed to have won £100,000 over Macaroni for the Derby of 1863. Nevertheless, from a financial point of view betting on horse-races is almost without exception disastrous, and, whether they know too much or know too little, men who systematically indulge in it to any great extent stand an excellent chance of being left with empty pockets. As for the general public, a number of whom are more or less given to risking an occasional bet, their chance of winning is absolutely infinitesimal. An individual who bets throughout the year is indeed very lucky if he loses only two-thirds of the money he has risked--as a rule he does far worse than this. The sporting papers, on which many rely, are of course genuinely anxious to assist their readers to find winners, but do not pretend to be infallible guides. Sporting journalists themselves, who should be in an excellent position to obtain reliable information, are not infrequently peculiarly unsuccessful in their own bets; probably few end the year on the winning side. The most expensive guides of all are, of course, the advertising tipsters, some of whom make quite large sums by issuing thoroughly unreliable vaticinations to a touchingly confiding clientele. Some time ago one of these men very cleverly took advantage of a newspaper competition, when a prize had been offered by a sporting paper for naming the most popular tipster of the day. Purchasing some thousands of coupons he put his own name on them, of course varying the writing to prevent suspicion. As a result of these tactics he was eventually adjudged to be the prize tipster, and, though the scheme cost him a good deal of money, it eventually brought considerable grist to his mill. The circulars and letters issued by these prophets are generally admirably calculated to increase the number of their followers. Not infrequently they adopt a high-flown style. One for instance, moved by purely philanthropic motives, declares that "when he casts his practised eye on the broad surface of struggling humanity and witnesses the slow and enduring perseverance or impetuous rush of the many to grapple with a cloud, he is seized with an intense desire to hold up the lamp of light to all." Another adopts a bluffer style and writes:-- DEAR SIR--DON'T WASTE YOUR MONEY. Let me entreat you not to miss to-morrow's GOLDEN PADDOCK WIRE; it will be honestly worth a £10 note. My RELATION connected with a certain WELL-KNOWN STABLE says, "Frank, my boy, get your money on at once; this is another 20 to 1 chance." A GOLD MINE is before us--miss this and you will miss a pile of GOLD and silver. OWNER and TRAINER HAVE planked their money down; both will travel with the GRAND ANIMAL (the name of which I will forward for 5s.) to-morrow by special train. Send a postal order and secure the name of the smartest three-year-old that ever came under the starters' orders or romped past the judge's box lengths ahead of all the favourites, winning clients and myself many HUNDREDS OF POUNDS. Yet another offers infallible information if clients will merely put a small portion of their stake on for him. As some of the horses he gives must win he probably does fairly well. Whilst most of such tipsters are but sorry guides, some are undoubtedly honest men and try to do their best for their clients. Such a one was Old Jack Dickinson, a thoroughly honest sporting tipster, who will be remembered by all race-goers of some years ago. This well-known character, who was a fine sprint runner in his day, bore a quite unblemished reputation, though a backer of horses and a professional vendor of tips. Old Jack was a regular church-goer in his own parish, where his death caused genuine sorrow. Though in his capacity as a Turf tipster he was at times compelled to issue his circulars on Sunday, this he did not like, and by way of salving his conscience in the matter he is said to have made a practice of devoting all the money he received from the Sunday information to church purposes, it being put into the collection box. On the Turf, exclusive of betting men, jockeys, and trainers, there are three classes--men of large fortune, with well and old-established studs, fixtures as it were; sporting men of moderate fortune, who confine themselves to four or five horses at a time, and run merely in their own part of the world; and lastly, men of small or no fortune, who run for profit more than amusement. It is the conduct of many of this last class which has at times been injurious to the Turf. The sporting owner, who has to pay large trainers' bills and meet the other inevitable charges incident to the sport of which he aspires to be a pillar, cannot reasonably hope to make a profit on his racing; even the sharp betting man is in many cases out of pocket at the end of a year. Expenses, such as travelling, hotel bills, and the like, amount to a considerable sum, and for this reason every supporter of the Turf is greatly handicapped before he even makes a bet. Layers as well as backers have large disbursements which they cannot avoid--as a matter of fact the vast majority of bookmakers who have died rich men have made their fortunes through commercial enterprises, though, of course, the moderate capital originally invested was made in the Ring. To acquire any considerable sum in this manner is by no means an easy thing. Much is heard about successful bookmakers; little of those who fail and disappear. If betting can ever be made profitable, it must be carried on in a most systematic and restrained manner. A few points in the odds make the difference often of some thousands; and it will require a man's whole time and attention to take advantage of any turn in the market. A young man who goes racing with the idea of making money is of necessity quickly disillusioned in the most unpleasant of ways. If he knows no racing men he is, of course, hopelessly at sea; but should he have means of obtaining really good information, his fate is generally even more deplorable, for some untoward incident almost invariably happens when a big _coup_ is on and the good thing goes down. Not a few, in despair at continual losses, make up their minds to wait for "absolute certainties," and lay heavy odds on some horse which it would seem cannot possibly be beaten, a method which usually proves very expensive in the end. Of all meetings Ascot seems most fatal to gamblers of this description. A particularly disastrous meeting was that of 1879. In the Vase, Silvio, 9 to 4 on, fell before Isonomy; Peter, 5 to 2 on for the Fern Hill Stakes, was beaten by Douranee; Victor Chief, 7 to 4 on, was fourth to Philippine for the Seventeenth New Biennial; Valentino second for the Maiden Plate at 5 to 4 on; Silvio, 6 to 4 on, was beaten in the Hardwicke; and Aventurier, 2 to 1, was defeated by Royal for the Plate of one hundred sovereigns, which concluded this woeful meeting. Another "Black Ascot" was that of 1882. 8 to 1 was laid on Geheimniss, which could only obtain second place in the Fernhill Stakes; 9 to 2 on St. Marguerite, third in the Coronation Stakes; 11 to 8 on Rookery, second in the New Stakes; and 9 to 4 on Foxhall, second in the Alexandra Plate. An appalling series of disasters for the unfortunate backer! Layers of odds on again suffered at Ascot in 1894, when 5 to 1 was laid on Delphos for the All Aged Stakes, and 5 to 1 on La Flèche for the Hardwicke on the Friday. The odds in each case were upset, both being second. At Ascot this year backers as usual did not fare particularly well, for notable upsets occurred in the Coventry Stakes, won by the Admiration colt at 20 to 1, and in the All Aged Stakes, in which 100 to 15 was laid on Hallaton which succumbed to his only rival Hillside. When everything is said and done, there can be no doubt that the individual who starts out, either as bookmaker or backer, with the idea that he is going to make a fortune must, as an old racing character (Billy Pierse, whose father fought at Culloden) used to say, "want it here." This expression was very popular with "T' au'd un" or the "Governor," as Billy was commonly designated on the Yorkshire courses. Once at Doncaster, when Sir John Byng had to decide a dispute as to jostling to the prejudice of a horse trained by "T' au'd un," the latter insisted that Sir John could not distinguish between a race and a charge of cavalry, and that he could by no earthly explanation be made to comprehend in what a "jostle" in racing consisted. So cantankerous was Billy on the subject that he accosted an old gentleman, whose erudition he held in high esteem, in the following manner: "Tell me, sir, wasn't this Sir J. Byng's father or grandfather hanged?" "No, Mr. Pierse," was the reply, "not hanged; probably you allude to the Admiral, who was shot." "I thowt," rejoined Billy, "it was sommat o' t' sowort, an' it's much of a muchness between hanging and shooting; but I'll uphoud ye that this Sir John Byng will never do for the Turf--he may be well enough for a General, but he'll never do for the Turf! He wants it here, sir," added Billy, putting his finger in a most expressive manner on his forehead, "he wants it here!" The maxims of "T' au'd un" were held in great respect, and the Duke of Cleveland, for whom he won several races on Haphazard, used frequently to ask the old man (who had had his last mount in the St. Leger of 1819) to Raby. Concerning these visits Billy used to say, "I never forgot that I was Billy Pierse--I was useful or I wouldn't have been theer." This was to some extent true, for the Duke had a high opinion of his judgment in Turf matters. A favourite saying of Old Billy, and one which afforded him much comfort, was, "I've done as many as have done me." Nevertheless he was straight enough, according to the Turf ethics of his day. Within the last twenty-five years there have been many changes in connection with Turf speculation. Ante-post betting, for instance, is now practically obsolete, whilst starting price betting, unknown in old days, has come into vogue; and, finally, the huge wagers formerly quite common have become things of the past, a state of affairs which would be little to the taste of men of the type of the fifth Lord Glasgow did they still exist. This nobleman's love of wagering enormous sums excited attention even in an age when high gambling was not generally viewed with anything like the severity which prevails to-day, when Stock Exchange speculation is the favourite mode of attaining complete and speedy impecuniosity. The evening before the Derby of 1843 Lord Glasgow, then Lord Kelburne, was at Crockford's, when Lord George Bentinck inquired if any one would lay him three to one against his horse, Gaper. Lord Kelburne said he should be delighted. [Illustration: (THE PRINCE REGENT.) (COLONEL O'KELLY.) BETTING. By Rowlandson.] "Remember," said Lord George, "I'm not after a small bet." "Well," rejoined Lord Kelburne, "I suppose £90,000 to £30,000 will suit you." This staggered the owner of Gaper, who was obliged to admit that he had never dreamt of taking such a large bet. Lord Kelburne was rather annoyed. "I thought you wanted to do it 'to money,'" said he sharply; "however, I see I was wrong." As early as 1823 this sporting peer had created a sensation at the Star Inn at Doncaster, by offering to lay 25 to 1 in hundreds against Brutandorf for the St. Leger, afterwards repeating the offer in thousands. On the St. Leger of 1824 Jerry won him some £17,000, but three years later he lost £27,000, Mr. Gully's much-fancied Derby winner, Mameluke, being beaten by Matilda. The victory of this filly, which was very popular with the Yorkshire crowd, is commemorated at Stapleton Park, near Pontefract--where her owner, the Hon. E. Petre, lived--by a chiming clock placed over the stables, known as the "Matilda clock," which is appropriately surmounted by a "race-horse weathercock." Lord George Bentinck is said to have won no less than £100,000 by betting in one year (1845), but his racing expenses amounted to an enormous sum. He won £12,000 by the victory of Cotherstone in the Derby, and it is said would have profited to the extent of some £135,000 had Gaper proved the winner of that classic race. His successes as an owner, though considerable, hardly compensated him for the immense amount of time, thought, and money which he expended upon racing matters. Crucifix, it is true, won the Two Thousand, the One Thousand, and the Oaks in 1840, but Lord George never won the Derby, though if he had not parted with his stud in 1846 he would in all probability have done so, for Mr. Mostyn in his purchase acquired Surplice, who became the winner in 1848. The victory much agitated his former owner when he heard of it. Sir Joseph Hawley was a very heavy better in his time, though at the end of his Turf career he began a crusade against the evils of plunging--nevertheless, not very long before, he had taken £40,000 to £600 about each of the fillies he had entered for the Derby. The enormous bets made by the ill-timed Marquis of Hastings are notorious. Now and then he hit the Ring very hard--when Lecturer won the Cesarewitch, for instance, he was a gainer of no less than £75,000--and his Turf winnings in stakes were also considerable for two or three years. In 1864 they amounted to £10,000, in 1866 to £12,000, and in 1867 to over £30,000. Hermit's Derby, however, in the same year is said to have cost him £140,000; and even had Marksman, who was second, won, he would have lost £120,000. This spendthrift nobleman was anything but shrewd as a plunger. He had made his book so badly that, though he stood to lose heavily, he would only have profited to the extent of a few thousands had Vauban, which was his best horse, been first past the post. In 1868 the Marquis, a broken-down, ruined man, passed to his grave at the early age of twenty-six. There was very heavy betting in the old days. Davies, the celebrated bookmaker, for instance, more than once made a Derby book amounting to £100,000. As a matter of fact he is said to have generally lost money over the Derby and Oaks, and won it over the St. Leger. When Daniel O'Rourke won the Derby he lost about £50,000 (some say almost double this sum), having laid a great deal of money at 100 to 1. Catherine Hayes also hit him hard, and over West Australian he lost £48,000, of which £30,000 went to the owner, Mr. Bowes. In his latter years Davies rather avoided ante-post betting, especially on the Derby. The victory of Teddington in 1851 took something not far short of £90,000 out of his pockets, one cheque alone sent out by him to Mr. Greville being for £15,000. The Derby in question was very costly to the Ring in general, which lost something like £150,000. The most considerable sum, however, ever won by the great racing public of small means was when Voltigeur won the St. Leger in 1850. The excitement during the deciding heat with Russborough was probably the greatest ever seen on any race-course; and on the evening of the following day, when he won the Doncaster Cup, beating the Flying Dutchman, many of the Yorkshiremen caroused all night. As one of them said, "Who'd go to bed when Voltigeur's won the St. Leger and the Cup?" Whilst racing possesses some claim to be considered a serious sport owing to the undoubted improvement which it has effected in the breed of horses, its most ardent supporters have been men of pleasure. The founder of the English Turf, indeed, was the "Merry Monarch," though there had been horse-racing for bells long before his time. Charles the Second did everything he could to improve horsemanship in England. He it was who induced a celebrated French riding master, Foubert by name, to come over and settle in England. This Frenchman set up a riding academy near what is now Regent Street. His name is still perpetuated by "Foubert's Passage." Charles, who knew a good deal about most things, possessed, it is said, much knowledge of horses, and was himself an experienced and able rider. He became a great supporter of the Turf, gave many prizes to be run for, and delighted in witnessing races. When he resided at Windsor the horses ran on Datchet-mead; but the most distinguished spot for these spectacles was Newmarket, a place which was first chosen on account of the firmness of the ground. Remains of the house in which Charles lived at what became the head-quarters of the Turf still exist. It was originally purchased by the "Merry Monarch" from an Irish Peer, Lord Thomond. Here it was that Nell Gwynne is supposed to have held her infant out of the window as Charles passed down the Palace Gardens to his stables, and apostrophised him to the effect that if the child was not made a Duke upon the spot she would drop it. When the King went to see this palace, as it was called, which he had caused to be built at Newmarket, he thought the rooms too low; but the architect, Sir Christopher Wren, who was of small stature, did not agree. Walking through the rooms he looked up at the King and said, "Please your Majesty, I think they are high enough." The King squatted down to Sir Christopher's height, and creeping about in that posture, cried, "Aye, Sir Christopher, I think they are high enough." During his visits to the little town Charles usually spent the morning in coursing or playing tennis, repairing to the Heath about three to witness racing, it being the custom for the King and his retinue of courtiers and ladies to ride alongside or after the contending steeds, which on their arrival at the winning post were saluted with the blare of trumpets and the beating of drums. Most of the races in Charles' day would appear to have consisted of matches to decide wagers previously laid. The Whip which is annually run for at Newmarket has sometimes been said to be the identical one which Charles II. (not George II.) was in the habit of riding with, and which he presented to some nobleman, whose arms it bears, as being the owner of the best horse in England. The whip itself is of very antique appearance, and by no means "a splendid trophy." The handle, which is very heavy, is of silver, with a ring at the end of it for a wristband, which is made of the mane of Eclipse. During this reign the Turf became a popular and aristocratic institution. The Merry Monarch even condescended to ride himself, and rode a match at Newmarket in 1671, on which occasion his horse Woodcock was beaten. Charles kept and entered horses in his own name, and by his attention and generosity added importance and lustre to the institution over which he presided. Bells, the ancient reward of swiftness, were now no longer given; a silver bowl or cup of the value of one hundred guineas succeeded the tinkling prize. On this royal gift the exploits of the successful horse, together with his pedigree, were usually engraven to publish and perpetuate his fame. James the Second is reputed to have been a good horseman, but his reign was too short and troublesome to permit him to indulge his inclinations as regards horses. He was a lover of hunting, and ever preferred English mounts, several of which he had always in his stables after he became an exile in France. When William the Third ascended the throne, he not only added to the plates given at different places in the kingdom, but made every attempt at improving horsemanship. Though he was a monarch of considerable austerity, this king once matched a horse of his own for a stake of two thousand guineas. Queen Anne continued the bounty of her predecessors, with the addition of several plates. Her Consort, George, Prince of Denmark, is said to have taken infinite delight in horse-racing, and to have obtained from the Queen the grant of several plates allotted to different places. Towards the beginning of the eighteenth century a statute of Queen Anne was enacted with a view to the restriction of betting. Very great sums of money changed hands owing to a match run at Newmarket between the gentlemen of the South and those of the North. It is almost superfluous to add that the proverbial shrewdness of the Northerner was fully demonstrated on this occasion. Queen Anne herself was, however, a supporter of the Turf, running horses in her own name in matches at Newmarket and York. Towards the close of the reign of George the First he discontinued the plates, and in lieu of each gave the sum of one hundred guineas. In the middle of the eighteenth century the Turf had fallen into some disrepute, but the Duke of Cumberland did much to revive the glories which had somewhat languished since the days of Charles II. He it was who first instituted the race meeting at Ascot. The Duke was a born gambler, and used when out hunting to play at hazard with Lord Sandwich, throwing a main on every green hill and under every green tree whenever the hounds checked. Though cheery enough in the hunting field, he was anything but tender-hearted when pursuing his avocation as a soldier; indeed his severity at times became cruelty, which gained for him the nickname of "the Butcher." The day after the decisive battle of Culloden, in the year 1745, the General, or as he was popularly styled, Duke William, was riding over the scene of battle in company with his officers, among whom was Colonel Wolfe, afterwards the hero of Quebec, then a young man. Among the dead and dying stretched on the stricken field, one was so far recovered as to be able to sit upright. Looking at the poor wretch, the Duke said to the young Colonel by his side; "Wolfe, shoot me that rebel." Wolfe glared back at his prince and commander, and, with a flushed countenance which showed his indignation, replied: "Your Royal Highness, I am a soldier, not an executioner." The Duke turned his back upon Wolfe and did not utter another word. If, however, the Duke, as the saying went, was a "very devil in his boots," he was all right out of them and good-natured enough when racing. Being at a Newmarket meeting just before the horses started, he missed his pocket-book, containing some bank-notes. When the knowing ones came about him and offered several bets, he said he had lost his money already and could not afford to venture any more that day. The horse which the Duke had intended to back was beaten, so he consoled himself, as he said, with the thought that the loss of his pocket-book only anticipated the evil, as if he had betted, he would have paid away as much to the worthies of the Turf. The race, however, was no sooner finished than a veteran half-pay officer presented His Royal Highness with his pocket-book, saying he had found it near the stand, but had not an opportunity of approaching him before. To this the Duke most generously replied; "I am glad it has fallen into such good hands--keep it. Had it not been for this accident, it would have been by this time among the blacklegs and thieves of Newmarket." In 1764 the Duke of Cumberland matched his famous horse, King Herod, against the Duke of Grafton's Antinous for £1000 over the Beacon Course at Newmarket. This contest excited intense interest, and more than £100,000 is said to have changed hands over the victory of Herod, who won by what was then called half a neck. In the annals of the Turf, however, Duke William is best remembered on account of the fact that he bred the greatest horse of all time, "Eclipse." This animal, whose wonderful powers as a racer have won him unparalleled fame, was got by Marske (a son of Squirt) out of Spiletta, a bay mare foaled in 1749 by Regulus, a son of the Godolphin Arabian. Eclipse was foaled in 1764, during the great eclipse of that year. When, at the death of the Duke, His Royal Highness's stud was brought to the hammer, Eclipse was purchased as a colt by Mr. Wildman (who appears to have had some insight into his value), under very curious circumstances. Mr. Wildman, who had, it was reported, been put into possession of the extraordinary promise evinced by a particular chestnut colt when a yearling, adopted the following questionable measures in order to make sure of him. When he arrived at the place of sale, he produced his watch and insisted that the auction had commenced before the hour which had been announced in the advertisements, and that the lots should be put up again. In order, however, to prevent a dispute, it was agreed by the auctioneer and company that Mr. Wildman should have his choice of any particular lot. By these means, it is generally believed, he became possessed of Eclipse at the moderate price of seventy or seventy-five guineas. Eclipse did not appear upon the Turf till he was five years old, and so invincibly bad was his temper that it was for some time uncertain whether he would not be raced as a gelding. It is by mere accident, indeed, that the most celebrated of English stallions was preserved to adorn the Calendar with the glories of his descendants. In the neighbourhood of Epsom Downs there lived a man of the name of Ellerton, who, however, was better known by the sobriquet of Hilton, and who united the occupations of poacher and rough-rider. To him, after all else had signally failed, Eclipse was handed over as an incorrigible, and he had recourse to the kill-or-cure system. He was at him day and night, frequently bringing him home at daybreak, after a poaching excursion, with a load of hares strung across his back. Twelve months of this regimen brought him sufficiently to his senses to fit him to be brought to the post, and once there, he ran because it was his pleasure to do so. Still he never could be raced like any other horse. Fitzpatrick, who rode him in almost all his races, never dared to hold him, or do more than sit quiet in his saddle. All through his Turf career his temper was wretched, and very seriously interfered with his value as a racer. His extraordinary superiority was also so palpable that latterly no odds could be got about him save by stratagems. One of these was very clever. For a race in which there were several horses engaged, when O'Kelly failed in getting any money on no-matter-what odds, he took them to a large amount that he placed every horse in it! This he did by naming Eclipse first and all the others nowhere, winning by his horse distancing the field. In 1769, Wildman and O'Kelly were joint-owners of Eclipse, the latter, however, soon after becoming the sole owner at the price of 1750 guineas. At a late period of his life, when an offer to purchase him was made to O'Kelly, these were the terms demanded--£20,000 down, an annuity of £500 for his (O'Kelly's) life, and the right of having three mares every year stinted to him as long as he lived. This "horse of horses" was short in the forehand, and high in the hips, which gave elasticity to his speed. Upon dissection the muscles were found to be of unparalleled size--a proof of the intimate relation between muscular power and extraordinary swiftness. No horse of his day would appear to have had the shadow of a chance against him. Eclipse died February 26th, 1789, aged twenty-five, at Cannons, in Middlesex, to which place he had been removed from Epsom about six months previously, in a machine, constructed for the purpose, drawn by two horses, and attended by a confidential groom. When his owner, old O'Kelly, died at his house in Piccadilly on December 28th, 1787, he bequeathed Eclipse and Dungannon to his brother Philip. Another famous horse was Highflyer, which received his name from having been foaled in a paddock, in which were a number of highflyer walnut trees. He was named by Lord Bolingbroke at a large dinner-party at Sir Charles Bunbury's. The horse in question was the cause of considerable jealousy between Colonel O'Kelly, the owner of Eclipse, and Mr. Tattersall, the founder of the celebrated institution at Hyde Park Corner, whose prosperity was greatly increased by the purchase of Highflyer. "The Hammer and Highflyer" indeed became a favourite toast of the day. Both owners felt the necessity of crossing by the blood of their respective stallions, but each was afraid of increasing the celebrity of the other's horse thereby. The two men were widely different in character. Colonel O'Kelly (of whom an account has already been given) piqued himself upon being descended from the first race of Milesian kings, although he had served for the greatest part of his life some of the humblest offices. It was his boast that he bred and ran his horses for fame. He certainly sacrificed many thousands of pounds in aspiring to the glory of being the Jehu of the day. Mr. Tattersall bred for profit. The former never sold anything before he had trained and ran it at Newmarket; the latter never trained anything, with the exception of one mare early in life, which was of no note. The Irishman matched everything--the Lancashire man sold everything. The one was hasty and impetuous in betting upon the descendants of Eclipse. The other was cautious, and left it to those who had bought them to risk their money upon the progeny of Highflyer. In a word, they resembled each other in nothing, except, it was wickedly said, their total ignorance of horses and extreme good fortune. Mr. Tattersall in the decline of life was more than usually anxious that his son should persevere in keeping stallions and breeding race-horses. O'Kelly directed by his will that all his stud should be sold as soon as possible after his death. Mr. Tattersall's son and heir sold the whole stud after his death. O'Kelly's nephew and executor was obliged to sell under the direction of the will, but he bought most of the horses for his own use. He was a cultivated man, and had been well brought up by his uncle. Mr. Tattersall used to say that there was no part of Colonel O'Kelly's conduct which he wished he had imitated except that in giving an excellent education to his heir. Mr. Tattersall was a very economical man. When Highflyer died, many suggestions were made that the horse should be skinned and stuffed, as had been done by Colonel O'Kelly in the case of Eclipse. Mr. Tattersall, however, replied that he did not see the use of stuffing him with hay after he was dead, as he could no longer cover; he had stuffed him full enough with hay and corn when he was alive and producing money. Mr. Tattersall had very practical ideas about such things, and when inspecting his cattle whilst they were fattening, was often overheard to say, "Eat away, my good creature! eat away, and get fat soon. The butcher is waiting for you, and I want money." Mr. Tattersall's prosperous career arose in a great measure from a successful speculation in Scotland. Having heard that a Scotch nobleman's stud was to be sold there, he applied to a friend to go his halves in the purchase. "If you will find money, for I have none," said he, "I will find skill, and you shall have a good thing." The sum was deposited, and he went to the sale, partly by coach and partly on foot, buying nearly all the horses for a trifle. Upon his return, he sold a few at York for more money than the whole of them had cost, making several hundred pounds out of the rest from purchasers at Newmarket and in London. Mr. Tattersall used often to say this was the first money he ever possessed above a few pounds. Having thus acquired a little capital, he soon increased it by similar means, and also, of course, by his business at Hyde Park Corner. At that time, though sales of horses by auction were occasionally held, there was no regular repository or fixed sales at stated periods, the lack of which was much felt in the sporting world. Perceiving that a golden opportunity lay ready to hand, Mr. Tattersall, who was well-known to the gentlemen of the Turf and to the horse-dealers, offered his services as an auctioneer, and solicited their patronage. Lord Grosvenor warmly espoused his cause, and built for him the extensive premises at Hyde Park Corner, where Mr. Tattersall died. His success was astonishingly rapid. He soon enlarged the premises and built stands for carriages, which were sold by private contract; as well as kennels for hounds and other dogs, which were sold by auction. He converted a part of his house into a tavern and coffee-house, and fitted up two of the most elegant rooms in London for the use of the Jockey Club, who held their meetings there for some years. He allotted another apartment to the use of betting men. This was supported by an annual subscription of a guinea from each member, and was called the betting-room. Here prominent Turfites assembled every sale-day to lay wagers on the events of future races, and here they met to pay and receive the money won and lost at what were called country races, in contradistinction to the races at Newmarket. His sales were not confined to Hyde Park Corner; he constantly attended the Newmarket meetings and the races at York, where he had considerable employment, and thereby kept up his connection with the jockeys in different parts of the kingdom, who sent their horses to him from all the various districts. Racing as carried on in the eighteenth century was on a very different scale from that of the present day. Our ancestors were contented with very small stakes and but few races in a day. In 1755 there were but three meetings at Newmarket, which gave fifteen racing days. Thirteen stakes were run for, the gross amount of which was £1255. There were twenty heats. Besides the stakes there were twenty-nine matches, which made the daily average of races something over three. [Illustration: E.O. ON A COUNTRY RACE-COURSE. By Rowlandson.] In those days noblemen and gentlemen met to enjoy each other's society and test the merits of their horses rather than for purposes of gain, the stakes being, from a pecuniary view, a matter of comparative indifference. At the small country meetings the racing was spread over a greater space of time than at present; all of them lasted three days and many a week. Dinners and balls were the order of the day, the race meeting being an event which was looked forward to throughout the year. A number of the more aristocratic spectators were mounted, and followed the horses as they ran. So great, indeed, became the disorder caused at race meetings by this riding with and after the horses during racing, that the Chief Magistrate of one provincial town (who, it should be added, had Irish blood in his veins) caused a placard to be posted up just before the races, intimating "that no _gentleman_ would be allowed to ride on the course, _except the horses_ that were to run." Racing was formerly a very rough-and-ready affair, and much was tolerated on a race-course which would be sternly dealt with to-day. Gambling-booths and E.O. tables were easily to be found, whilst little order was maintained on the course. At Tavistock Races in 1815, a sailor with one arm, who had just been paid off, exhibited his skill in horsemanship, to the no small annoyance of everybody, till at length, checking his Bucephalus at full gallop, he was thrown with great violence, by which his right leg was dreadfully fractured. Cocked-hat races and other eccentric contests were not infrequent features at race meetings. At Hereford races in 1822 a race between three velocipedes, commonly called hobby-horses, created much mirth. They were ridden by three men, dressed in scarlet, yellow, and white jackets. Much skill was displayed, and every exertion used, with the result that white won, scarlet and yellow being both upset, and the riders each receiving a hearty bump, to the great diversion of all the spectators. The Turf of former days eased the aristocracy of a good deal of money, and many a fine estate changed hands owing to the vicissitudes of racing. Fox of course lost very large sums. He used to declare after the defeat of his horses that they had as much bottom as other people's, but that they were such slow, good animals that they never went fast enough to tire themselves! Occasionally, however, he was lucky. In April 1772 he won nearly £16,000--the greater part of which was the result of bets against the celebrated Pincher, who lost the match by only half-a-neck, two to one having been laid on him. At the Spring meeting in 1789 Fox is also said to have won about £50,000; and at the October meeting next year he realised £4000 by the sale of two of his horses--Seagull and Chanticleer. In 1788 Fox and the Duke of Bedford won eight thousand guineas between them at the Newmarket Spring meeting. Fox and Lord Barrymore had a match for a large sum; this was given as a dead heat, and the bets were off. On taking office in 1783, Fox sold his horses, and erased his name from several of the Clubs of which he was a member. In a short time, however, he again purchased a stud, and in October attended the Newmarket meeting, when a King's messenger appeared amongst the sportsmen on the Heath in quest of the Minister, for whom he bore despatches. The messenger, as was usual on these occasions, wore his badge of office, the greyhound, and his arrival created quite a stir on the course. In 1790, Fox's horse, Seagull, won the Oatlands Stakes at Ascot of one hundred guineas (nineteen subscribers), beating the Prince of Wales's Escape, Serpent, and several of the very best horses of that year. The Prince was much mortified at this, and immediately matched Magpie against the winner, two miles, for five hundred guineas. This match, on which immense sums were depending, was, four days later, won with ease by Seagull. At this time Lord Foley and Mr. Fox raced together. Lord Foley died in 1793; he entered upon the Turf with a clear £18,000 a year, and some £100,000 in ready money--he left it without ready money, with an encumbered estate, and with a constitution injured by cares and anxieties which embittered the end of his life. Many other patricians were practically ruined on the Turf at about the same time, some by continuous ill-luck, but more owing to the machinations of the many doubtful characters who were experts at what was then known as "throwing the bull over the bridge"--a cant phrase formerly used by frequenters of the race-course to indicate a sporting swindle. The phrase in question, it may be added, had its origin in the cruel pastime of bull-baiting. When such an orgy of cruelty was over, and the militia of hell which had witnessed it surfeited with blood, the carcass of the bull was dragged to a bridge, over which his quivering remains were thrown into the water beneath! Many were the queer freaks and fancies of the great pillars of the Turf of the past. Sir Charles Bunbury, for instance, who trained his horses privately under his own eye, made the lads who groomed them wear his colours whilst at their task, in order to accustom the animals to the racing jackets and prevent all chance of nervousness in public. His horses were never allowed to be sweated or tried on a Good Friday, on account of an accident which had on one of these anniversaries happened to a couple of his racers, who had both fallen and broken their backs, each jockey having got a fractured thigh. All this, however, has been written of time after time; indeed, the fascinating story of the Turf has found many admirable chroniclers. Nevertheless, these have hardly touched upon some of the more obscure figures, who seem to have escaped notice. Such a one was Major Leeson, a well-known sporting character at the close of the eighteenth century, who may be taken as typical of the sharp racing man of humble origin, and who, having by astuteness attained a certain prosperity, was eventually reduced to beggary by the allurements of gambling. An Irishman of obscure birth, Mr. Leeson originally obtained his commission through the patronage of a Scottish nobleman, by whose munificence he was sent to school at Hampstead, and afterwards to the French military academy of Angers. Whilst at this seminary he fought a duel with a well-known baronet, and both combatants displayed great courage. Leeson was soon after appointed a lieutenant in a regiment of foot, in which he conducted himself as a soldier and a gentleman. During his military career, Leeson was especially popular with his men, whose liking for their young officer almost amounted to adoration, owing to his ardent championship of their interests. While they were quartered in a country town, one of the sergeants, a sober, steady man, was wantonly attacked by a blacksmith, who was the terror of the place. The sergeant defended himself with great spirit as long as he was able, but was obliged, after a hard contest, to yield to his athletic antagonist. This intelligence reached Mr. Leeson's ears the next morning, and without delay he set out in pursuit of the victor, whom he found boasting of the triumph he had gained over the "lobster," as he called the sergeant. The very expression kindled Leeson's indignation into such a flame, that he aimed a blow at the fellow's temple, which was warded off and returned with such force that Leeson lay for some minutes extended on the ground. Leeson, however, renewed the attack; and his onslaughts were made with such rapidity and success, that the son of Vulcan was eventually stretched senseless on the ground. In order to complete the triumph, Leeson placed him in a wheel-barrow; and in this situation he was wheeled through all the town amidst the acclamations of the populace. Soon after this, Mr. Leeson exchanged his lieutenancy for a cornetcy of dragoons. He now began to be attracted by the seductions of gaming and the Turf, both of which exercised a fascination over his mind which he was unable to resist. Fortune was kind, and an almost uninterrupted series of success led him to Newmarket, where his evil genius, in the name of good luck, converted him in a short time into a professional gambler. At one time he had a complete stud at Newmarket; and his famous horse Buffer carried off all the capital plates for three years and upwards, though once beaten at Egham, when 15 to 1 was laid on it. Major Leeson's discernment in racing matters soon became generally remarked, and he was consulted by all the sharpest frequenters of the Turf on critical occasions. In later years, however, Major Leeson experienced the ill-fortune which is too often the lot of gamblers. A long run of ill-luck preyed upon his spirits, soured his temper, and drove him to that last resource of an enfeebled mind--the brandy bottle. As he could not shine in his wonted splendour, he sought the most obscure public-houses in the purlieus of St. Giles, where he used to pass whole nights in the company of his countrymen of the lowest class. Overwhelmed by debt and worn-out body and soul, he was constantly pursued by the terrors of the law, and alternately imprisoned by his own fears or confined in the King's Bench, till, a broken and miserable man, he welcomed death as a friend come to relieve him of an almost insupportable load. An eccentric supporter of the Turf, who died in 1799, was Councillor Lade. It was his highest ambition to be thought a distinguished member of the sporting world; but in this, as in the more contracted circle of private life, he was not destined to cut a conspicuous figure, being by nature much better calculated for an obscure place in the background. During the last twenty years of his life he kept a miserable lot of spindle-shanked brood mares, colts, and fillies at Cannon Park, between Kingsclere and Overton in Hampshire--a place which, owing to its barrenness, was quite unsuited for breeding horses. His successes on the Turf were insignificant. During the last twelve years of his life he hardly ever brought less than six, seven, or eight horses annually to the post for country plates (never till the last two or three years presuming to sport his name at Newmarket); nevertheless, few of them, if any, ever realised his expectations, or paid one-third of the expenses in the way of breeding, breaking, training, running, or sale. Councillor Lade's almost constant sequence of disappointments originated in one single cause strikingly palpable to every eye but his own, which was their breeder's parsimony. His mares were in a wretched and deplorable state of emaciation during the whole time of bearing their foals, whilst a systematic starvation of both dams and offspring when foals, and a miserable sustenance barely enough to support life when weaned, totally nullified his chances of success upon the Turf. It was no uncommon thing to see the Councillor's favourite brood mare, Laetitia, and many others with their foals, in the fertile months of May and June, upon the side of a barren, burnt-up hill, with barely pasture sufficient to keep even the dam in existence, without even a possibility of affording half the nutriment necessary for the unfortunate foal. Owing to these highly injudicious and cruel methods, his stud, even when of superior blood, was always inferior in bone and strength to its rivals, there being in it never more than one horse in every eight or ten with constitutional stamina sufficient to bear the training necessary before going to the post. When after his death the Councillor's wretched stud were on their way to be sold by auction they excited universal pity from the humane in the towns and villages through which they passed. Many of the horses sold for the trifling sum of two or three guineas each, owing to the wretched condition of the poor animals. Councillor Lade, in his Turf transactions as elsewhere, was so consistently parsimonious even to those whom it would have been good policy to conciliate that every man's hand was against him, even that of his own servants. One of his manias was to run his horses as much as possible at race meetings near his home, in order to avoid the expenses of travelling. The years 1797 and 1798 were the most prosperous of his Turf career. Seven of his horses went to the post for twenty-four plates and purses, of which Truss, Will, and Grey Pilot won seven fifties--two at Ascot, two at Abingdon, and one each at Reading, Winchester, and Stockbridge. Councillor Lade was in himself a singular and unsociable man, seldom seen in company, upon the race-course or elsewhere. Cynically cold and innately parsimonious, few cared to sojourn beneath what might be justly termed, in more senses than one, a habitation without a roof. Hospitality was alien to the spirit of Cannon Park, and the building itself was one entire mass of chilling frigidity which betokened a total lack of good cheer. The owner was constantly involved in pecuniary disputes and lawsuits with his dependents, in which he was usually worsted. It was not infrequently his practice to drive his curricle and greys without a servant the fifty-seven miles to Cannon Park, not even taking them once out of the harness; a handful of hay, and two or three quarts of water at Salt Hill, and Spratley's, the Bear, at Reading, in addition to the turnpikes, constituted the entire expense of the journey, it being an irrevocable opinion of his that servants on the road were more troublesome and expensive than their masters. The Councillor was married to a lady of excellent family, who, owing to mental trouble, lived in seclusion. This, however, did not trouble him much, for he took care to make up for the lack of a wife's society by a profusion of female friends, who enlivened his elegant house in Pall Mall, his rural cottage near Turnham Green, and even his unadorned inhospitable mansion at Cannon Park. Another unpleasant Turf character about this date was "Louse Pigott," a man of good Shropshire family. The slovenly manner of dressing and general unkempt appearance of this gentleman had obtained for him his unsavoury nickname. He had originally been possessed of some wealth, but going racing soon lost practically his whole fortune. Devoid of means, and prompted apparently by the same spirit which induces unsuccessful modern gamblers at Monte Carlo to apply to the authorities for a sum sufficient to enable them to leave the Principality of Monaco, Mr. Pigott conceived the original idea of making representations to the Jockey Club, with a view to receiving pecuniary aid. Needless to say his petition was treated with a complete lack of consideration which, it was said, so enraged him that in revenge he wrote the libellous work called _The Jockey Club_, a volume of short but scandalous biographies of persons well known in the sporting world. Though Pigott appears to have escaped punishment for this, the publishers, Messrs. Ridgway & Symonds, were incarcerated in Newgate. "Louse Pigott" appears to have been an eccentric character in many ways, for one September evening in 1793 he got into great trouble at the London Coffee-House, Ludgate Hill, where, sitting with a friend, Dr. William Hodgson, he became very vociferous in giving toasts of a disloyal kind, finally loudly proposing success to the "French Republic." This was immediately resented by a gentleman present, who, rising to his feet, proposed "The King," a toast which was drunk with cheers by all present except Pigott and his companion, who made use of such improper expressions that peace officers were sent for, who removed the apostles of revolution to the lock-up. The next morning they were charged with drinking "the French Republic and the overthrow of the present system of Government and all Governments of Europe except the French; likewise of speaking disrespectfully of the King, the Duke of York, Lord Mayor, and other persons in high authority. They had," it was deposed, "called the Prince of Hesse a swine-dealer, and Ministers in general robbers and highwaymen." Finally, when being conveyed to the cells, they had shouted from the coach windows, "The French Republic, and Liberty while you live." Being unable to find bail, the two prisoners were sent back to prison, to remain there till tried at the ensuing Old Bailey Sessions. The bill preferred against Pigott, however, was eventually thrown out and he was discharged. The general comment upon his release was that "he who is born to be hanged will never be drowned," and vice versa. His companion, Dr. Hodgson, was less fortunate, and received some punishment for the advanced sentiments which he had uttered. Probably the shrewdest nobleman who ever went racing was the eccentric but highly astute "Old Q." At the time when he owned race-horses he was generally hand-in-hand with his jockey, Dick Goodison, with whom he had a perfect understanding. During a lengthy connection with the Turf, "Old Q." never displayed the least want of philosophy upon the unexpected result of a race. As a matter of fact he never entered into an engagement but where there was a great probability of his becoming the winner. In all emergencies his Grace preserved an invariable equanimity, and his cool serenity never forsook him, even in moments of the greatest surprise or disappointment. A singular proof of this occurred at Newmarket just as the horses were about to start for a sweepstakes. His Grace was engaged in a betting conversation with various members of the Jockey Club, when one of his lads, who was going to ride (in consequence of his light weight), tactlessly called him aside, asked him, too soon and too loud, How he was to ride that day? Perfectly convinced this had been overheard, his Grace, with well-affected surprise, exclaimed, "Why, take the lead and keep it to be sure! How the devil would you ride?" Matches were a great feature of the period, and very large sums were staked. An historic match was that between Sir Harry Vane's Hambletonian and Mr. Cookson's Diamond for three thousand guineas, run over the Beacon Course during the Newmarket Craven meeting of 1799. Hambletonian, who was ridden by Buckle, carried eight stone three pounds, and Diamond, ridden by Dennis Fitzpatrick (Deny), eight stone; the betting was five to four on Hambletonian. Though both gallant steeds have now long since mouldered into dust, together with the gay company of sportsmen who assembled to see them run, the memory of their desperate neck-and-neck struggle over that terrible last half-mile is not forgotten, and will ever shine amongst the chronicles of equine fame as the most sporting and gamely contested match of all time. Hambletonian, a bright bay and a grandson of Eclipse, was a wonderful horse. He was only once beaten, at the York August meeting 1797, when he ran against Deserter and Spread Eagle, and took it into his head to bolt out of the course and leap a ditch. Diamond, a beautiful brown bay, smaller than Hambletonian, was got by Highflyer. He was the more compact horse of the two. Hambletonian being a Yorkshire bred horse, the Yorkshiremen backed him for prodigious sums, whilst Diamond was strongly supported by the Newmarket people, the horse being well-known in the neighbourhood. Every bed in Newmarket (which could not hold a tenth of the visitors) was occupied, whilst Cambridge and all the towns and villages within twelve or fifteen miles were also thronged with people. Stabling was not to be had, and no chaise or horse could be procured on any of the roads, all having been engaged three weeks before. The weather was most auspicious, and the general scene on the Heath highly interesting and attractive. All the gentlemen of the Turf, as the phrase ran, from the neighbouring counties were collected on the course, and many of the nobility of England, which was then a real and powerful nobility, including the Duchess of Gordon, were assembled to see the race. At the start the horses kept tolerably close, Hambletonian retaining the lead till the last half-mile, when Diamond got abreast of him. The two horses then raced home in a most desperate manner, the nose of one or the other being alternately in front till Hambletonian won in the last stride. Both horses were terribly whipped and spurred, particularly Hambletonian. The four miles one furlong and one hundred and thirty-eight yards were covered in about eight minutes and a half. Every one declared that this match was the most exciting ever known, and it was acknowledged even by the losers (who were described as being as much pleased as losers could be) to have been thoroughly fairly contested, each jockey having made the best of his horse. As soon as the race was over, Sir Harry Vane Tempest, who, besides the stakes, had won about three thousand guineas, declared on the course that Hambletonian should be taken out of training the next morning, and in future he would ride him only as a hack. Sir Harry afterwards travelled to town in a post-chaise and four, and arrived at the Cocoa Tree at half-past eleven at night. The news of his victory, however, was already known, Mr. Hall, of Moorfields, who had three horses on the road, having got to town between nine and ten. A bronze penny token of fine medallic design--now very scarce--commemorates this famous match. An inscription is on one side and a picture of the race on the other. Mr. Cookson, the owner of Diamond, did not lose any enormous sum over the race. He was well-known for his shrewdness, and in one year, 1798, is said to have realised nearly £60,000 by the victories of Ambrosia and Diamond. Hambletonian became the sire of over a hundred and forty winners. Another match between Diamond and Mr. R. Heathcote's Warter strongly excited the sporting world, which was much puzzled how to bet. Warter having beat Diamond in the Oatland stakes of 1800, the latter was to receive seven pounds in the projected race. This, according to the knowing ones, was an advantage of the utmost importance, and Diamond became a strong favourite, his backers flattering themselves with the opinion that one of Warter's legs would fail him in running, and that consequently they were on the right side. Till about a fortnight before the meeting betting was equal; six to four was then betted in favour of Diamond, and was at first very cautiously accepted. So highly was the gambling mania roused that, till a late hour on the Saturday night previous to the meeting, all the sporting houses near St. James's, and even more to the eastward, were crowded with betting-men of every description. The bolder sort dashed at the odds, whilst others more cautiously hedged, and all waited the event with the most anxious expectation. The whole of Sunday the Newmarket road was crowded with carriages and cattle of every description, from the dashing curricle to the humble buggy, and from the pampered hunter to the spavined hack. When every mouth was opening to bet, and expectation was on tiptoe, it was declared in the Coffee-room, that Warter, by reason of a kick, had declared forfeit, and the famous match was off. Another match, which excited enormous interest at the beginning of the nineteenth century, was that between Mrs. Thornton, wife of the celebrated Colonel Thornton of Thornville Royal (now Studley Royal, the seat of Lord Ripon), and a gentleman well known in sporting circles, Mr. Flint by name. This was run at York in 1804, and is memorable as being the only race chronicled in the _Racing Calendar_ in which a woman's name is mentioned. The entry, dated August 25, 1804, runs thus:-- Mr. Flint's Brown Thornville by Volunteer out of Abigail, aged, rode by the owner, beat Colonel Thornton's ch. h. Vinagrillio, aged, rode by Mrs. Thornton, four miles, five hundred guineas. The weights were catch weights, and before the race five and six to four were laid upon the lady, which increased during the early portion of the race to seven to four and two to one, it seeming likely during the first three miles that Mrs. Thornton would secure an easy triumph. During the final mile, however, things entirely changed, and the victory of Mr. Flint appearing certain, odds were laid upon him. Over two hundred thousand pounds, it is said, were lost and won over this race, which excited a vast amount of interest. The lady's horse, it may be added, was a very old one. Mrs. Thornton's dress was a leopard-coloured body with blue sleeves, the rest buff, and blue cap. Mr. Flint rode in white. The race was run in nine minutes and fifty-nine seconds. In the published account of the race it is stated that "No words can express the disappointment felt at the defeat of Mrs. Thornton, the spirit she displayed and the good humour with which she has borne her loss having greatly diminished the joy of many of the winners." The fortunate individuals in question seem, however, to have been under some misapprehension as to the lady's equanimity under defeat, as she subsequently sent an angry letter to the _York Herald_ complaining that she had been treated with scant courtesy. Though the lady signed herself Alicia Thornton she seems to have had no legitimate claim to the name--she was a Miss Meynell, and her sister was by way of being the wife of Mr. Flint. The race engendered much ill-feeling between the two couples. The year after the race on the Knavesmire a fracas occurred between Colonel Thornton and Mr. Flint, the latter being very indignant at not having received £1000 of the £1500 wagered by the gallant Colonel on his wife's success. Mr. Flint vigorously applied a new horsewhip to the soldier's shoulders. The aggressor was taken into custody, Colonel Thornton afterwards making an application in the Court of King's Bench for leave to file a criminal information against Flint, who (he deposed) had challenged him to fight a duel, and horse-whipped him on the race-ground at York. The Colonel maintained that the bet of £1000 was a mere nominal thing, intended to attract people to the race-course, and that it was understood that only £500 of the £1500 should be paid. The case was eventually dismissed, the Colonel apparently sticking to his £1000. [Illustration: _Mrs Thornton._ _Pub. Feb 1, 1805, by J. Wheble, Warwicksquare._] In after-life Flint became miserably poor, and eked out a living as a manager of a horse bazaar at York. He eventually committed suicide by taking a dose of prussic acid. At the York August meeting in the following year Mrs. Thornton rode another match against Buckle, the celebrated jockey. Mrs. Thornton, in the highest spirits, appeared dressed for the contest in a purple cap and waistcoat, long nankeen-coloured skirts, purple shoes, and embroidered stockings. Buckle was dressed in a blue cap, with blue bodied jacket, and white sleeves. Mrs. Thornton carried 9 st. 6 lb., Mr Buckle 13 st. 6 lb. At half-past three they started. Mrs. Thornton took the lead, which she kept for some time; Buckle then exercised his jockeyship, and took the lead, which he retained for only a few lengths, when Mrs. Thornton won her race by half a neck. On this occasion Mrs. Thornton rode Louisa, by Pegasus, out of Nelly; and Buckle rode Allegro, by Pegasus, out of Allegranti's dam. As the English Turf began to rise in importance some attempt was made to introduce racing into France. As early as the reign of Louis XV. a number of the French nobility had frequented Newmarket. The well-known sportsman, Hugo Meynell, much resented this, and grimly declared that he wished the peace was all over and England comfortably at war again. A particularly unpopular visitor was the Comte de Lauraguais, who purchased the celebrated race-horse, Gimcrack, took him over to France, and for a big bet ran him twenty-two and a half miles, it is said, within an hour. At the end of the eighteenth century Philippe Égalité raced at Newmarket, where he seems to have created an unfavourable impression. Though he entered a good many horses, he was not particularly successful as an owner. In France the sporting exploits of this Prince and of the Comte d'Artois excited a good deal of indignation. They were declared to be the associates of grooms, and to enter into scandalous combinations in the races which they organised, whilst treating the onlookers with the most ineffable contempt and savage ferocity. It would certainly appear that at times they used their whips on the spectators as well as on their horses; and not only encouraged the officers to maltreat the crowd, but employed such grossness of speech, and offensive oaths, as showed that these Princes were not unskilled in the language of the vilest part of the nation. High betting was general, and noblemen turned jockeys and rode their own racers. When the Comte de Lauraguais appeared at Court, after a long absence, the King coldly inquired where he had been for so long. "In England," the Count replied. "What did you do there?" "I learnt there, please your Majesty, to think." "Of horses," retorted the King. The early days of the French Turf were unedifying. In a match between the Duc de Lauzun and M. de Fénelon the latter fell from his horse, broke his arm, and lost his wager. The same gentleman betted with another nobleman as to which of them could reach Versailles and return to Paris the quicker in a single-horse chaise. The horse of the first died at Sèvres, and the other expired in the stable at Paris, a few hours after his return. Frivolous courtiers, not satisfied with exercising their inhumanity on their horses, exposed themselves to the derision of Paris by other kinds of races. The Duc de Chartres, the Duc de Lauzun, and the Marquis FitzJames once betted five hundred louis who could first reach Versailles on foot. Lauzun gave up the foot-race about half way; Chartres about two-thirds; FitzJames arrived in an exhausted state, and was saluted as conqueror by the Comte d'Artois. The hero in question was near expiring in the arms of victory and had to be put to bed. Blood-letting was resorted to, and though he won his wager he contracted asthma. Marie Antoinette, not satisfied with foot and horse racing, instituted contests of speed in which donkeys were bestridden, the successful jockey being rewarded with three hundred livres and a golden thistle. During the first Empire, Napoleon, probably with an eye to the horsing of his cavalry, decreed that there should be races, and races of a sort there were, chiefly in the Department of the Orne and at a hippodrome at Le Pin, the seat of a Government stud established by Colbert in the days of the Roi Soleil. After the restoration of the Bourbons, racing was intermittently carried on at Vincennes, at Fontainebleau, in the Champs de Mars, and at Satory-Versailles, which were the chief places of racing near Paris. The ground at both was detestable. At Satory-Versailles, in wet weather, the course was so deep in mud that the horses could hardly move. At the Champs de Mars the ground was often "so hard as to endanger the strongest legs," and "when the horses galloped the jockeys were liable to be blinded by a cloud of dust and small pebbles." As a matter of fact the races were more often than not won by the mounted gendarmes, who rode with the horses from start to finish. In the early days of the French Turf the fields were, of course, small, and so was the value of the prizes. For this reason, in order to eke out a fair number of races with very few horses, the practice of running races in "heats" was grossly abused. In 1840, Madame de Giraudin wrote: "The races on Sunday were favoured with superb weather, and the extraordinary sight was seen of nine horses running together--nine live horses, nine rivals--a rare spectacle in the Champs de Mars. Generally one horse runs all alone, contending against no opponent, and always coming in first. But this does not signify; it excites the admiration of those who love sport, and especially of the philosophers among them; it is so noble to strive against and overcome oneself!" The foundation of the French Turf as we see it to-day dates back to 1833, when the French Jockey Club was founded. Before this there had existed in the Rue Blanche an English Jockey and Pigeon Shooting Club founded by a Mr. Thomas Bryon, who acted as secretary. In 1830, of the eighteen members, four were English, including that very original character. Lord Henry Seymour, and in course of time he took a leading part in originating a Members' Club, which should resemble the English Jockey Club, and should be lodged in a luxurious Club-house. The twelve founders of the French Jockey Club were soon joined by a large number of sportsmen, among whom were the novelist, Eugène Sue, Lord Yarmouth, and Mr. John Bowes, who passed most of his life in Paris. The latter gentleman won the Derby four times. On the first occasion, in 1835, when Mundig beat Ascot (which belonged to the writer's grandfather, Lord Orford) by a head, Mr. Bowes was still an undergraduate at Cambridge--in subsequent years he won it again with Cotherstone, Daniell O'Rourke, and West Australian. The French Jockey Club, at its institution, consisted of Royal Princes, noblemen, ordinary men of property, all persons of considerable influence interested in horse-breeding and in the improvement of the breed of horses by means of horse-racing and the "selection of the fittest." Most of them were good horsemen, who rode their own horses on occasion. M. de Normandie, for instance, was the winner of an improvised race which took place at Chantilly in 1833 between himself, Prince Lobanoff, Viscount de Hédouville, and others. This is said to have suggested the idea of forming the present beautiful race-course there. This gentleman, who must be ranked as one of the fathers of the French Turf, frequently acted in the earliest days of the French Jockey Club as steward, judge, and starter; and though he does not appear to have introduced any famous strain of blood into the studs of his country, greatly contributed to establish French racing on its present prosperous footing. M. de Normandie is said to have won the first regular steeplechase ever run in France on English principles. This took place in 1830, near St. Germain, and in December 1908 a gentleman was still living who was supposed to have taken part in it. This was Mr. Albert Ricardo, J.P., who spent his early days in Paris. A great supporter of sport, Mr. Ricardo, who died on the last day but one of the year, had won the Cambridgeshire with The Widow as far back as 1847. He had also been a keen cricketer in his youth, and was one of the two first members of the I Zingari. There was steeplechasing at the Croix de Bernay as early as 1832, and at La Marche some little time later. The Auteuil steeplechase course, which is now the head-quarters of the sport in France, was not inaugurated till after the war of 1870. Through the influence of the Duc d'Orléans, the son of Louis Philippe, who was killed in a carriage accident in 1842, the French Jockey Club obtained leave to hold regular meetings in the Champs de Mars; and he it also was who, in 1834, arranged the creation of the race-course at Chantilly, which, till Longchamps was started in 1856-57, was without doubt the best course in France. At Chantilly was run the first French Derby (Prix du Jockey Club) in 1836, and the first French Oaks (Prix de Diane) in 1843. The stables of the Duc at Chantilly were presided over by an English trainer, George Edwards, and his principal jockey was Edgar Pavis. In 1840 his English-bred horse, Beggarman, won the Goodwood Cup. Besides this the Duc d'Orléans won a number of French races. As a matter of fact, racing in France, from 1834 to 1842, was more or less of a duel between the Prince in question and Lord Henry Seymour. The latter extraordinary personage was born in Paris in 1805, and is believed never to have set foot in England. Lord Henry Seymour was said to be related on his mother's side to "Old Q." or George Selwyn, or both, and from either or both of them he probably inherited some of his numberless eccentricities as well as his taste for the Turf. He was a well-known figure in Paris and its neighbourhood, for it was his constant practice to drive about in a carriage with four horses, postilions, and out-riders. After _Mardi Gras_, he would sit with other congenial spirits at the window of the noted "Vendanges de Bourgogne," watching the _descente de la Courtille_ (the return from the ball) in the early morning, when he would scatter heated pieces of gold among the crowd of returning "maskers." Lord Henry is said to have been the original of the eccentric character described by Balzac, who delighted in furtively administering drastic medicines to his dearest friends, the very unpleasant effects of which afforded him intense amusement. He delighted also in giving away cigars with something explosive inserted at the end, afterwards watching the effect of a light applied by the unsuspecting smoker. He died in Paris in 1859. In 1856 the French Turf entered upon a new and important era, a promise being obtained from the Government and the municipality of Paris that a race-course should be included in the projected plan for the transformation of the Bois de Boulogne. In the Longchamps meadows, on the borders of the Seine, an expanse of level and unencumbered ground was allotted to the Société d'Encouragement, and by an arrangement with the municipality of Paris, the Société became lessees of the race-course for fifty years, undertaking to pay an annual rent, as well as to build stands, which, at the expiration of the lease in 1906, should become the property of the city. The old stands, which during the last three years have been replaced by magnificent new ones, were erected by the architects of the city of Paris, at an expense of 420,000 francs (£16,800), and subsequent expenses brought the amount up to 1,284,981 francs (about £51,395). The race-course was opened on the last Sunday in April 1857, and the first Grand Prix was run in 1862, when the Ranger won. The moving spirit in the institution of this race, now the richest in the world, is said to have been the Emperor Napoleon the Third, represented by the Duc de Morny, the creator of Deauville. The first Grand Prix was worth £4000 and an _objet d'art_; the amount of the stakes for the same race in 1909 was some £16,000. When the Grand Prix was first inaugurated, many vigorous protests were made in England against the race being run on a Sunday, but by these the French declined to be swayed. As a matter of fact, notwithstanding Anglo-Saxon plaints at the iniquity of Sunday racing, the beautiful courses at Longchamps and Auteuil are very popular with visitors from across the Channel on many a fine Sabbath day, when Englishmen, known for their stern and unflinching moral rectitude, are not infrequent spectators on such occasions. One of these, a public man, notorious for his advocacy of every form of puritanical restriction, whilst exhibiting some confusion at being recognised by a friend, could only make the defence: "Well, after all, it doesn't matter, as I am not betting." In all probability, however, he, like other visitors, had backed his fancy! An important share in the laying-out of Longchamps race-course was taken by the late Mr. Mackenzie Grieves, who, originally an officer in the Blues, took up his residence in Paris, became a member of the French Jockey Club and played a prominent part in the organisation of French racing. Mr. Mackenzie Grieves, whose memory is preserved by an important race to which his name has been given, was personally known to the writer, who retains pleasant recollections of his great charm and dignified appearance, both of which were highly characteristic of one of the last of the fine old school. He was a most graceful rider and a master of the _haute école_. Though racing in France was naturally suspended during the war, it was once more in full swing in 1872, when the Grand Prix was won by Cremorne. In consequence of the downfall of the second Empire a number of the important races were renamed. The Prix de l'Impératrice, for instance, became the Prix Rainbow; the Prix du Prince Impérial the Prix Royal Oak. The Prix Gladiateur, one of the oldest French prizes, has under its various names strikingly reflected the vicissitudes of French politics. Originally it was the Prix Royal, then Prix National, then Grand Prix de l'Empereur, till, with the rise of the third Republic, it was called after the famous race-horse. In 1885 there was great jubilation amongst French sportsmen at the victories of Plaisanterie, which won both the Cesarewitch and Cambridgeshire, as well as twelve out of thirteen events in France. The appearance of the daughter of Wellingtonia and Poetess in the Cesarewitch was said at the time to be owing to two bookmakers, T. Wilde and Jack Moore, who made it worth the while of the filly's owners (M.H. Bony and Mr. T. Carter) to start her, guaranteeing them 33 to 1, though they themselves had only got 20 to 1 in England. Wilde, it was declared, brought back to France after the race nearly five million francs (£200,000), won by backing Plaisanterie, of which Jack Moore paid out some 600,000 (£24,000) in five-franc, ten-franc, and twenty-franc pieces to French backers who had been on the good thing. In common with the rest of the fraternity, these two very sporting layers have now long disappeared from the French race-course. Bookmaking in France practically ceased to exist with the introduction of the Pari Mutuel in 1891. Previous to that time bookmakers had pitches provided for them some way behind the stands, where they were allowed to exhibit lists of the horses running in the various races, against which were chalked the odds, the variations in which were thus easily shown. The whole thing was most decorously conducted, and the system worked fairly well. Nevertheless, from time to time, rumours were rife as to an intended suppression of the bookmakers by the French authorities, and at last in 1891 they were definitely bidden to cease plying their business. The new decree was rigorously enforced, crowds of police in uniform and plain clothes being present on the Parisian race-courses, and any one found openly making a bet was ruthlessly arrested--a perfect reign of terror, indeed, prevailed amongst betting-men, and very great dissatisfaction ensued amongst habitual frequenters of the French Turf. On several occasions, notably one Sunday at Auteuil (when the writer was present), a large force of military were on the ground, regiments of cavalry being in reserve outside the race-course. Feeling ran very high, and the races were run amidst hoots, yells, and other demonstrations of indignation, some of which most unjustly took the form of missiles hurled at the jockeys. The cabmen and proprietors of the char-à-bancs who drive the public to the various race-courses around Paris, the keepers of the small restaurants along the various lines of route, loudly complained that the new era of restriction which had dawned would completely ruin them. The saddest people of all, however, were very naturally the bookmakers, most of them English, who for many years had made a living on the French race-courses, for, whilst the public generally were more or less certain that some new method of betting would be devised, they fully realised that the suppression of their business was no mere outburst of outraged morality on the part of the Government, but a well thought-out scheme for appropriating their spoils and diverting them to public purposes. The golden days were gone, and ruin stared them in the face. In a very short time public indignation was allayed by the announcement that French racing was not, as it had been averred, about to be stamped out by the high-handed brutality of those at the head of the State. Betting would be allowed, but only through the medium of the Pari Mutuel or Totalisator, which would be established on a legal basis on every race-course in France; and after the passing of the law, which definitely laid down the manner in which speculation on the French Turf was in future to be conducted, the beautiful courses round Paris were once more thronged by crowds of relieved race-goers. The law in question, passed on 2nd June 1891, expressly prohibited any form of betting on race-courses except through the medium of the Pari Mutuel, and strictly defined the conditions on which the latter was to be worked. For a few years after this law came into operation a certain toleration was extended to a few of the principal bookmakers, who still continued to make bets in an unobtrusive way, but of late years the authorities, considering that such a state of affairs tends to decrease the receipts drawn from the Totalisator, have become exceedingly stern in repressing any attempts at such a form of speculation. The percentage levied on the sums staked at the Pari Mutuel is now eight per cent for the race-courses round Paris and that at Deauville, and ten per cent for race-courses in the provinces. Of this sum the five great Parisian racing associations and that of Deauville are allotted four per cent, the rest being applied to charitable and other public purposes. A different scale applies to the provincial race-courses, where the receipts are naturally not so remunerative. The official figures issued on 7th June 1909, show that £160,000,000 has been staked by the public by means of the Pari Mutuel since its institution in 1891. During the last eighteen years no less than £4,000,000, produced by the percentage levied on this sum, has been applied to public purposes; besides this, various charities and the Racing Societies have profited to an enormous extent. To-day, owing to the large sums which are available from this source, there is to all intents and purposes no poor-rate in France--the Pari Mutuel takes its place. As regards the racing itself, it is shown by the official statistics to be in a more flourishing condition than ever before. In 1891 there existed in France 253 Racing Societies, which held 526 meetings; on the 31st of December 1904 an official statement showed that 396 societies held 906 meetings. During this period more than twenty-nine millions of francs, considerably more than a million pounds sterling, produced by the percentage levied on the Pari Mutuel, had been devoted to racing prizes and the general encouragement of horse-breeding in France. Since the institution of the Totalisator the race-courses and stands have been much improved, funds being abundant. As a means of speculation for the casual visitor to a race-course the Pari Mutuel is a most convenient form of betting. An excellent organisation exists on every French race-course for enabling those desirous of backing any horse to do so by taking their ticket at one of the many bureaux, above which are inscribed the amount which any ticket represents. Separate betting bureaux exist for ladies in the special stands which are on some courses set aside for them, and everything is done to render the public thoroughly comfortable. A list of the horses running is clearly displayed, and there is when possible place betting. On some race-courses the field can be backed, which, in the event of an outsider winning, is not unprofitable. The lowest sum for which a ticket is issued is five francs, the highest five hundred francs. There is, of course, no limit to the number of tickets which any one who wishes to do so may take. Should a backer not be desirous of changing a winning ticket into cash upon the race-course he can keep it till his return to Paris, where, on presenting it at a Central Office at certain fixed hours (defined on the ticket), he receives his money without any inconvenience. In justice, however, to the French race-course authorities it should be added that, considering the huge amount of money carried by those going racing in France, robberies are extremely rare. Admission to the "pesage," the best and most expensive enclosure, is only 20 francs for a man, 10 francs for a woman. There is also a cheaper stand, and admission to the course costs a franc. Though a certain number of heavy betters complain of the lack of bookmakers, the general public appears satisfied. On the Grand Prix day of the present year, when the race was for the first time won by a French jockey, £185,326 passed through the Pari Mutuel at Longchamps, out of the percentage levied on which the poor received no less than £3700. Whatever may be urged against the Totalisator in France, it is bound to benefit a certain number of people, which is a good deal more than can be said for any other form of betting, gambling, or speculation. * * * * * Those who in the pages of this book have wandered through the gaming-houses of Europe, and have briefly surveyed the careers of most of the chief gamblers of the past, will, it is hoped, do the writer the justice to admit that he has in no wise sought to minimise the grave evils which are the almost inevitable result of worshipping the goddess of Chance. Nothing, indeed, is more striking than the almost universal ruin which has ever overtaken the vast majority of gamblers, except the complete failure which has invariably attended all attempts to stamp out this vice by means of coercive measures. The futile and ineffectual results which, during the last two hundred years, have invariably followed all drastic repression, are clearly demonstrated by hard facts; at the present time speculation, gambling, and betting all flourish as they never flourished before. In open combat, the strong arm of the law is resistless; but there is no possibility of its ultimate triumph or power of eradicating the desire of gaming from the human mind; and more especially in a country where speculation on the Stock Exchange is regarded with the greatest tolerance by those who denounce the race-course and the card-table. The anathemas of well-meaning and unworldly ecclesiastics, the plaints of zealous philanthropists, the strident declamations of social reformers, who call for legislative measures of drastic restriction, can only cause the philosophic student of human nature to deplore that so much well-meaning effort should be devoted to such a futile end. In sober fact the gambling mania is one for which no specific remedy exists--it is possessed by those who are well aware of its dangers, and realise that in the ordinary course of events it must prove ultimately destructive. Repress it in one direction and it reappears--more often than not worse than ever--in another. It is impossible to dragoon human nature into virtue. The leopard cannot change its spots, or the Ethiopian his skin. Man with his craving for strong emotions will assuredly find means of gratifying them, and it is mere hypocritical rubbish to assume that in the future milk and water is to be the elixir of life. The well-meaning altruist, who looks with contempt on the frivolous occupations which appear to amuse a great part of mankind, should remember that they, on the other hand, are equally at a loss to account for the pleasure which he derives from the more elevated pursuits in which their lower mental capacities forbid them to indulge. As a matter of fact the strongest motive with all mankind, after the more sordid necessities are provided for, is excitement. For this reason gambling will continue--even should all card-playing be declared illegal and all race-courses ploughed up. Repugnant as the idea may be to the Anglo-Saxon mind, regulation, not repression, is without doubt the best possible method of mitigating the evils of speculation; and, moreover, such a system possesses the undeniable advantage of diverting no inconsiderable portion of the money so often recklessly risked into channels of undoubted public benefit. The time is not yet when English public opinion is prepared to face facts as they are; but though it may be at some far distant day, that time must come, when a wiser and more enlightened legislature, profiting by the experience of the past, will at last realise that the vice of gambling cannot be extirpated by violent means. Reluctantly, but certainly, it will endeavour to palliate the worst features of gambling by taking care that those who indulge in it shall do so under the fairest conditions, whilst at the same time paying a toll to be applied for the good of the community at large. Such is the inevitable and only solution of a social problem which from any other direction it is absolutely hopeless to approach. INDEX Abingdon, Lord, befriended by Mr. Elwes, 16; and O'Kelly, 145 Adolphus, Mr., and Duke of Wellington, 11 Aix-la-Chapelle, gaming at, 282; an Italian's adventures at, 282-4; a royal gambler at, 284-6 Alvanley, Lord, 110 Ambassadors use their mansions as gaming-houses, 248-9 Ancre, Maréchal d', the wife of, 10 Anne, Queen, supporter of the Turf, 389 Annuities, paid by Brooks's, 116; paid by gamblers as compromise, 171 Antoinette, Marie, 209, 419 Archer, Lady, 56 Ardesoif, Mr., roasts a game-cock to death, 196; his just reward, 196 Arlington, Earl of, 39 Arnold, Mr., his cruel wager, 225 Arthur's, Mr. Elwes a member of, 15 Artois, Comte d', his bet with Marie Antoinette, 209, 210; his conduct on the Turf, 418 Ashburnham, Lord, 39 Ass and chimney-sweep race, 205 "Athenæum," a notorious gaming-house, 89; confused with real Athenæum Club, 93 Atkins, a bookmaker, last authority on hazard, 81 Atkinson, Bartle, a famous trainer, 175 Atkinson, Joseph, 42 Aubrey, Lieut.-Col., his maxim, 157; his distinguished antagonists and associates, 157 Australian story, an, 159-63 Author, a lucky, and his method of speculation, 164-6 Avarice combined with passion for play, 13 Baccarat, decision _re_, 129, 130; single tableau, 313, 317, 318 "Bad houses, beware of," 43 Baden, ex-Elector of Hesse gambles at, 287; M. de la Charme at, 287, 288; society at, 288, 289; croupiers at, 289, 290 Bagatelle, the building of, 209, 210 Baggs, Major, his luck at hazard, 82; his adventures abroad, 83; and Lord Onslow, 83; a skilful swordsman, and man of culture, 83; his generosity, 84; wins from the King, 84; falls a victim to gaming, 84 Baily, Mr., of Rambridge, 145 Barber, the Canterbury, 34-37; an Indian, as balloonist, 190 Barclay, Captain, pedestrian, 232 Barucci, Madame Julia, a card scandal at the house of, 304-7 Basketing, 199 Basset, 53 Bassette, 52 Bathing adventure, a, 194 Beauclerk, Topham, 27 Bedford, Duke of, and Nash, 31, 32; horsewhipped, 150 Bellasis, Theophilus, 42 Benazet, M., farmer-general of gaming-houses, 264; proprietor of rooms at Baden-Baden, 286, 287 Bennet, Captain, trundles a hoop, 224, 225 Bentinck, Lord Frederick, beat by Col. Mellish in a foot-race, 170 Bentinck, Lord George, and Lord Kelburne, 382, 383; his large winnings, 383, 384 Bentinck, Rev. Mr., and the Duc de Nivernois, 51, 52 Berkeley, Captain, and his game-cock, 202, 203 Bertie, Lord Robert, 15 Betting-houses started, 99, 100; fraudulent proceedings illustrated, 100; suppressed, 102 Billiards, a one-eyed player, 64 Bingham, Mr., his horse leaps Hyde Park wall, 219 Biribi, method of play, 247 Blackmail, keepers of gaming-houses subject to, 42; at the Palais Royal, 251, 252 Blanc, M., starts gambling-tables at Homburg, 298; plays for a parasol, 301, 302; victim of a stratagem, 302; a croupier's scheme, 303; and Garcia, 303, 304; opens a Casino at Monaco, 319 Bland, Sir John, 108; squanders his fortune and shoots himself, 109 Blind cock-fight enthusiast (Lord Bertie), 199, 200 Blind horse wins a leaping contest, 219 Blo' Norton Hall, 33 Blücher, Marshal, fond of gambling, 11; passion inherited by his son, 11; wins his son's money, 12; at the Palais Royal, 265 Blythe, Captain Carlton, a frequenter of Monte Carlo, 329; his method of play, 329 Boarding-schools, gaming taught at, 56 Bond, Ephraim, 89; takes over "Athenæum," 92, 93 Boothby, Mr., his opinion of Fox, 27 Borsant, M., a generous gaming-house proprietor, 272; revelations, 274 Bouillotte, 270 Bow Street troops, 44 Bowes, Mr. John, four times Derby winner, 421 Brampton, Gawdy, 33 Brelans, 235 Bridge, 135, 136 Bristol, Lord, turns the tables on Lord Cobham and Mr. Nugent, 104 Brooks, Mr., ready to make advances, 114; dies poor, 114 Brooks's, unlimited gambling at, 114; Fox's large losses at, 115; annuities granted to ruined members, 116; the betting-book at, 116; favourite games at, 116; relics preserved at, 117 Brummell, Beau, plays heavily, 112; his promise to the brewer, 112; his superstition, 113 Buckeburg, Count de, rides his horse backwards from London to Edinburgh, 205 Buckingham, Duke of, 39; Quin's story of the, 39 Buckingham Palace, 39 Buckinghamshire, Earl and Countess of, 57, 58 Bullock, Mr., 195 Bulpett, Mr. Charles, his remarkable feats, 233, 234 Bunbury, Sir Charles, 402 Burge, known as "the Subject," 89; his passion for the gaming-table, 90, 91 Byng, Hon. Frederick, on gambling, 94, 95 Byng, Sir John, his dispute with "T' au'd un," 381 Byron, Lord, a frequenter of Wattier's, 122 Calzado, Signor, cheats at cards, 305-7; sentenced to imprisonment, 307 Canterbury barber, the, 34-37 Card-money, 54 Carlisle, Lord, 105; a high gambler, but warns Selwyn, 106 Carriage race, a, 213 Casanova, his card duel with d'Entragues, 21-24; his meeting with Fox, 26 Cavillac, Marquis de, accuses Law of plagiarism, 242 Chabert, M., opens houses at Baden-Baden, Wiesbaden, and Ems, 286 Champeiron, la Comtesse, 246 Chance, the laws of, 6; in roulette, 9; public tables offer best, 10; tradesmen devotees of, 33 Chaplin, Mr., his fortunate Derby, 375 Charles II., founder of the English Turf, 386; an experienced rider, 386; his house at Newmarket, 386; Nell Gwynne's threat, 387; his witty answer to Sir Christopher Wren, 387; his amusements at Newmarket, 387, 388; his generosity, 388 Charme, M. de la, at Baden, 288 Chartres, Duc de, 209, 419 Cheating, methods of, 78 Chesterfield, Lord, 39 Chesterfield Row, 65 Chetwynd, Sir George, his _Recollections_, 82 Cibber, Colley, 108 Clarke, Vauxhall, his cock-fighting match with Col. Lowther, 196 Clavering, Sir John, appoints Mordaunt his aide-de-camp, 182 Clergyman, a betting, 209 Cleveland, Duke of, and Billy Pierse, 381, 382 Cobham, Lord, makes a vulgar bet, 103; forced to make public apology, 104 Cock-fighting in England, 195; some great patrons, 195; a famous battle at the Cock Pit Royal, 196; a cruel monster, 196; betting, 197; unexpected winners, 197; celebrated London cockpits, 198; Royal Cockpit taken down, 198; punishment for foul play, 199; a specimen challenge, 200; present-day fights, 200; famous trainers, 201; the last of the cock-fighters, 201; courageous birds, 201-3 Cocoa Tree, big stakes at the, 111 Codrington, Mr., 212 Colonel, the English, and his wife's ear-rings, 158 Colton, Rev. Caleb, a successful gambler, 138; his publications, 138; his affairs become involved and he decamps, 139; settles down at Palais Royal, 139; studies gambling, 139; commits suicide, 140 Combe, Alderman, 112 Combe, Hervey, 20, 21 Concannon, Mrs., 56, 62; Mr., 57, 58 Conolly, Rt. Hon. Thomas, 218 Cook, a fortunate, 262 Cookson, Mr., owner of Diamond, 413 Copley, Sir Joseph, 110 Cornwallis, Lord, and Mordaunt, 191 "Corpse" card-player and the Parisian banker, 156, 157 Countess, an eccentric, 291, 292 Court, gambling at, 38 Craps or Creps, an old French game, 263; survives in America, 264 Cribb, Tom, pugilist, his fight with Nicholl, 177 Cribbage, a fashionable game, 62 Cricket ball, a letter sent by, 211 Crockford, William, 96; wins large sum, 97; founds his famous Club, 97; profits made by, 98; his views on gaming, 98 Crockford's, Duke of Wellington becomes member of, 11; large tips to waiters, 94; blamed for increase of gambling-houses, 94; magnificence of, 97; expense of running, 98; heavy losses at, 113 Crofton, Sir Edward, high leap at Phoenix Park, 227 Croupiers, stoicism of, 290; at Monte Carlo, 354, 355; a school of, 354, 355 Cumberland, Duke of, 39, 137; institutes Ascot Meeting, 390; a born gambler, 390; his cruelty, 390; good-natured when racing, 391; a fortunate loss, 391; match with Duke of Grafton, 391; his horse Eclipse, 391 "Curse of Scotland," origin of the name, 137, 138 Dale, Thomas, rides a donkey-race, 211 Damer, Mr., makes the acquaintance of Dick England, 69; ruined at tennis, 70; his tragic end, 70 Darlington, Lord, 107, 169; a match with Col. Mellish, 174, 175 Dartmoor, gambling at, 50 Davies, a bookmaker, his betting, 385 Davis, Scrope, 228, 229 Dayrolle, Mr., 108 Death, as a subject for wagers, 105, 209; a duel with, 157 Decency, sense of, lost by gamblers, 158 Deer, used in place of carriage-horses, 206 Delessert, M., the means of closing Parisian gaming-houses, 272 Demidoff, Madame, robbed by a countess, 269 Dennisthorpe, Mr., 195 Derby, Lord, a patron of cock-fighting, 195, 200 Desmarest, French minister, 240 Desmoulins, Camille, 256 "Devil's Drawing-room," the, 257 Devonshire, Duchess of, 59; and "Old Nick," 60; scandal about, 60-62 Devonshire, Duke of, and Fox, 28 Devonshire Club, formerly Crockford's, 97 Dickinson, old Jack, an honest tipster, 377, 378 "Dispatches," 78 Dorchester, Lord, 70 Doulah, Asoph ud, Nawab of Oude, his sword practice, 187; his barber's aerial punishment, 190; his love of cock-fighting, 193 Drummond and Greville, Messrs., open a betting-house, 99 Dwyer, cigar-shop and betting-house keeper, 101; bolts with large sum, 102 Earl, William, 91; his "Athenæum" swindle, 92; transported, 93 Eclipse, the greatest horse of all time, 391-4 Edgecumbe, Dick, 106 Égalité, Philippe, a royal shop-man, 255; a follower of the Turf, 418 Elwes, Mr., 13; succeeds to a fortune, 14; a gambler at heart, 14; quixotic, 14; a member of Arthur's, 15; plays for two days and nights, 15; his avarice, 15, 16; and Lord Abingdon, 16; and the clergyman, 16, 17; elected to Parliament, 17; his admiration for Pitt, 17; his last bout, 18 Elwes, Sir Harvey, a miser, 13 _Émigrés_, 45; passion for gaming among, 49 _et seq._; a cause of irritation, 54 Ems, a gambling resort, 310; a Spaniard's method at, 310; Russians at, 311 England, Dick, and the young tradesman, 68, 69; and Mr. Damer, 69-72; shoots Rolles, a young brewer, 73; flies to the Continent, 73; ends his days in London, 73 English, Buck, tried for murder, 217; member of Parliament, 217; his death, 217 English view of gambling, 163; and Sunday racing, 425, 426 Entragues, d', and Casanova, 21-24 E.O., fraudulent, 47; method of play, 55 Estates lost at play, 33 Este, Cardinal d', and the Cardinal de Medici, 238 "Excessive" gambling, definition of, 126 Execution, betting at an, 209 Exeter Mail beaten by a pony, 226 Existence, a strange, 267 Faro, invented by a Venetian, 52; introduced into France, 52; prohibited in France, 53; finds its way to England, 53; Fox's favourite game, 53; method of play, 53; crusade against, 57 Fawkener, Sir Everard, 106 Female assistants to sharpers, 95 Fénelon, M. de, his match with Duc de Lauzun, 419 Fenwick, Mr., 195 Ferguson, Sir Rowland, his opinion of Col. Mellish, 178 Field Club, The, 135 Fishmonger's Hall, 97 FitzJames, Marquis de, 209, 419 Fitzpatrick, General, 115 Flint, Mr., his race with Mr. Thornton, 415, 416; assaults Col. Thornton, 416, 417; commits suicide, 417 Foley, Lord, 401 Fonteneille, Madame de, 246 Foote, Sam, 66 Fortune, image of, kept by Roman emperors, 5; aid of, invoked by fetishes, 5; sometimes favours non-gamblers, 159 Foubert, a celebrated French riding-master, 386 Fouché, gaming-houses licensed by, 250; punishes interference, 250 Fox, Charles James, and Casanova, 26; a member of Brooks's, 26; White's, 105; unsuccessful gambler, 26; and Duke of Devonshire, 28; and Sir John Lade, 28, 29; borrows from waiters at Brooks's, 28; fond of horse-racing, 29, 400, 401; ruined at twenty-five, 115 Frascati's, a noted gaming-house, 266; an inveterate player at, 268; fêtes at, 269; dramatic incident at closing of, 274 French Jockey Club, 421 _et seq._ Galeries de Bois, 257 Game-cock, gentleman attacked by, 201; fox killed by, 202; in a naval action, 202, 203; awarded a medal, 203 Games, unlawful, 132, 133 Gaming-houses, suppressed, 99; officials, 40, 41 Gaming-tables kept by ladies, 48, 52, 245 Gancière, la Baronne de, 245 Garcia, his winnings at Homburg, 304; a card scandal, 304-7; sentenced to imprisonment, 307; his death, 307 Geese and turkey race, 206 Geneva, gambling at, 311 Genlis, Comte de, 209 George I. and the Turf, 389; George II. gambles, 39; George IV. rides to Brighton and back, 210, 211 George, Prince of Denmark, and horse-racing, 389 Germany, gaming in, 282 _et seq._ Gevres, Duc de, 239 Gilliver, Joe, fights cocks for Georges III. and IV., 201; his great-nephew's success, 201 Gillray, his caricatures of female gamblers, 56 Giraudin, Madame de, 420 Glasgow, Lord, his love of enormous wagers, 382, 383 Grafton, Duke of, 39 Grafton Mews, No. 13, 45 Graham's Club, 122 Gramont, Count de, his shrewd decision, 237 Granville, Lord, 97 Greville, Mr., 108, 385 Grieves, Mr. Mackenzie, 426 Groom-porter, the, 39, 86 Grosvenor, Lord, and Tattersall, 397 Gully and the Game Chicken, match between, 177 Gwynne, Nell, 387 Halton, Mr., 195 Hambletonian v. Diamond, a great race, 411-13 Hamilton, Captain, 65 Hamilton, Duke of, 195 Hammond, Mr. John, his successes on the Turf, 373 Harvey, Mr., a midshipman gambler, 111 Hastings, Marquis of, his large bets, 384; ruined, and early death, 385 Hawke, Hon. Martin, fights Col. Mellish, 176; a marvellous pistol shot, 176; duel with Baron Smieten, 177; patron of pugilists, 177 Hawkins, Sir Henry, his decision in Park Club appeal, 131 _et seq._ Hawley, Sir Joseph, a heavy better, 384 Hazard, a popular game, 74; made illegal, 75; method of play, 76-78; privilege of players, 78, 79; a lucky throw, 79; drunk men best players, 79; rules now forgotten, 81; French hazard, 82; runs of luck, 82 Heligoland, gaming-house on island of, 311 Hells, 40, 86 _et seq._; defenders of, 42; West-End, 84; principal proprietors of, 85; source of profits, 86, 87; a prospectus, 88; precautions with visitors, 96 Henri IX. addicted to gaming, 235 Hertford, Lord, 39 Hesse, ex-Elector of, 287 Highflyer, a famous horse, 394-6 Hoca, brought to France by Italians, 238; play punishable by death, 239 Hodgson, Dr. William, 409-10 Hodsock Priory, 179 Holdernesse, Lord, 39 Holford, Mr., 195 Homburg, gaming at, started by brothers Blanc, 298; hours of play, etc., 299; a flood at, 299; the Kursaal, 300; the Landgraf, 300; Garcia at, 303 _et seq._; scenes at close of Kursaal, 307-10 Hook, Theodore, his epitaph on Lord de Ros, 123 Hughes, Mr. Ball, 97 Humbug, method of play, 66, 67 Humphries, Mr., horsewhips Duke of Bedford, 150 Hunter, Henry, 224 Huntingdon, Lord, 39 Ingham, Sir J., his decision _re_ baccarat, 129, 130 Insurance, fraudulent, 48; speculative, made illegal, 49 Invalids, gambling, 155 "Ivories," 79 James II., a lover of field sports, 388 Jeffries, Mr. John, 108 Jehu, Sir John, 28 Justiniani introduces faro into France, 52 Kelly, J.D., 90 Kenyon, Lord, scathing remarks by, 56 Kerridge, Thomas, 33 Kildare, Lady, 108 King's Place, a raid in, 44 La Belle, a popular French game, 245 Lade, Councillor, an eccentric supporter of the Turf, 405; his meanness, 406-8 Lade, Sir John, taught a lesson by Fox, 28, 29; bets with "Old Q.," 211 Ladies of fashion, keep faro-banks, 48; gaming-tables, 52; on trial, 57 _et seq._; extravagances of, 59 "La Faucheuse," 313; played at Ostend, 317; forbidden in France, 317, 318 La fille Chevalier, 258 Lansdowne, Marchioness of, 180 Lauzun, Duc de, 209, 419 Law, John, kills a peer in a duel and escapes to Holland, 240; outlawed, 240; studies finance, 240; interview with Louis XIV., 240; threatened by Desmarest, 240; trusted by Duke of Orleans, 241; puts schemes in operation, 241; created Comte de Tankerville, 242; presented with freedom of Edinburgh, 242; anecdotes, 242, 243; his downfall, 244 Leaping wagers, 218, 219, 220, 227 Leeson, Major, 403; vanquishes the blacksmith, 404; his Turf career, 404, 405 Lennox, Lieut.-General, 224 "Le Wellington des Joueurs," 113 Lewis, Mr. George, 125 Lewis, Mr. Sam, a frequenter of Monte Carlo, 329 Liddell, Sir H.G., 195 Lloyd, pedestrian, runs a race backwards, 231 Loftus, Mr., cockpit owner, 197 Long sittings, 19, 20, 21-24, 62, 115 Lonsdale, Lord, 196 Lookup, Mr., 63; and Lord Chesterfield, 64; becomes saltpetre manufacturer, 65; privateering ventures, 66; dies at his favourite game, 66 Losers ready to fight, 25 "Lottery," a game favoured by ladies, 55 Louis XIV., 237; issues edict against play, 239 "Louse Pigott," an unpleasant Turf character, 408; charged with disloyalty, 409, 410 Lowther, Colonel, 195; at Cock Pit Royal, 196 Luttrell, Lady Elizabeth, 57, 58 Luynes, Duchesse de, and Talleyrand, 137 Macao, introduced by French _émigrés_, 121 MacGregor and his militia regiment, 141 Maisons de bouillotte, 270; de jeu, 245 Malcolm, Sir John, 20, 21 Manning, Mr., his novel leap, 220 March, Lord, 105 Martindale, Henry, 57-59 Martine, Colonel, engineer to Asoph ud Doulah, 188 Massena entertains Col. Mellish, 179 Mazarin, Cardinal, introduces games of chance, 237; always ready to bet, 237 Medici, Cardinal de, 238 Medley, Sporting, 42 Meggot, Mr., 13, 14 Mellish, Mr. Charles, 167 Mellish, Colonel Henry, his boyhood, 167; enters army, 168; his accomplishments, 168-70; appearance and mode of dress, 170; his horses, 170, 171; his big stakes, 171; and the Turf, 173-5; sells his estate, 176; Duke of Wellington's compliment, 178; befriended by Prince Regent, 179; settles at Hodsock Priory and marries, 180; his early death, 180 Methodists, 85 Methods, 4 Merry, Mr. James, 375 Mexborough, Lord, 195 Mills, Pemberton, ties up Brummell, 112 Milton, Lord, 70 Miranda, Signor, cheated by Garcia and Calzado, 305, 306 Monaco, 9; gambling at, 319 _et seq._; the Grimaldis, 320; the army, 321; improvements due to M. Blanc, 322; Casino brings prosperity, 322; old Prince's consideration, 323; a visit to, fifty years ago, 324, 325 Monte Carlo, in 1864, 326; early frequenters, 327; development of, 328, 329; patrons, 329 _et seq._; regulations as to dress, 330; hotels, restaurants, etc. in the 'eighties, 332; the "Cercle Privé," 334, 335; the bank, its gains and losses, 335-7; mistaken ideas about the gaming-rooms, 337, 338; systems of old players, 339; superstitions, 339-43; trente-et-quarante, 343-5; a successful swindle at, 346-8; roulette, 348-52; the croupiers, 354, 355; annual profits, 357; the Casino employés, 357, 358; the _viatique_, 358, 359; playing for a living, 359; systems of play, 360-73 Montfort, Lord, 108, 109 Monville, M. de, 252 Moral Betting Club, circulars issued by a, 101 Mordaunt, Colonel John, devoted to cards from youth, 180, 181; leaves for India, 182; ignorance of writing, 182, 183; Hindoo and Persian scholar, 183; his method of calculation, 184; meets with Asoph ud Doulah, 186; aide-de-camp to the Nawab, 187; saves Zoffany's head, 188; his hospitality, 191; excellent pistol shot, 192; wounded in a duel, 192; his love of cock-fighting, 195; his early death, 193 Morny, Duc de, 425 Morocco-men, 48 Mount Coffee-House, Mr. Elwes a member of, 17 "Multipliers," 1, 2; statute against, 2 Mundy's Coffee-House, 41 Mytton, Jack, played best when drunk, 80; punishes foul play, 80; presence of mind, 80; often plucked when young, 81 Napoleon, a poor card-player, 11; encourages horse-racing, 420 Napoleon III. and the institution of the Grand Prix, 425 Nash, Beau, does penance, 30, 31; rides upon a cow, 31; his advice to a giddy youth, 31; and Duke of Bedford, 31, 32; and the young peer, 32; a bet on the life of, 108 Naylor, Mr., his big win at the Derby, 375 "Neptune," 117 Newcastle, Duke of, 52 Nivernois, Duc de, 50; and the Rev. Mr. Bentinck, 51, 52 Normandie, M. de, 422 North-country gambler, a, 12, 13 Northumberland, Duke of, 15; patron of cock-fighting, 195 Nugent, Mr., 103, 104 O'Birne, Mr., his generous offer, 111 O'Burne, Mr., 57, 58 Ogden, Mr., 9 O'Kelly, Colonel Andrew, and his uncle's parrot, 148, 149 O'Kelly, Colonel Dennis, 42; his military rank, 141; sometimes known as Count, 141; and Catherine Hayes, 142; his racing successes, 142; hospitable, yet mean, 142; a true-bred Milesian, 143; not a fighting-man, 143; and the Jockey Club, 143; the black-legged fraternity, 144; and the sporting aristocracy, 145; his attachment for Ascot, 145; his small note, 146; and the pickpocket, 146, 147; the map of his estates, 147; his wonderful parrot, 147; becomes owner of Eclipse, 393 "Old Nick," 59; and the Duchess of Devonshire, 60; vouches for a friend's respectability, 60 One leg, twelve hours' stand on, 230 Onslow, Lord, and Major Baggs, 83 Onslow, Mr. George (Cocking George), out-ranger of Windsor Forest, 195 Orford, Lord, his geese and turkey race, 206; drives deer in place of horses in his phaeton, 206; chased by hounds, 207 Orléans, Duc d', anecdote of, 252 Orleans, Duke of, Regent, 241; duped by Law, 241 Osbaldiston, Squire, 232 Ostend, gambling at, 312; single tableau baccarat at, 313 Oyster-houses, gambling in, 95 Packer, Colonel, 138 Palais Royal, tripots in, 251, 253; Venternière and his black-mailers, 251, 252; its history, 254-6; queer characters, 256; "the Devil's Drawing-room," 257; facilities for dissipation, 258; the gaming-rooms, 258 _et seq._; the stakes, 261; a fortunate cook, 262; the mad colonel, 263; passe-dix and craps, 263; famous gaming-houses, 265; Marshal Blücher games at, 265; falls on evil days, 271; the end of gaming at, 272-4; present condition of, 275; schemes to revivify, 277 Panton, Colonel, 140 Panton, Mr., 117 Paper, a lucky bit of, 160-2 Parasol, an expensive, 301, 302 Pari Mutuel, the, 427-32 Paris, gambling in, 235 _et seq._; present-day, 278-81; anecdotes, 279-81 Park Club, high play at baccarat at, 124; proceedings against, 124 _et seq._; rules of, 126, 127; proprietor and committee fined, 130 Parrot, a wonderful, 147-9 Passe-dix, method of play, 263 Pearson, Prof. Karl, his roulette experiments, 351 Peterborough, Earl of, 180 Petersham, Lady Catherine, 108 Pharo, or pharaoh, 53 _Pharaon, le_, 53 Philosopher's stone, 2 Piazza, Covent Garden, 42 Pierse, Billy ("T' au'd un"), his idea of making a fortune on the Turf, 381; his opinion of Sir John Byng, 381; on friendly terms with Duke of Cleveland, 381, 382 Pigot, Mr. William, and "Old Q.," 212 Poland, Mr., 125 Polhill, Captain, 232 Pond, Miss, rides a thousand miles, 207 Pond, Mr., publisher of _Racing Calendar_, 207 "Posting," 172 Potter, Paul, game-cock feeder to Lord Derby, 200 _Pour et contre_, 53 Pratt, Mr. Edward, 119; his wonderful memory, 119; silence a hobby, 120; whist his sole earthly aim, 121 Prisoners of war, gambling among, 50; strange sleeping conditions, 50; an amusing rebuke, 254 Private gambling, evils of, 136 Prussia, King of, gambles at Aix-la-Chapelle, 284; his generosity, 285 Public tables offer best chance, 10 Pur Plomb Club, 75 Queensberry, Duke of ("Old Q."), rides a mule race, 211; sends letter by cricket ball, 211; an eating contest, bet with Mr. William Pigot, 212; and Count O'Taafe, 213; his shrewdness, 410; his presence of mind, 411 Racing games, 75 Racing Plomb Club, 75 Radcliffe, Mr. J.B., 234 Raggett, 20 Raids, 44, 46 Raindrop race, the, 204 Rebuke, an amusing, 254 Regent, Prince, wins large sum from Mellish, 171; befriends him, 179 Restaurants in Palais Royal: Méot's, 275; Beauvilliers', Rivarol Champcenetz at, 275; Véry's, Danton at, 276; Venua, frequented by Girondins and Robespierre, 276; Fevrier's, a tragedy at, 276; Véfour's, 277; "Les Trois Frères Provençaux," 277; Café Corazza, 277 Revolution, gambling during the, 249 _et seq._ Revolutionary playing-cards, 253, 254 Ricardo, Mr. Albert, 422, 423 Richmond, Duke of, 227 Rigby, Mr. Richard, squanders his fortune, 149; rescues Duke of Bedford, 150; appointed Paymaster-General, 151; loses his post, and in difficulties, 151; assisted by Thomas Rumbold, 151; his kindness to a stranger, 152 Rivers, Lord, a dashing player, 113 "Rivett, General," 44 Riviera, prosperity of, due to M. Blanc, 328 Robespierre, 276 Roche, Captain, 67 Rolles, a brewer, shot by England, 73 Ros, Lord de, and the _Satirist_ newspaper, 122; amusing evidence at trial, 122; dies in disgrace, 123 Rosebery, Lord, on chances of the Turf, 374 Rosslyn, Lord, his system, 366-9 Roulette, chances of, 9; method of play, 348-51; Prof. Karl Pearson's experiments, 351; a new form of, 281 Rowlandson, 20 Roxburgh Club, 20 Royal edict against play, 239 Rumbold, Thomas, waiter at White's and Governor of Madras, 151 Runs, extraordinary, 9, 82 Russell, Mr. Charles, 125 Sack race, a, 210 St. Amaranthe, Madame de, keeps a luxurious tripot, 253 St. Ann's parish officers' warning, 43 St. Fargeau, Lepelletier de, murder of, 276 St. Germain, a new form of roulette at, 281 St. James's Palace, 38 St. Louis, Chevaliers of, as croupiers, 249 Sainte Doubeuville, la Marquise de, 245 Salisbury, Lord and Lady, their amusing experience at Monte Carlo, 330, 331 Salon des Étrangers, a favourite resort of Marshal Blücher, 266; a pensioner, 267; a run of luck, 267; heavy losers, 268 Sandwich, Lord, plays hazard with Duke of Cumberland, 390 Sartines, Lieutenant of Police, authorises gaming in Paris, 245; his narrow escape of assassination, 246 Saxe, Madame, 22-24 Scott, General, a famous whist player, 117; his cute bet, 117; his generosity, 118; a careful liver, 118 Seaside resorts, French, gambling at, 314 _et seq._; Casino regulations, 315-17 Sefton, Lord, a heavy loser, 113 Selby, Jim, a coaching feat, 232, 233 Selle, Madame de, 246 Selwyn, George, 105, 106, 138 Sermons against gambling, 85 Serre, Madame de la, 246 Servants demoralised by gambling-houses, 96 Seymour, Lord Henry, 421-4 Shafto, Captain, 210 Shelley Hall, 33 Shepherd, John, 43 Shooting wagers, 221 Slaughter-houses, 40, 43 Smith, Mr. Justice, 134 Smith, Tippoo, 20, 117 Speculation, passion for, 1, 2; in France, 240 _et seq._ Spencer, Lord Robert, 115, 145 Spirit of play in eighteenth century, 38 Sporting Medley, 42 Stair, Lord, offends the French, 103 Stavordale, Lord, 115 Stilts, a journey on, 226 Stock Exchange, gambling on, 163-6 Stroud, 42 Sturt, Mrs. Mary, 57, 58 Subscription-houses, 40 Sue, Eugène, 421 Sully, rebukes Henri IV., 235, 236 Sulzbach, 21 Sussex, Duke of, a heavy loser to Col. Mellish, 171 Systems at Monte Carlo, 360-73; the martingale, 363, 364; the Labouchere, 364; Lord Rosslyn's, 366-9; a sensible method of play, 370, 371; none thoroughly reliable, 372, 373 Talbot, Mr., 109 Talleyrand announces the death of the Duc d'Enghien, 137 Tattersall, Mr., purchases Highflyer, 395; compared with O'Kelly, 395, 396; his shrewdness, 396, 397; befriended by Lord Grosvenor, 397; his business, 397, 398 Tempest, Sir Harry Vane, 413 Tetherington, 42 Thacker, Mr., wins penmaking contest, 229 Thanet, Lord, 97; at the Salon, 268 Thatched House Club, 28 "There he goes," 35 Thornhill, Mr. Cooper, 210 Thornton, Colonel, 415, 416, 417; a shooting wager, 221; a bitter-sweet compliment, 221; unpopular, 222; known as Lying Thornton, 222; his conceit, 222; his will disputed in England and France, 223 Thornton, Mrs., her race with Mr. Flint, 415; contest with Buckle, the jockey, 417 Thouvenère, Madame de, 245 Throw, a marvellous, 114 Thynne, Mr., a disgusted gambler, 115 Tips, 4 Townshend, 46, 50 Tradesmen, devotees of chance, 33 "Travelling Piquet," 208 Trente-et-quarante, 10; method of play, 343-5 Tripots, 236, 239, 251; ladies preside at, 245; clandestine keepers of, 246; temporarily prohibited, 246; edict against unlicensed, 248; a luxurious tripot, 253 Turf, the, difficulty of making money on, 374 _et seq._; some great wins, 375; sporting journalists and tipsters, 376; philanthropic tipsters' circulars, 376, 377; an honest tipster, 377, 378; three classes of racing-men, 378; bookmakers and their chances of profit, 378, 379; betting must be systematic, 379; Ascot unfortunate for backers, 379, 380; recent changes in method of speculation, 382; Charles II. founder of the English Turf, 386; the Whip run for at Newmarket, 388; royal supporters of, 386-9; Duke of Cumberland patron of, 390; early race meetings, 398 _et seq._; eccentric races, 400; matches, 411-7 Turf, the French, 417 _et seq._; Hugh Meynell, 418; Comte de Lauraguais, 418, 419; Philippe Égalité, 418; Comte d'Artois, 418; unedifying races, 419; Jockey Club founded, 421; steeplechasing, 423; the Duc d'Orléans, 423; enters on a new era, 424; the Grand Prix, 425; Plaisanterie, 427; T. Wilde and Jack Moore, 427; Pari Mutuel, 427-32 Tying-up, 31, 32 Ude, M. Eustache, cook at Crockford's, 97 Uxbridge, Lord, 81 "Valois Collier," 256 Vandéreux, M. Fernand, 75 Venternière, blackmailer, 251, 252 Véron, Doctor Louis, 278 Vincent, Sir Francis, 268 Voltaire and John Law, 242 Wade, General, and the poor officer, 153, 154 Wager, a vague, 109; a curious, 110 Wagers, eccentric, 103 _et seq._, 108, 116, 197, 204-14, 220, 224-31, 233 Walpole, Horace, on Mr. Damer's death, 70; and White's coat of arms, 106; on Parisian gaming-houses, 239 Warburton, Sir P., 195 Ward, Mr., 20 Warthall Hall, 33 Waterloo, revival of gaming after, 111, 112 Wattier's Club, a gambling resort, 121; its proprietor, 122; frequented by Byron and Beau Brummell, 122 Waugh, Captain, and the goose, 192 Weare, 88 Wellington, not a player, 11; a member of Crockford's, 11; and Mr. Adolphus, 11 Whalley, Thomas (Jerusalem Whalley), jumps a carrier's cart, 214; his extravagance, 215; Jerusalem and back, 216; publishes _Memoirs_, 217 Wharton, Mr., 195 Whist, a serious affair, 118, 119, 121 White's Club, becomes a gambling centre, 104; main supporters of, 105; coat of arms, 106, 107; old betting-book, 107 _et seq._; hazard allowed, but faro barred, 110; gambling given up, 110; fossilised members, 110; present condition, 111 Wiesbaden, croupiers at, 290; the Kursaal, 290; players at, 291; an eccentric countess at, 291, 292; two strange players, 292; close of tables at, 293; effects of the closing on the town, 295; the last of the gamblers, 295, 296 Wilberforce, caught playing faro, 138 Wilde, Mr., his remarkable ride, 217, 218 Will, a gamester's, 78 William III., a patron of racing, 389 Williams, George, 106 Williamson, Major, 67 Wind, a bet about the, 224 Windsor, Mother, 45 Windsor Forest, outrangership of, 195 _n._ Wine _v._ water, 229, 230 Wolfe, Colonel, his answer to Duke of Cumberland, 390 Women and freak races, 205; as gamesters, 269, 359, 360 Wontner, Mr. St. John, and Park Club, 124 Wortley, Lady Mary, 39 Wren, Sir Christopher, and Charles II., 387 Wright of Long Acre, 213 Yarmouth, Lord, 421 Zeno, M. le Chevalier, Venetian ambassador, 248 Zoffany, court painter to Nawab of Oude, 187; paints caricature of the Nawab, 187; his narrow escape, 188, 189; a favourite of royalty, 194; his pictures, 194 THE END _Printed by_ R. & R. 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531	----	THE GAMING TABLE: ITS VOTARIES AND VICTIMS, In all Times and Countries, especially in England and in France. IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. II. By Andrew Steinmetz Of The Middle Temple, Barrister-At-Law; First-Class Extra Certificate School Of Musketry, Hythe; Late Officer Instructor Musketry, The Queens Own Light Infantry Militia. Author Of 'The History Of The Jesuits,' 'Japan And Her People,' 'The Romance Of Duelling,' &C., &C. 'The sharp, the blackleg, and the knowing one, Livery or lace, the self-same circle, run; The same the passion, end and means the same-- Dick and his Lordship differ but in name.' CONTENTS OF VOL. II. I. CHEVALIERS D'INDUSTRIE, OR POLITE SHARPERS II. PROFESSIONAL GAMESTERS AND THEIR FRAUDS III. ANECDOTES OF THE PASSIONS AND VICISSITUDES OF GAMESTERS IV. ACTROCITIES, DUELS. SUICIDES, AND EXECUTION OF GAMBLERS V. ODDITIES AND WITTICISMS OF GAMBLERS VI. THE GAMING CLUBS VII. DOINGS IN GAMING HOUSES VIII. THE DOCTRINE OF PROBABILITIES APPLIED TO GAMBLING IX. THE HISTORY OF DICE AND CARDS X. PIQUET, BASSET, FARO, HAZARD, PASSE-DIX, PUT, CROSS AND PILE, THIMBLE-RIG XI. COCK-FIGHTING XII. THE TURF, HISTORICAL, SOCIAL, MORAL XIII. FORTUNE-TELLING BY CARDS (FOR LADIES) XIV. AMUSING CARD TRICKS THE GAMING TABLE. CHAPTER I. CHEVALIERS D'INDUSTRIE, OR POLITE SHARPERS. Chevaliers d'industrie, or polite and accomplished sharpers, have always existed in every city, from the earliest times to the present. The ordinary progress of these interesting gentlemen is as follows. Their debut is often difficult, and many of them are stopped short in their career. They only succeed by means of great exertion and severe trials; but they endure everything in order to be tolerated or permitted to exercise their calling. To secure credit they ally themselves with men of respectability, or those who pass for such. When they have no titles they fabricate them; and few persons dispute their claims. They are found useful for the pleasures of society, the expenses of which they often pay--at the cost of the dupes they make in the world. The income of chevaliers d'industrie is at first derived from those inexperienced persons whom they get in their clutches by means of every kind of enticement, in order to ruin them some day--if they have any 'expectations' or are likely to be rich; or in order to make accomplices of them if they have only aptitudes for the purpose. After having led them from error to error, after suggesting to them all sorts of wants and vices, they make them gamble, if they are of age; they hold up play to them as an inexhaustible source of wealth. The 'protector' next hands over his 'young friends' to 'executioners,' who fleece them for the common benefit of the confederates. They do not always wait for the coming of age of their young dupes in order to strike the grand 'stroke.' When they find that the father of a family shudders at the idea of a public scandal, they immolate their victim at once--for fear lest he should escape from their hands. Of course they are always open to 'capitulate'--to come to terms; and if the aid of the law is invoked they give in discreetly. About a century ago there flourished at Paris one of these adventurers, who made a great noise and did a vast amount of evil. This man of a thousand faces, this Proteus, as great a corrupter as he was corrupted, changed his name, his quarters, and field of operations, according to the exigences of business. Although a man of ardent temperament and inconceivable activity, his cold-blooded rascality was never in a hurry. He could wait; he could bide his time. Taking in, at a glance, all the requirements of a case, and seeing through all its difficulties, he worked out his scheme with the utmost patience and consummated his crime with absolute security. Sometimes he gave a concert for amateurs, elegant suppers for gay ladies, and special soirees for the learned and the witty. He was not particular as to the means of doing business; thus he trafficked in everything,--for the sale of a living, or the procuration of a mistress--for he had associates in all ranks, among all professions of men. He had twenty Faro tables in operation every night, whilst his emissaries were on the watch for new arrivals, and for those who had recently come into property. In general, rogues soon betray themselves by some stupid bungle; but such was not the case with this man; he defended himself, as it were, on all sides, and always kept himself in position so as to oppose to each of his vices the proof positive of the contrary virtues. Thus, if accused of usury, he could prove that he had lent, without interest, considerable sums of money. Cowardly and base in a tete-a-tete, he was bold and redoubtable in public; those who had made him tremble in secret were then compelled to acknowledge him a man of courage. Even his more than suspected probity was defended by such as believed themselves his depositaries, whereas they were, in point of fact, only receivers of stolen property. Affable, insinuating to a degree, he might be compared to those brigands of Egypt who embraced their victims in order to strangle them.(1) He never showed more devotedness than when he meditated some perfidy, nor more assurance than when convicted of the rascality. Playing fast and loose with honour and the laws, he was sure to find, when threatened by the arm of justice, the female relatives of the judges themselves taking his part and doing their best to 'get him off.' Such was this extraordinary chevalier d'industrie, who might have gone on with his diabolical perpetrations had he not, at last, attempted too much, failing in the grandest stroke he had ever meditated--and yet a vulgar fraud--when he was convicted, branded, and sent to the galleys.(2) (1) Senec., Epist. Ii. (2) Dusaulx, De la Passion du Jeu. The following narrative elucidates a still more modern phase of this elegant 'industry.' My authority is M. Robert-Houdin. CAUGHT IN A TRAP. M. Olivier de ---- was a dissipated young gentleman. His family was one of the oldest and most respectable of the country, and deservedly enjoyed the highest consideration. M. Olivier de ----, his father, was not rich, and therefore could not do much for his son; the consequence was that owing to his outrageous prodigality the son was sorely pinched for means to keep up his position; he exhausted his credit, and was soon overwhelmed with debt. Among the companions of his dissipation was a young man whose abundant means filled him with admiration and envy; he lived like a prince and had not a single creditor. One day he asked his friend to explain the mystery of the fact that, without possessing any fortune, he could gratify all his tastes and fancies, whilst he himself, with certain resources, was compelled to submit to privations, still getting into debt. Chauvignac--such was the name of the friend thus addressed--was a card-sharper, and he instantly seized the opportunity to make something out of the happy disposition of this modern prodigal son, this scion of gentility. With the utmost frankness he explained to the young man his wonderful method of keeping his pockets full of money, and showed that nothing could be easier than for Olivier to go and do likewise in his terrible condition;--in short, on one hand there were within his grasp, riches, pleasure, all manner of enjoyment; on the other, pitiless creditors, ruin, misery, and contempt. The tempter, moreover, offered to initiate his listener in his infallible method of getting rich. In his frame of mind Olivier yielded to the temptation, with the full determination, if not to get money by cheating at cards, at any rate to learn the method which might serve as a means of self-defence should he not think proper to use it for attack--such was the final argument suggested by the human Mephistopheles to his pupil. Taking Olivier to his house, he showed him a pack of cards. 'Now here is a pack of cards,' he said; 'there seems to be nothing remarkable about it, does there?' Olivier examined the pack and declared that the cards did not appear to differ in the least from all others. 'Well,' said Chauvignac, 'nevertheless they have been subjected to a preparation called biseautage, or having one end of the cards made narrower than the other. This disposition enables us to remove from the pack such and such cards and then to class them in the necessary order so that they may get into the hand of the operator.' Chauvignac then proceeded to apply his precepts by an example, and although the young man had no particular qualification for the art of legerdemain, he succeeded at once to admiration in a game at Ecarte, for he had already mastered the first process of cheating. Having thus, as he thought, sufficiently compromised his victim, Chauvignac left him to his temptations, and took leave of him. Two days afterwards the professor returned to his pupil and invited him to accompany him on a pleasure trip. Olivier excused himself on account of his desperate condition--one of his creditors being in pursuit of him for a debt of one thousand francs. 'Is that all?' said Chauvignac; and pulling out his pocket-book he added,--'Here's a bank-note; you can repay me to-morrow.' 'Why, man, you are mad!' exclaimed Olivier. 'Be it so,' said Chauvignac; 'and in my madness I give you credit for another thousand-franc bank-note to go and get thirty thousand francs which are waiting for you.' 'Now, do explain yourself, for you are driving ME mad.' 'Nothing more easy. Here is the fact,' said Chauvignac. 'M. le Comte de Vandermool, a wealthy Belgian capitalist, a desperate gamester if ever there was one, and who can lose a hundred thousand francs without much inconvenience, is now at Boulogne, where he will remain a week. This millionnaire must be thinned a little. Nothing is easier. One of my friends and confreres, named Chaffard, is already with the count to prepare the way. We have only now to set to work. You are one of us--that's agreed--and in a few days you will return, to satisfy your creditors and buy your mistress a shawl.' 'Stop a bit. You are going too fast. Wait a little. I haven't as yet said Yes,' replied Olivier. 'I don't want your Yes now; you will say it at Boulogne. For the present go and pay your bill. We set out in two hours; the post-horses are already ordered; we shall start from my house: be punctual.' The party reached Boulogne and put up at the Hotel de l'Univers. On their arrival they were informed that no time was to be lost, as the count talked of leaving next day. The two travellers took a hasty dinner, and at once proceeded to the apartment of the Belgian millionnaire. Chaffard, who had preceded them, introduced them as two of his friends, whose property was situated in the vicinity of Boulogne. M. le Comte de Vandermool was a man about fifty years of age, with an open, candid countenance. He wore several foreign decorations. He received the two gentlemen with charming affability; he did more; he invited them to spend the evening with him. Of course the invitation was accepted. When the conversation began to flag, the count proposed a game--which was also, of course, very readily agreed to by the three comperes. While the table was prepared, Chauvignac gave his young friend two packs of cards, to be substituted for those which should be furnished by the count. Ecarte was to be the game, and Olivier was to play, the two other associates having pretended to know nothing about the game, and saying that they would content themselves by betting with each other. Of course Olivier was rather surprised at this declaration, but he soon understood by certain signs from Chauvignac that this reservation was intended to do away with the count's suspicions, in case of their success. The count, enormously rich as he was, would only play for bank-notes. 'Metal smells bad in a room,' he said. The novice, at first confused at being a party to the intended roguery, followed the dictates of his conscience and, neglecting the advantages of his hands, trusted merely to chance. The result was that the only thousand-franc bank-note he had was speedily transferred to the count. At that moment Chauvignac gave him a significant look, and this, together with the desire to retrieve his loss, induced him to put into execution the culpable manoeuvres which his friend had taught him. His work was of the easiest; the count was so short-sighted that he had to keep his nose almost upon the cards to see them. Chance now turned, as might be expected, and thousand-franc bank-notes soon accumulated in the hands of Olivier, who, intoxicated by this possession, worked away with incredible ardour. Moreover, the count was not in the least out of humour at losing so immensely; on the contrary, he was quite jovial; indeed, from his looks he might have been supposed to be the winner. At length, however, he said with a smile, taking a pinch from his golden snuff-box--'I am evidently not in vein. I have lost eighty thousand francs. I see that I shall soon be in for one hundred thousand. But it is proper, my dear sir, that I should say I don't make a habit of losing more than this sum at a sitting; and if it must be so, I propose to sup before losing my last twenty thousand francs. Perhaps this will change my vein. I think you will grant me this indulgence.' The proposal was agreed to. Olivier, almost out of his senses at the possession of eighty thousand francs, could not resist the desire of expressing his gratitude to Chauvignac, which he did, grasping his hand with emotion and leading him into a corner of the room. Alas! the whole thing was only an infamous conspiracy to ruin the young man. The Belgian capitalist, this count apparently so respectable, was only an expert card-sharper whom Chauvignac had brought from Paris to play out the vile tragi-comedy, the denouement of which would be the ruin of the unfortunate Olivier. At the moment when the latter left the card-table to go to Chauvignac, the pretended millionnaire changed the pack of cards they had been using for two other packs. Supper went off very pleasantly. They drank very moderately, for the head had to be kept cool for what had to follow. They soon sat down again at the card-table. 'Now,' said the Parisian card-shaper, on resuming his seat, 'I should like to end the matter quickly: I will stake the twenty thousand francs in a lump.' Olivier, confident of success after his previous achievement, readily assented; but, alas, the twenty thousand francs of which he made sure was won by his adversary. Forty thousand francs went in like manner. Olivier, breathless, utterly prostrate, knew not what to do. All his manoeuvres were practised in vain; he could give himself none but small cards. His opponent had his hands full of trumps, and HE dealt them to him! In his despair he consulted Chauvignac by a look, and the latter made a sign to him to go on. The wretched young man went on, and lost again. Bewildered, beside himself, he staked fabulous sums to try and make up for his losses, and very soon found, in his turn, that he owed his adversary one hundred thousand francs(L4166)! At this point the horrible denouement commenced. The pretended count stopped, and crossing his arms on his breast, said sternly--'Monsieur Olivier de ----, you must be very rich to stake so glibly such enormous sums. Of course you know your fortune and can square yourself with it; but, however rich you may be, you ought to know that it is not sufficient to lose a hundred thousand francs, but that you must pay it. Besides, I have given you the example. Begin, therefore, by putting down the sum I have won from you; after which we can go on.' . . . 'Nothing can be more proper, sir,' stammered out young Olivier, 'I am ready to satisfy you; but, after all, you know that . . . . gaming debts . . . . my word . . . .' 'The d--l! sir,' said the pretended count, giving the table a violent blow with his fist--'Why do you talk to me about your WORD. Gad! You are well entitled to appeal to the engagements of honour! Well! We have now to play another game on this table, and we must speak out plainly. Monsieur Olivier de ----, you are a rogue . . . Yes, a rogue! The cards we have been using are biseautees and YOU brought them hither.' 'Sir! . . You insult me!' said Olivier. 'Indeed? Well, sir, that astonishes me!' replied the false Belgian ironically. 'That is too much, sir. I demand satisfaction, and that on the very instant. Do you understand me? Let us go out at once.' 'No! no! We must end this quarrel here, sir. Look here--your two friends shall be your "seconds;" I am now going to send for MINE.' The card-sharper, who had risen at these words, rang the bell violently. His own servant entered. 'Go,' said he, 'to the Procureur de Roi, and request him to come here on a very important matter. Be as quick as you can.' 'Oh, sir, be merciful! Don't ruin me!' exclaimed the wretched Olivier; 'I will do what you like.' At these words, the sharper told his servant to wait behind the door, and to execute his order if he should hear nothing to the contrary in ten minutes. 'And now, sir,' continued the sharper, turning to Olivier, 'and now, sir, for the business between you and me. These cards have been substituted by you in the place of those which I supplied . . . You must do them up, write your name upon the cover, and seal it with the coat of arms on your ring.' Olivier looked first at Chauvignac and then at Chaffard, but both the fellows only made signs to him to resign himself to the circumstances. He did what was ordered. 'That is not all, sir,' added the false Belgian; 'I have fairly won money from you and have a right to demand a guarantee for payment. You must draw me short bills for the sum of one hundred thousand francs.' As the wretched young man hesitated to comply with this demand, his pitiless creditor rose to ring the bell. 'Don't ring, sir, don't ring,' said Olivier, 'I'll sign.' He signed, and the villany was consummated. Olivier returned to his family and made an humble avowal of his fault and his engagements. His venerable father received the terrible blow with resignation, and paid the 100,000 francs, estimating his honour far above that amount of money.(3) (3) This narrative is condensed from the account of the affair by Robert-Hondin, Tricherics des Grecs devoilees. AN ATTORNEY 'DONE' BY A GAMBLER. A turfite and gambler, represented under the letters of Mr H--e, having lost all his money at Doncaster and the following York Meeting, devised a plan, with his coadjutor, to obtain the means for their departure from York, which, no doubt, will be considered exceedingly ingenious. He had heard of an attorney in the town who was very fond of Backgammon; and on this simple piece of information an elaborate plan was concocted. Mr H--e feigned illness, went to bed, and sent for a large quantity of tartar emetic, which he took. After he had suffered the operation of the first dose he sent for a doctor, who pronounced him, of course, very languid and ill; and not knowing the cause, ordered him more medicine, which the patient took good care not to allow to stay on his stomach. On the second day he asked the doctor, with great gravity, if he considered him in danger, adding, 'because he had never made a WILL to bequeath his property.' The doctor replied, 'No, not in absolute danger, but there was no harm in making a WILL.' The attorney, accordingly, was sent for--of course the very man wished for--the lover of Backgammon before mentioned. The good man came; he took the 'instructions,' and drew up the last will and testament of the ruined turfite, who left (in the will) about L50,000, which no man ever heard of, living or dead. The BUSINESS being done, the patient said that if he had a moment's relaxation he thought he should rally and overcome the malady. The poor lawyer said if he could in any way contribute to his comfort he should be happy. The offer was embraced by observing that if he could sit up in bed--but he was afraid he was not able--a hit at Backgammon would be a great source of amusement. The lawyer, like all adepts in such matters, was only too willing to catch at the idea; the board was brought. Of course the man who had L50,000 to leave behind could not be expected to play 'for love;' and so when Mr H--e proposed 'a pound a hit or treble a gammon,' the lawyer not only thought it reasonable, but, conscious of his power in the game, eagerly accepted the terms of playing. They played; but the lawyer was gammoned almost incessantly, till he lost L50. Then H--e proposed 'double or quits to L1000,'--thereupon the poor lawyer, believing that fortune could not always forsake him, said he had but L2000 in the world, but that he would set the L1000. He lost; and became almost frantic. In the midst of his excessive grief, H--e said, 'You have a HORSE, what is it worth?' L50 was the answer. 'Well, well, you may win all back now, and I'll set L50 on your horse.' They began again. Lost! 'You have a COW in your paddock, haven't you? What's that worth?' asked Mr H--e. The attorney said L12. 'Well, I'll set that sum by way of giving you a chance.' The game proceeded, and the poor lawyer, equally unfortunate, raved and swore he had lost his last shilling. 'No, no!' said H--e,' you have not: I saw a HAY-RICK in your ground. It is of no use now that the horse and cow are gone--what is that worth?' L15, replied the attorney, with a sigh. 'I set L15 then,' said H--e. This seemed to be 'rather too much' for the lawyer. The loss of the hay-rick--like the last straw laid on the overladen camel's back--staggered him. Besides, he thought he saw--as doubtless he did see--H--e twisting his fingers round one of the dice. Up he started at once, and declared that he was cheated! Thereupon the sick man forgot his sickness, jumped out of bed, and gave the lawyer a regular drubbing, got the cheque for the L2000,--but the horse, cow, and hay he said he would leave 'until further orders.' A VERY CURIOUS STORY. An Archbishop of Canterbury was once on a tour, when a genteel man, apparently in earnest conversation, though alone in a wood, attracted his notice. His Grace made up to him, and, after a little previous conversation, asked him what he was about. Stranger. 'I am at play.' Archbishop. 'At play? With whom? I see nobody.' Sir. 'I own, sir, my antagonist is not visible: I am playing with God.' Abp. 'At what game, pray, sir?' Str. 'At Chess.' Abp. 'Do you play for anything?' Str. 'Certainly.' Abp. 'You cannot have any chance, as your adversary must be so superior to you.' Str. 'He takes no advantage, but plays merely as a man.' Abp. 'When you win or lose, how do you settle accounts?' Str. 'Very exactly and punctually.' Abp. 'Indeed! Pray, how stands your game now?' Str. 'There! I have just lost!' Abp. 'How much have you lost?' Str. 'Fifty guineas.' Abp. 'How do you manage to pay it? Does God take your money?' Str. 'No! The poor are his treasurers. He always sends some worthy person to receive it, and you are at present his purse-bearer.' Saying this, the stranger put fifty guineas into his Grace's hand, and retired, adding--'I shall play no more to-day.' The prelate was delighted; though he could not tell what to make of this extraordinary man. The guineas were all good; and the archbishop applied them to the use of the poor, as he had been directed. The archbishop, on his return, stopped at the same town, and could not help going in search of the chess-player, whom he found engaged as before, when the following dialogue ensued:-- Abp. 'How has the chance stood since we met before?' Str. 'Sometimes for me--sometimes against me. I have lost and won.' Abp. 'Are you at play now?' Str. 'Yes, sir. We have played several games to-day.' Abp. 'Who wins?' Str. 'The advantage is on my side. The game is just over. I have a fine stroke--check-mate--there it is.' Abp. 'How much have you won?' Str. 'Five hundred guineas.' Abp. 'That is a large sum. How are you to be paid?' Str. 'God always sends some good rich man when I win, and YOU are the person. He is remarkably punctual on these occasions.' The archbishop had received a considerable sum on that day, as the stranger knew; and so, producing a pistol by way of receipt, he compelled the delivery of it. His Grace now discovered that he had been the dupe of a thief; and though he had greatly bruited his first adventure, he prudently kept his own counsel in regard to the last. Such is the tale. Se non e vero e ben trovato. SKITTLE SHARPERS. 'I know a respectable tradesman,' says a writer in Cassell's Magazine--'I know him now, for he lives in the house he occupied at the time of my tale--who was sent for to see a French gentleman at a tavern, on business connected with the removal of this gentleman's property from one of the London docks. The business, as explained by the messenger, promising to be profitable, he of course promptly obeyed the summons, and during his walk found that his conductor had once been in service in France. This delighted Mr Chase--the name by which I signify the tradesman--for he, too, had once so lived in France; and by the time he reached the tavern he had talked himself into a very good opinion of his new patron. The French gentleman was very urbane, gave Mr Chase his instructions, let him understand expense was not to be studied, and, as he was at lunch, would not be satisfied unless the tradesman sat down with him. This was a great honour for the latter, as he found his employer was a baron. Well, the foreigner was disposed to praise everything English; he was glad he had come to live in London--Paris was nothing to it; they had nothing in France like the English beer, with which, in the exuberance of his hospitality, he filled and refilled Mr Chase's glass; but that which delighted him above all that he had seen "vos de leetle game vid de ball--vot you call--de--de--aha! de skittel." Mr Chase assented that it was a very nice game certainly; and the French gentleman seeming by this time to have had quite enough beer, insisted, before they went to the docks--which was essential--that they should see just one game played. 'As he insisted on paying Mr Chase for all the time consumed with him, and as his servant, of course, could not object, the party adjourned to the "Select Subscription Ground" at once. In the ground there was a quiet, insignificant-looking little man, smoking a cigar; and as they were so few, he was asked to assist, which, after considerable hesitation and many apologies for his bad play, he did. The end is of course guessed. The French gentleman was a foolish victim, with more money than wits, who backed himself to do almost impossible feats, when it was evident he could not play at all, and laid sovereigns against the best player, who was the little stranger, doing the easiest. What with the excitement, and what with the beer, which was probably spiced with some unknown relish a little stronger than nutmeg, Mr Chase could not help joining in winning the foreign gentleman's money; it seemed no harm, he had so much of it. 'By a strange concurrence of events, it so happened that by random throws the Frenchman sometimes knocked all the pins down at a single swoop, though he clearly could not play--Mr Chase was sure of that--while the skilful player made every now and then one of the blunders to which the best players are liable. That the tradesman lost forty sovereigns will be easily understood; and did his tale end here it would have differed so little from a hundred others as scarcely to deserve telling; but it will surprise many, as it did me, to learn that he then walked to and from his own house--a distance of precisely a mile each way--fetched a bill for thirty pounds, which a customer had recently paid him, got it discounted, went back to the skittle-ground, and, under the same malignant star, lost the whole. 'It was the only case in my experience of the work going on smoothly after such a break. I never could account for it, nor could Mr Chase. Great was the latter's disgust, on setting the police to work, to find that the French nobleman, his servant, and the quiet stranger, were all dwellers within half a mile or so of his own house, and slightly known to him--men who had trusted, and very successfully, to great audacity and well-arranged disguise.' A vast deal of gambling still goes on with skittles all over the country. At a place not ten miles from London, I am told that as much as two thousand pounds has been seen upon the table in a single 'alley,' or place of play. The bets were, accordingly, very high. The instances revealed by exposure at the police-courts give but a faint idea of the extent of skittle sharping. Amidst such abuses of the game, it can scarcely surprise us that the police have been recently directed to prohibit all playing at skittles and bowls. However much we may regret the interference with popular pastimes, in themselves unobjectionable, it is evident that their flagrant abuse warrants the most stringent measures in order to prevent their constantly repeated and dismal consequences. Even where money was not played for, pots of beer were the wager--leading, in many instances, to intoxication, or promoting this habit, which is the cause of so much misery among the lower orders. CHAPTER II. PROFESSIONAL GAMESTERS AND THEIR FRAUDS. A gambling house at the end of the last century was conducted by the following officials:-- 1. A Commissioner,--who was always a proprietor; who looked in of a night, and audited the week's account with two other proprietors. 2. A Director,--who superintended the room. 3. An Operator,--who dealt the cards at the cheating game called Faro. 4. Two Croupiers, or crow-pees, as they were vulgarly called, whose duty it was to watch the cards and gather or rake in the money for the bank. 5. Two Puffs,--who had money given to them to decoy others to play. 6. A Clerk,--who was a check on the Puffs, to see that they sank none of the money given to them to play with. 7. A Squib,--who was a puff of a lower rank, serving at half salary, whilst learning to deal. 8. A Flasher,--to swear how often the bank had been stripped by lucky players. 9. A Dunner,--who went about to recover money lost at play. 10. A Waiter,--to fill out wine, snuff candles, and attend the room. 11. An Attorney,--who was generally a Newgate solicitor. 12. A Captain,--who was to fight any gentleman who might be peevish at losing his money. 13. An Usher,--who lighted the gentlemen up and down stairs, and gave the word to the porter. 14. A Porter,--who was generally a soldier of the Foot Guards. 15. An Orderly-man,--who walked up and down the outside of the door, to give notice to the porter, and alarm the house at the approach of the constables. 16. A Runner,--who was to get intelligence of the Justices' meetings. 17. Link Boys, Coachmen, Chairmen, Drawers, and others, who brought the first intelligence of Justices' meetings, of constables going out, at half a guinea reward. 18. Common Bail, Affidavit Men, Ruffians, Bravos, Assassins, &c. &c. It may be proper to remark that the above list of officials was only calculated for gambling houses of an inferior order. In these it is evident that the fear of interruption and the necessity for precaution presided over the arrangements. There were others, however, which seemed to defy law, to spurn at justice, and to remain secure, in every way, by the 'respectability' of their frequenters. These were houses supported at an amazing expense--within sight of the palace--which were open every night and all night--where men of the first rank were to be found gambling away immense sums of money, such as no man, whatever his fortune might be, could sustain. 'What, then,' says a writer at the time, 'are the consequences? Why, that the UNDONE part of them sell their VOTES for bread, and the successful give them for honours. 'He who has never seen the gamblers' apartments in some of the magnificent houses in the neighbourhood of St James's, has never seen the most horrid sight that the imagination of a thinking man can conceive. 'A new pack of cards is called for at every deal, and the "old" ones are then thrown upon the floor, and in such an immense quantity, that the writer of this letter has seen a very large room nearly ANKLE-DEEP, in the greatest part of it, by four o'clock in the morning! Judge, then, to what height they must have risen by daylight.' It is a melancholy truth, but confirmed by the history of all nations, that the most polite and refined age of a kingdom is never the most virtuous; not, indeed, that any such compliment can be paid to that gross age, but still it was refined compared with the past. The distinctions of personal merit being but little regarded--in the low moral tone that prevailed--there needed but to support a certain 'figure' in life (managed by the fashionable tailor)(4), to be conversant with a few etiquettes of good breeding and sentiments of modern or current honour, in order to be received with affability and courteous attention in the highest circles. The vilest sharper, having once gained admission, was sure of constant entertainment, for nothing formed a greater cement of union than the spirit of HIGH GAMING. There being so little cognizance taken of the good qualities of the heart in fashionable assemblies, no wonder that amid the medley of characters to be found in these places the 'sharper' of polite address should gain too easy an admission. (4) 'How shalt THOU to Caesar's hall repair? For, ah! no DAMAGED coat can enter there!' BEATTIE'S Minstrel. This fraternity of artists--whether they were to be denominated rooks,(5) sharps, sharpers, black-legs, Greeks, or gripes--were exceedingly numerous, and were dispersed among all ranks of society. (5) So called because rooks are famous for stealing materials out of other birds' nests to build their own. The follies and vices of others--of open-hearted youth in particular--were the great game or pursuit of this odious crew. Though cool and dispassionate themselves, they did all in their power to throw others off their guard, that they might make their advantage of them. In others they promoted excess of all kinds, whilst they themselves took care to maintain the utmost sobriety and temperance. 'Gamesters,' says Falconer, 'whose minds must be always on the watch to take advantages, and prepared to form calculations, and to employ the memory, constantly avoid a full meal of animal food, which they find incapacitates them for play nearly as much as a quantity of strong liquor would have done, for which reason they feed chiefly on milk and vegetables.' As profit, not pleasure, was the aim of these knights of darkness, they lay concealed under all shapes and disguises, and followed up their game with all wariness and discretion. Like wise traders, they made it the business of their lives to excel in their calling. For this end they studied the secret mysteries of their art by night and by day; they improved on the scientific schemes of their profound master, Hoyle, and on his deep doctrines and calculations of chances. They became skilful without a rival where skill was necessary, and fraudulent without conscience where fraud was safe and advantageous; and while fortune or chance appeared to direct everything, they practised numberless devices by which they insured her ultimate favours to themselves. Of these none were more efficacious, because none are more ensnaring, than bribing their young and artless dupes to future play by suffering them to win at their first onsets. By rising a winner the dupe imbibed a confidence in his own gambling abilities, or deemed himself a favourite of fortune. He engaged again, and was again successful--which increased his exultation and confirmed his future confidence; and thus did the simple gudgeon swallow their bait, till it became at last fast hooked. When rendered thus secure of their prey, they began to level their whole train of artillery against the boasted honours of his short-lived triumph. Then the extensive manors, the ancient forests, the paternal mansions, began to tremble for their future destiny. The pigeon was marked down, and the infernal crew began in good earnest to pluck his rich plumage. The wink was given on his appearance in the room, as a signal of commencing their covert attacks. The shrug, the nod, the hem--every motion of the eyes, hands, feet--every air and gesture, look and word--became an expressive, though disguised, language of fraud and cozenage, big with deceit and swollen with ruin. Besides this, the card was marked, or 'slipped,' or COVERED. The story is told of a noted sharper of distinction, a foreigner, whose hand was thrust through with a fork by his adversary, Captain Roche, and thus nailed to the table, with this cool expression of concern--'I ask your pardon, sir, if you have not the knave of clubs under your hand.' The cards were packed, or cut, or even SWALLOWED. A card has been eaten between two slices of bread and butter, for the purpose of concealment. With wily craft the sharpers substituted their deceitful 'doctors' or false dice; and thus 'crabs,' or 'a losing game,' became the portion of the 'flats,' or dupes. There were different ways of throwing dice. There was the 'Stamp'--when the caster with an elastic spring of the wrist rapped the cornet or box with vehemence on the table, the dice as yet not appearing from under the box. The 'Dribble' was, when with an air of easy but ingenious motion, the caster poured, as it were, the dice on the board--when, if he happened to be an old practitioner, he might suddenly cog with his fore-finger one of the cubes. The 'Long Gallery' was when the dice were flung or hurled the whole length of the board. Sometimes the dice were thrown off the table, near a confederate, who, in picking them up, changed one of the fair for a false die with two sixes. This was generally done at the first throw, and at the last, when the fair die was replaced. The sixes were on the opposite squares, so that the fraud could only be detected by examination. Of course this trick could only be practised at raffles, where only three throws are required. A pair of false dice was arranged as follows:-- {Two fours On one die, {Two fives {Two sixes {Two fives On the other, {Two threes {Two aces With these dice it was impossible to throw what is at Hazard denominated Crabs, or a losing game--that is, aces, or ace and deuce, twelve, or seven. Hence, the caster always called for his main; consequently, as he could neither throw one nor seven, let his chance be what it might, he was sure to win, and he and those who were in the secret of course always took the odds. The false dice being concealed in the left hand, the caster took the box with the fair dice in it in his right hand, and in the act of shaking it caught the fair dice in his hand, and unperceived shifted the box empty to his left, from which he dropped the false dice into the box, which he began to rattle, called his main seven, and threw. Having won his stake he repeated it as often as he thought proper. He then caught the false dice in the same way, shifted the empty box again, and threw till he threw out, still calling the same main, by which artifice he escaped suspicion. Two gambling adventurers would set out with a certain number of signs and signals. The use of the handkerchief during the game was the certain evidence of a good hand. The use of the snuff-box a sign equally indicative of a bad one. An affected cough, apparently as a natural one, once, twice, three, or four times repeated, was an assurance of so many honours in hand. Rubbing the left eye was an invitation to lead trumps,--the right eye the reverse,--the cards thrown down with one finger and the thumb was a sign of one trump; two fingers and the thumb, two trumps, and so on progressively, and in exact explanation of the whole hand, with a variety of manoeuvres by which chance was reduced to certainty, and certainty followed by ruin.(6) (6) Bon Ton Magazine, 1791. CHEATING AT WHIST. In an old work on cards the following curious disclosures are made respecting cheating at whist:-- 'He that can by craft overlook his adversary's game hath a great advantage; for by that means he may partly know what to play securely; or if he can have some petty glimpse of his partner's hand. There is a way by making some sign by the fingers, to discover to their partners what honours they have, or by the wink of one eye it signifies one honour, shutting both eyes two, placing three fingers or four on the table, three or four honours. FOR WHICH REASON ALL NICE GAMSTERS PLAY BEHIND CURTAINS. 'Dealing the cards out by one and one to each person is the best method of putting it out of the dealer's power to impose on you. But I shall demonstrate that, deal the cards which way you will, a confederacy of two sharpers will beat any two persons in the world, though ever so good players, that are not of the gang, or in the secret, and "THREE poll ONE" is as safe and secure as if the money was in their pockets. All which will appear presently. The first necessary instructions to be observed at Whist, as principals of the secret, which may be likewise transferred to most other games at cards, are:-- Brief or short cards, Corner-bend, Middle-bend (or Kingston-bridge). 'Of brief cards there are two sorts: one is a card longer than the rest,--the other is a card broader than the rest. The long sort are such as three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and nine; the broad sort are such as aces, kings, queens, and knaves. The use and advantage of each are as follows:-- 'Example:--When you cut the cards to your adversary, cut them long, or endways, and he will have a three, four, five, six, seven, eight, or nine at bottom. When your adversary cuts the cards to you, put them broadside to him, and he will naturally cut (without ever suspecting what you do) ace, king, queen, or knave, &c., which is sufficient advantage to secure any game. 'And in case you cannot get cards of proper sizes ready-made to mix with others, you may shave them with a razor or penknife from the threes to the nines each side, and from the aces to the knaves each end; then put them up in the same case or cover, and if they are done as they ought to be, they will pass upon anybody. 'As Whist is a tavern-game, the sharpers generally take care to put about the bottle before the game begins, so quick, that a BUBBLE cannot be said to see clearly even when he begins to play. 'The next is the corner-bend, which is four cards turned down finely at one corner--a signal to cut by. 'The other is vulgarly called Kingston-bridge, or the middle-bend. It is done by bending your own or adversary's TRICKS two different ways, which will cause an opening, or arch, in the middle, which is of the same use and service as the other two ways, and only practised in its turn to amuse you. 'The next thing to be considered is, who deals the cards, you or your adversary; because that is a main point, and from whence your advantage must arise. Suppose, for example, {Sharpers, A and B { {Partners, {Bubbles, or Flats, C and D { { Partners. After a deal or two is formally played, A and B will begin to operate in the following manner:-- 'When A or B is to deal, they observe the PRECEDING DEAL to take up the tricks thus:-- 1. A bad card. 2. A good card. 3. A bad card. 4. A good card. (Meaning the best and worst that fall in that list). 'When C or D deals, they must be taken up thus:-- 1. A good card. 2. A bad card. 3. A good card. 4. A bad card. 'By this rule it is plain that the best cards fall to A and B every deal. How is it possible, therefore, that C and D should ever win a game without permission? But it would be deemed ill policy, and contrary to the true interest of A and B, to act thus every deal. I will, therefore, suppose it is practised just when they please, according as bets happen in company; though the rule with gamesters, in low life, is at the first setting out to stupify you with wine and the loss of your money, that you may never come to a perfect understanding of what you are doing. It may be truly said that many an honest gentleman has been kept a month in such a condition by the management and contrivance of a set of sharpers. 'Now you may imagine it not in the power of A and B to cause the tricks to be taken up after the manner aforesaid: there is nothing so easy nor so frequently practised, especially at Three poll One; for in playing the cards the confederates will not only take care of their own tricks, but also of yours, for the cards may be so played, and shoved together in such a manner, as will even cause you to take them right yourself; and if a trick should lie untowardly on the table, A or B will pay you the compliment of taking it up for you, and say--"Sir, that's yours." This operation will the more readily be apprehended by seeing it practised half a score times; when once you are aware of it, it will otherwise (I may say fairly) pass upon any person that has not been let into the secret. This being allowed, the next point and difficulty is to shuffle and cut. 'I say, that either A or B are such curious workmen, and can make a sham shuffle with a pack of cards so artfully, that you would believe they were splitting them, when at the time they will not displace a single card from its order! Such is the SHARPER'S shuffling. 'Now, to cut the cards, a BEND is prepared for you to cut to--the middle is the best; and it is odds but you unwarily cut to it; if not, SLIP is the word; but if you have no opportunity to do that neither, then deal away at all hazards, it is but an equal bet that they come in your favour; if right, proceed; if otherwise, miss a card in its course, and it brings the cards according to your first design; it is but giving two at last where you missed; and if that cannot be conveniently done, you only lose the deal, and there is an end of it. 'But when A or B is to cut, they make it all safe; for then they make the CORNER-BEND, which any one that knows may cut to, a hundred times together. 'Piping at Whist. By piping I mean, when one of the company that does not play, which frequently happens, sits down in a convenient place to smoke a pipe, and so look on, pretending to amuse himself that way. Now, the disposing of his fingers on the pipe whilst smoking discovers the principal cards that are in the person's hand he overlooks; which was always esteemed a sufficient advantage whereby to win a game. There is another method, namely, by uttering words. "Indeed" signifies diamonds; "truly," hearts; "upon my word," clubs; "I assure you," spades. But as soon as these methods become known, new ones are invented; and it is most curious that two persons may discover to each other what sort of cards they have in hand, and which ought first to be played, many different ways, without speaking a word.' There can be no doubt that the act of sorting the cards is capable of giving an acute observer a tolerably accurate idea of his partner's or either of his opponents' hands; so that where cheating is suspected it would be better to play the cards without sorting them. The number of times a sorter carries a card to a particular part indicates so many of a suit; your own hand and his play will readily indicate the nature of the cards in which he is either strong or weak. I now quote Robert-Houdin's account of CARD TELEGRAPHY. Although there are 32 cards in the game of Piquet, all of them may be designated by twelve different signs, namely, eight for the nature of the cards, and four for the colours. At Ecarte, the number of the signals is still less, as it is only the figures that require indication: but to make these indications it is necessary to execute a sort of pantomime, according to certain authors, such as blowing the nose, coughing, drumming on the table, sneezing, &c. Such evolutions, however, are totally unworthy of your modern Greek, and would soon be denounced as gross fraud. The signals which he employs are only appreciable by his confederate,--as follows:-- If he looks 1. At his confederate, he designates A king. 2. At the play of his adversary . . . A queen. 3. At the stake . . . . . . . . . . . A knave. 4. At the opposite side . . . . . . . An ace. And whilst he indicates the nature of the cards he at the same time makes known the colour by the following signs:-- 1. The mouth slightly open . . . . . Hearts. 2. The mouth shut . . . . . . . . . . Diamonds. 3. The upper-lip slightly pouting over the lower . . . . . . . Clubs. 4. The lower-lip drawn over the upper . . . . . . . . . . . Spades. Thus, if the Greek wishes to announce, for instance, the knave and ace of hearts, he successively directs his looks upon the play of his adversary, upon the stake, and to the opposite side, whilst keeping his mouth slightly open. It is evident that this telegraphy may be employed at all games where there is a gallery. In effect, nothing is easier at Piquet than to indicate, by the aid of these signals, the colour in which the player should discard and that in which he should keep what cards he has. These are the simplest signs; but some of the Greeks have a great number of them, to designate everything; and even sometimes to communicate and receive intelligence, when necessary. This telegraphy is so imperceptible that it is difficult to describe it, and altogether impossible to detect it.(7) (7) Tricheries des Grecs devoilees. Robert-Houdin has exhausted the subject of card-trickery, in connection with that prestidigitation which, it seems, all card-sharpers cultivate, the description of which, however, is by no means so entertaining as the visible performance. I find, nevertheless, in his book, under the title of 'Small Trickeries made innocent by Custom,' certain things alluded to which I can attest by experience. I. At Whist, no communication whatever must be made by a player to his partner, excepting those authorized by the laws of the game; but some persons go further, and by the play of their features 'telegraph' to their partners the value of their hands. II. Any one with a good memory and endowed with quick perception may form a very accurate estimate of the hands held by all the players by remembering THE TRICKS AS THEY ARE PLAYED AND TURNED DOWN--all of a suit, or trumped. Cards 'stick together' most lovingly, and the ordinary shuffling scarcely alters their sequence; and so, if a trick has been taken by an ace over a king, for instance, and in the next deal you get the same king, you may be sure that the ace is either on your right or your left, according to the deal; of course, if you get the ace, then the same probability, or rather necessity, exists as to the king; and so on. Knave, queen, king, ace, of the same name, are almost sure to be separated in the deal between the four players, or one player will have two of them. The observation is a tax upon the faculties; but I am sure, quite sure, that the thing can be done, and is, when done, of material service; although, of course, the knowledge can be turned to account only by an expert player, with a partner who can understand the game which he wishes to play. Whist is, decidedly, one of the fairest of games; but for that very reason, it is open to the greatest over-reaching, or, if you like, cheating. With regard to dice, of course, they were and, doubtless, are still loaded. Such were formerly called 'dispatches,' because they would 'in five minutes dispatch L500 out of the pocket of any young man when intoxicated with champagne.' Roulette and Rouge et Noir tables were and are so arranged as always to make the bank win at the will of the attendant, regulating them with a touch. At Hazard, they used 'low or high dice,' that is, with only certain numbers on them, high or low,--a pair of which every sharper always had in his possession, changing them with great dexterity. They also used 'cramped' boxes, by which they 'cogged' or fastened the dice in the box as they dropped them IN, and so could drop them OUT with the required face upwards. CHAPTER III. ANECDOTES OF THE PASSIONS AND VICISSITUDES OF GAMESTERS. Although all the motives of human action have long been known--although psychology, or the science of soul and sentiment, has ceased to present us with any new facts--it is quite certain that our edifice of Morals is not quite built up. We may rest assured that as long as intellectual man exists the problem will be considered unsolved, and the question will be agitated. Future generations will destroy what we establish, and will fashion a something according to their advancement, and so on; for if there be a term which, of all others, should be expunged from the dictionaries of all human beings, it seems to be Lord Russell's word FINALITY. Something NEW will always be wanted. 'Sensation' is the very life of humanity; it is motion--the reverse of 'death'--which we all abhor. The gamester lives only for the 'sensation' of gaming. Menage tells us of a gamester who declared that he had never seen any luminary above the horizon but the moon. Saint Evremond, writing to the Count de Grammont, says--'You play from morning to night, or rather from night to morning. All the rays of the gamester's existence terminate in play; it is on this centre that his very existence depends. He enjoys not an hour of calm or serenity. During the day he longs for night, and during the night he dreads the return of day.' Being always pre-occupied, gamesters are subject to a ridiculous absence of mind. Tacitus tells us that the Emperor Vitellius was so torpid that he would have forgotten he was a prince unless people had reminded him of it from time to time.(8) Many gamesters have forgotten that they were husbands and fathers. During play some one said that the government were about to levy a tax on bachelors. 'Then I shall be ruined!' exclaimed one of the players absorbed in the game. 'Why, man, you have a wife and five children,' said the speaker. (8) Tanta torpedo invaserat animum Vitellii, ut si principem eum fuisse non meminissent, ipse oblivisceretur. Hist., lib. iii. This infatuation may be simply ridiculous; but it has also a horrible aspect. A distracted wife has rushed to the gaming table, imploring her husband, who had for two entire days been engaged at play, to return to his home. 'Only let me stay one moment longer--only one moment. . . . . I shall return perhaps the day after to-morrow,' he stammered out to the wretched woman, who retired. Alas! he returned sooner than he had promised. His wife was in bed, holding the last of her children to her breast. 'Get up, madam,' said the ruined gambler, 'the bed on which you lie belongs to us no longer!' . . . When the gamester is fortunate, he enjoys his success elsewhere; to his home he brings only consternation. A wife had received the most solemn promise from her husband that he would gamble no more. One night, however, he slunk out of bed, rushed to the gaming table, and lost all the money he had with him. He tried to borrow more, but was refused. He went home. His wife had taken the precaution to lock the drawer that contained their last money. Vain obstacle! The madman broke it open, carried off two thousand crowns--to take his revenge, as he said, but in reality to lose the whole as before. But it is to the gaming room that we must go to behold the progress of the terrible drama--the ebb and flow of opposite movements--the shocks of alternate hope and fear, infinitely varied in the countenance, not only of the actors, but also of the spectators. What is visible, however, is nothing in comparison to the secret agony. It is in his heart that the tempest roars most fiercely. Two players once exhibited their rage, the one by a mournful silence, the other by repeated imprecations. The latter, shocked at the sang-froid of his neighbour, reproached him for enduring, without complaint, such losses one after the other. 'Look here!' said the other, uncovering his breast and displaying it all bloody with lacerations. It is only at play that we can observe, from moment to moment, all the phases of despair; from time to time there occur new ones--strange, eccentric, or terrible. After having lost quietly, and even with serenity, half his fortune, the father of a family staked the remainder, and lost it without a murmur. Facere solent extrema securos mala.(9) The bystanders looked at him; his features changed not; only it was perceived that they were fixed. It seemed that he was unconscious of life. Two streams of tears trickled from his eyes, and yet his features remained the same. He was literally a weeping statue. The spectators were seized with fright, and, although gamesters, they melted into pity. (9) 'Great calamities render us CARELESS.' At Bayonne, in 1725, a French officer, in a rage at billiards, jammed a billiard-ball in his mouth, where it stuck fast, arresting respiration, until it was, with difficulty, extracted by a surgeon. Dusaulx states that he was told the fact by a lieutenant-general, who was an eye-witness. It is well known that gamblers, like dogs that bite a stone flung at them, have eaten up the cards, crushed up the dice, broken the tables, damaged the furniture, and finally 'pitched into' each other--as described by Lucian in his Saturnalia. Dusaulx assures us that he saw an enraged gambler put a burning candle into his mouth, chew it, and swallow it. A mad player at Naples bit the table with such violence that his teeth went deep into the wood; thus he remained, as it were, nailed to it, and suddenly expired. The other players took to flight; the officers of justice visited the place; and the corpse was deprived of the usual ceremony of burial.(10) (10) Gazette de Deux-Ponts, du 26 Novembre, 1772. The following strange but apparently authentic fact, is related in the Mercure Francois (Tome I. Annee 1610). 'A man named Pennichon, being a prisoner in the Conciergerie during the month of September, 1610, died there of a wonderfully sudden death. He could not refrain from play. Having one day lost his money, he uttered frightful imprecations against his body and against his soul, swearing that he would never play at cards again. Nevertheless, a few days after, he began to play again with those in his apartment, and on a dispute respecting discarding, he repeated his execrable oaths. And when one of the company told him he should fear the Divine justice, he only swore the more, and made such confusion that there had to be another deal. But as soon as three other cards were given him, he placed them in his hat, which he held before him, and whilst looking at them, with his elbows on the table and his face in the hat, he so suddenly expired that one of the party said--"Come, now play," and pushed him with his elbow, thinking he was asleep, when he fell down dead upon the floor.' In some cases the effect of losses at play is simply stupefaction. Some players, at the end of the sitting, neither know what they do nor what they say. M. de Crequi, afterwards Duc de Lesdiguieres, leaving a gambling party with Henry IV., after losing a large sum, met M. de Guise in the court-yard of the castle. 'My friend,' said he to the latter, 'where are the quarters of the Guards now-a-days?' M. de Guise stepped back, saying, 'Excuse me, sir, I don't belong to this country,' and immediately went to the king, whom he greatly amused with the anecdote. A dissipated buck, who had been sitting all night at Hazard, went to a church, not far from St James's, just before the second reading of the Lord's Prayer, on Sunday. He was scarcely seated before he dozed, and the clerk in a short time bawled out AMEN, which he pronounced A--main. The buck jumped up half asleep and roared out, 'I'll bet the caster 20 guineas!' The congregation was thrown into a titter, and the buck ran out, overwhelmed with shame. A similar anecdote is told of another 'dissipated buck' in a church. The grand masquerade given on the opening of the Union Club House, in Pall Mall, was not entirely over till a late hour on the following Sunday. A young man nearly intoxicated--certainly not knowing what he was about--reeled into St. James's church, in his masquerade dress, with his hat on. The late Rev. Thomas Bracken, attracted by the noise of his entrance, looked directly at him as he chanced to deliver the following words:--'Friend! how camest thou in hither, not having on a wedding garment?' It seemed so to strike the culprit that he instantly took off his hat and withdrew in confusion. At play, a winner redoubles his caution and sang-froid just in proportion as his adversary gets bewildered by his losses, becoming desperate; he takes advantage of the weakness of the latter, giving him the law, and striving for greater success. When the luck changes, however, the case is reversed, and the former loser becomes, in his turn, ten times more pitiless--like that Roman prefect, mentioned by Tacitus, who was the more inexorable because he had been harshly treated in his youth, co immmitior quia toleraverat. The joy at winning back his money only makes a gamester the more covetous of winning that of his adversary. A wealthy man once lost 100,000 crowns, and begged to be allowed to go and sell his property, which was worth double the amount he had lost. 'Why sell it?' said his adversary; 'let us play for the remainder.' They played; luck changed; and the late LOSER ruined the other. Sometimes avidity makes terrible mistakes; many, in order to win more, have lost their all to persons who had not a shilling to lose. During the depth of a severe winter, a gamester beheld with terror the bottom of his purse. Unable to resolve on quitting the gaming table--for players in that condition are always the most stubborn--he shouted to his valet--'Go and fetch my great sack.' These words, uttered without design, stimulated the cupidity of those who no longer cared to play with him, and now they were eager for it. His luck changed, and he won thrice as much as he had lost. Then his 'great sack' was brought to him: it was a BEAR-SKIN SACK he used as a cloak! In the madness of gaming the player stakes everything after losing his money--his watch, his rings, his clothing; and some have staked their EARS, and others their very LIVES--instances of all which will be related in the sequel. Not very long ago a publican, who lost all his money, staked his public-house, lost it, and had to 'clear out.' The man who won it is alive and flourishing. 'The debt of honour must be paid: 'these are the terrible words that haunt the gamester as he wakes (if he has slept) on the morning after the night of horrors: these are the furies that take him in hand, and drag him to torture, laughing the while. . . . What a 'sensation' it must be to lose one's ALL! A man, intoxicated with his gains, left one gaming house and entered another. As soon as he entered he exclaimed, 'Well, I am filled, my pockets are full of gold, and here goes, ODDS OR EVEN?' 'Odds,' cried a player. It was ODDS, and the fortunate winner pocketed the enormous sum just boasted of by the other. On the other hand, sudden prosperity has deranged more heads and killed more people than reverses and grief; either because it takes a longer time to get convinced of utter ruin than great good fortune, or because the instinct of self-preservation compels us to seek, in adversity, for resources to mitigate despair; whereas, in the assault of excessive joy, the soul's spring is distended and broken when it is suddenly compressed by too many thoughts and too many sensations. Sophocles, Diagoras, Philippides, died of joy. Another Greek expired at the sight of the three crowns won by his three sons at the Olympic games. Many fine intellects among players have been brutified by loses; others, in greater number, have been so by their winnings. Some in the course of their prosperity perish from idleness, get deranged, and ruin themselves after ruining others. An instance is mentioned of an officer who won so enormously that he actually lost his senses in counting his gains. Astonished at himself, he thought he was no longer an ordinary mortal; and required his valets to do him extraordinary honours, flinging handfuls of gold to them. The same night, however, he returned to the gaming house, and recovered from his madness when he had lost not only all his gains, but even the value of an appointment which he held. UNFORTUNATE WINNING. M. G--me was a most estimable man, combining in himself the best qualities of both heart and head. He was good-humoured, witty, and benevolent. With these qualifications, and one other which seldom operates to a man's disadvantage--a clear income of three thousand a year--the best society in Paris was open to him. He had been a visitor in that capital about a month, when he received an invitation to one of the splendid dinners given weekly at the salon. As he never played, he hesitated about the propriety of accepting it, but on the assurance that it would not be expected of him to play; and, moreover, as he might not again have so good an opportunity of visiting an establishment of the kind, he resolved to go--merely for the satisfaction of his curiosity. He had a few stray napoleons in his purse, to throw them--'just for the good of the house,' as he considered it--could hardly be called PLAY, so he threw them. Poor fellow! He left off a winner of fourteen hundred napoleons, or about as many pounds sterling--and so easily won! He went again, again, and again; but he was not always a winner; and within fifteen months of the moment when his hand first grasped the dice-box he was lying dead in a jail! LORD WORTHALL'S DESPERATE WAGER. At a gambling party Lord Worthall had lost all his money, and in a fit of excitement staked his whole estate against L1000, at cutting low with cards, and in cutting exclaimed,-- 'Up now Deuce, or else a Trey, Or Worthall's gone for ever and aye.' He had the luck to cut the deuce of diamonds; and to commemorate the serious event, he got the deuce of diamonds cut in marble and had it fixed on the parapet of his mansion. THE CELEBRATED THADDEUS STEVENS. He was an inveterate gamester on a small scale, and almost invariably, after a day's duty in the House, would drop in at a favourite casino, and win or lose fifty dollars--that being the average limit of his betting. A PROVIDENT GAMBLER. A Monsieur B--, well known in Parisian life, having recently lost every shilling at a certain sporting club where play is carried on in Paris, went to the country, where his sister lent him L150. He won all back again, and got a considerable sum of money in hand. He then went to his hotel, to his bootmaker, and tailor, paid them, and made arrangements to be fed, clothed, and shod for ten years. A MAGNIFICENT FORTUNE WASTED. Lord Foley, who died in 1793, entered upon the turf with an estate of L18,000 per annum, and L100,000 ready money. He left with a ruined constitution, an encumbered estate, and not a shilling of ready money! AN ENTERPRISING CLERK. Lord Kenyon, in 1795, tried a clerk 'for misapplying his master's confidence,' and the facts were as follows. He went with a bank note of L1000 to a gaming house in Osendon Street, where he won a little. He also won two hundred guineas at another in Suffolk Street. He next accompanied some keepers of a third house to their tables, where he lost above nine hundred pounds. He played there almost every night; and finally lost about L2500! GAMBLING FOR RECRUITS FOR THE ARMY. An Irish officer struck out a mode of gambling, for recruits. He gave five guineas bounty, and one hundred to be raffled for by young recruits,--the winner to be paid immediately, and to purchase his discharge, if he pleased, for L20. The dice-box was constantly going at his recruiting office in Dublin. DOUBLING THE STAKES. A dashing young man of large fortune, about the year 1820, lost at a subscription house at the West End, L80,000. The winner was a person of high rank. The young man, however, by doubling the stakes, not only recovered his losses, but in his turn gained considerably of his antagonist. AN ANNUITY FOR A GAMBLING DEBT. A fashionable nobleman had won from a young and noble relative the sum of L40,000. The cash not being forthcoming, he accepted an annuity of L4000. SIR WILLIAM COLEPEPPER. It is told of Sir William Colepepper that, after he had been ruined himself at the gaming table, his whole delight was to sit there and see others ruined. Hardened wretch--'Who though he plays no more, overlooks the cards'--with this diabolical disposition! THE BITER BITTEN. A certain duchess, of a ci-devant lord-lieutenant, who expected to make a pigeon of Marshal Blucher, was fleeced of L200,000; to pay which her lord was obliged to sell a great part of his property, and reside on the continent. HUNTED DOWN. A stout-hearted and gallant military baronet lost an immense sum at a celebrated gaming house; but was so fortunate as to recover it, with L1200 more. This last sum HE PRESENTED TO THE WAITERS. He was pursued by two of the 'play-wrights' to a northern watering-place, where he was so plucked that all his possessions were brought to the hammer. A competency was, however, saved from the magnificent wreck. COMING OF AGE. When Sir C-- T--, a weak young man, with a large fortune, came of age, the Greeks, thinking him an excellent quarry, went to York Races, made him drunk and plundered him of a large sum. The next morning one of the party waited upon him to acquaint him of his loss--(L20,000 or L30,000), and brought bonds for his signature to that amount! HEAVY LIABILITIES TO BEGIN WITH. In the year 1799, when the Marquis of Donegal succeeded to the title on his father's death, his debts, principally to gamblers and money-lenders, amounted to two hundred and fifty thousand pounds sterling! A GENTLEMAN TURNED BARBER. In an old magazine I find the following curious statement:-- 'There is now living in Barnaby Street, Carnaby Market, a man who, although exercising the menial office of penny barber, was in his younger days in possession of estates and personal property to a large amount, and is the only lineal descendant remaining of the very ancient family of the H--s of Bristol. 'His relations dying when he was young, he was placed under proper guardians, and received a liberal education, first at Westminster, and afterwards at Cambridge, suitable to his rank and fortune. When of age he converted his estates into money, and retired to Dublin, where he remained some time. He then made the tour of Europe, and returned to Ireland, where he went through all the scenes of dissipation to which young men are so much addicted, till at last he was beset by those harpies the gamblers, and stripped of his immense fortune in one single night! 'He then subsisted for some little time on the bounty of his undoers, who intended to make him one of them; but, not having sufficient address for the profession, he was dismissed and "left in the lurch;" and most of his friends discarding him, he embarked with his last guinea for England. Here he has encountered many difficulties, often been in gaol for debt, and passed through various scenes of life, as valet, footman, thief-taker, and at length, a penny-barber! He has a wife and large family and lives in a very penurious manner, often lamenting his early folly.'(11) (11) 'The Western County Magazine, 1791. By a Society of Gentlemen.' This well-conducted old magazine was printed and published at Salisbury, and was decidedly a credit to the town and county. PENSIONED OFF BY A GAMING HOUSE. A visitor at Frascati's gaming house in Paris tells us:-- 'I saw the Chevalier de la C--(a descendant of the once celebrated romance-writer) when he was nearly ninety. The mode of life of this old man was singular. He had lost a princely property at the play-table, and by a piece of good fortune of rare occurrence to gamesters, and unparalleled generosity, the proprietors of the salon allowed him a pension to support him in his miserable senility, just sufficient to supply him with a wretched lodging--bread, and a change of raiment once in every three or four years! In addition to this he was allowed a supper--which was, in fact, his dinner--at the gaming house, whither he went every night at about eleven o'clock. Till supper-time (two o'clock in the morning) he amused himself in watching the games and calculating the various chances, although incapable of playing a single coup. At four o'clock he returned to his lodging, retired to bed, and lay till between nine and ten o'clock on the following night. A cup of coffee was then brought to him, and, having dressed himself, at the usual hour he again proceeded to the salon. This had been his round of life for several years; and he told me that during all that time (excepting on a few mornings about Midsummer) he had never beheld the sun!' A Mr R--y, son of a baronet, left Wattier's club one night with only L4 in his pocket, saying that he would look in at the hells. He did so, and, returning after three o'clock in the morning, offered to bet L500 that he had above L4000. The result proved that he had L4300, all won at gaming tables, from the small beginning of L4. He then sat down to play games of skill at Wattier's, and went home at six o'clock without a single pound! The same man subsequently won L30,000, and afterwards lost it all, with L15,000 more, and then 'went to the Continent.' A major of the Rifle Brigade, in consequence of gambling in London, by which he lost vast sums of money, went out of his senses and died a few years ago in an asylum. This occurred within the last ten or twelve years. Says Mr Seymour Harcourt, in his 'Gaming Calendar,' 'I have myself seen hanging in chains a man whom, a short time before, I saw at a Hazard table!' Hogarth lent his tremendous power to the portrayal of the ruined gamester, and shows it to the life in his print of the gaming house in the 'Rake's Progress.' Three stages of that species of madness which attends gaming are there described. On the first shock all is inward dismay. The ruined gamester is represented leaning against a wall with his arms across, lost in an agony of horror. Shortly after this horrible gloom bursts into a storm and fury. He tears in pieces whatever comes near him, and, kneeling down, invokes curses on himself. His next attack is on others--on every one whom he imagines to have been instrumental in his ruin. The eager joy of the winning gamester, the attention of the usurer, and the profound reverie of the highwayman, are all strongly marked in this wonderful picture. HOW MANY GAMESTERS LIVE BY PLAY? It is an observation made by those who calculate on the gaming world, that above nine-tenths of the persons who play LIVE by it. Now, as the ordinary establishment of a GENTEEL gamester, as he is commonly called, cannot be less than L1000 per annum, luck, which turns out EQUAL in the long run, will not support him; he must therefore LIVE by what they call among themselves the BEST OF THE GAME--or, in plain English, cheating. So much for the inner and outer life of gamblers. And now I shall introduce Mr Ben. Disraeli, recounting, in the happiest vein of his younger days, a magnificent gambling scene, quite on a par with the legend of the Hindoo epic before quoted,(12) and which, I doubt not, will (to use the young Disraeli's own words) make the reader 'scud along and warm up into friskiness.' (12) Chapter II. A curious phrase occurs in the 9th chapter of 'The Young Duke,' in the paragraph at the beginning, after the words--'O ye immortal gods!' Although the scene of the drama is part of a novel, yet there can be no doubt of its being 'founded on fact'--at any rate, I think there never was a narrative of greater verisimilitude. 'After dinner, with the exception of Cogit, who was busied in compounding some wonderful liquid for the future refreshment, they sat down to Ecarte. Without having exchanged a word upon the subject, there seemed a general understanding among all the parties, that to-night was to be a pitched battle--and they began at once, very briskly. Yet, in spite of their universal determination, midnight arrived without anything very decisive. Another hour passed over, and then Tom Cogit kept touching the baron's elbow, and whispering in a voice which everybody could understand. All this meant that supper was ready. It was brought into the room. 'Gaming has one advantage--it gives you an appetite; that is to say, so long as you have a chance remaining. The duke had thousands,--for at present his resources were unimpaired, and he was exhausted by the constant attention and anxiety of five hours. He passed over the delicacies, and went to the side-table, and began cutting himself some cold roast beef. Tom Cogit ran up, not to his Grace, but to the baron, to announce the shocking fact, that the Duke of St James was enduring great trouble; and then the baron asked his Grace to permit Mr Cogit to serve him. 'Our hero devoured--we use the word advisedly, as fools say in the House of Commons--he devoured the roast beef, and rejecting the hermitage with disgust, asked for porter. 'They set to again, fresh as eagles. At six o'clock, accounts were so complicated, that they stopped to make up their books. Each played with his memorandums and pencil at his side. Nothing fatal had yet happened. The duke owed Lord Dice about L5000, and Temple Grace owed him as many hundreds. Lord Castlefort also was his debtor to the tune of 750, and the baron was in his books, but slightly. 'Every half-hour they had a new pack of cards, and threw the used ones on the floor. All this time Tom Cogit did nothing but snuff the candles, stir the fire, bring them a new pack, and occasionally made a tumbler for them. 'At eight o'clock the duke's situation was worsened. The run was greatly against him, and perhaps his losses were doubled. He pulled up again the next hour or two; but, nevertheless, at ten o'clock owed every one something. No one offered to give over; and every one, perhaps, felt that his object was not obtained. They made their toilets, and went down-stairs to breakfast. In the mean time the shutters were opened, the room aired; and in less than an hour they were at it again. 'They played till dinner-time without intermission; and though the duke made some desperate efforts, and some successful ones, his losses were, nevertheless, trebled. Yet he ate an excellent dinner, and was not at all depressed; because the more he lost the more his courage and his resources seemed to expand. At first, he had limited himself to 10,000; after breakfast, it was to have been 20,000; then 30,000 was the ultimatum; and now he dismissed all thoughts of limits from his mind, and was determined to risk or gain everything. 'At midnight he had lost L48,000. 'Affairs now began to be serious. His supper was not so hearty. While the rest were eating, he walked about the room, and began to limit his ambition to recovery, and not to gain. 'When you play to win back, the fun is over: there is nothing to recompense you for your bodily tortures and your degraded feelings; and the very best result that can happen, while it has no charms, seems to your cowed mind impossible. 'On they played, and the duke lost more. His mind was jaded. He floundered--he made desperate efforts, but plunged deeper in the slough. Feeling that, to regain his ground, each card must tell, he acted on each as if it must win, and the consequences of this insanity (for a gamester at such a crisis is really insane) were, that his losses were prodigious. 'Another morning came, and there they sat, ankle-deep in cards. No attempt at breakfast now--no affectation of making a toilet, or airing the room. The atmosphere was hot, to be sure, but it well became such a hell. There they sat, in total, in positive forgetfulness of everything but the hot game they were hunting down. There was not a man in the room, except Tom Cogit, who could have told you the name of the town in which they were living. There they sat, almost breathless, watching every turn with the fell look in their cannibal eyes, which showed their total inability to sympathize with their fellow-beings. All the forms of society had been forgotten. There was no snuff-box handed about now, for courtesy, admiration, or a pinch; no affectation of occasionally making a remark upon any other topic but the all-engrossing one. 'Lord Castlefort rested with his arms on the table:--a false tooth had got unhinged. His Lordship, who, at any other time, would have been most annoyed, coolly put it in his pocket. His cheeks had fallen, and he looked twenty years older. 'Lord Dice had torn off his cravat, and his hair flung down over his callous, bloodless checks, straight as silk. 'Temple Grace looked as if he were blighted by lightning; and his deep-blue eyes gleamed like a hyaena. 'The baron was least changed. 'Tom Cogit, who smelt that the crisis was at hand, was as quiet as a bribed rat. 'On they played till six o'clock in the evening, and then they agreed to desist till after dinner. Lord Dice threw himself on a sofa. Lord Castlefort breathed with difficulty. The rest walked about. While they were resting on their oars, the young duke roughly made up his accounts. He found that he was minus about L100,000. 'Immense as this loss was, he was more struck--more appalled, let us say--at the strangeness of the surrounding scene, than even by his own ruin. As he looked upon his fellow-gamesters, he seemed, for the first time in his life, to gaze upon some of those hideous demons of whom he had read. He looked in the mirror at himself. A blight seemed to have fallen over his beauty, and his presence seemed accursed. He had pursued a dissipated, even more than a dissipated, career. Many were the nights that had been spent by him not on his couch; great had been the exhaustion that he had often experienced; haggard had sometimes even been the lustre of his youth. But when had been marked upon his brow this harrowing care? When had his features before been stamped with this anxiety, this anguish, this baffled desire, this strange, unearthly scowl, which made him even tremble? What! was it possible?--it could not be--that in time he was to be like those awful, those unearthly, those unhallowed things that were around him. He felt as if he had fallen from his state, as if he had dishonoured his ancestry, as if he had betrayed his trust. He felt a criminal. 'In the darkness of his meditations a flash burst from his lurid mind, a celestial light appeared to dissipate this thickening gloom, and his soul felt, as it were, bathed with the softening radiancy. He thought of May Dacre, he thought of everything that was pure, and holy, and beautiful, and luminous, and calm. It was the innate virtue of the man that made this appeal to his corrupted nature. His losses seemed nothing; his dukedom would be too slight a ransom for freedom from these ghouls, and for the breath of the sweet air. 'He advanced to the baron, and expressed his desire to play no more. There was an immediate stir. All jumped up, and now the deed was done. Cant, in spite of their exhaustion, assumed her reign. They begged him to have his revenge,--were quite annoyed at the result,--had no doubt he would recover if he proceeded. 'Without noticing their remarks, he seated himself at the table, and wrote cheques for their respective amounts, Tom Cogit jumping up and bringing him the inkstand. Lord Castlefort, in the most affectionate manner, pocketed the draft; at the same time recommending the duke not to be in a hurry, but to send it when he was cool. Lord Dice received his with a bow, Temple Grace with a sigh, the baron with an avowal of his readiness always to give him his revenge. 'The duke, though sick at heart, would not leave the room with any evidence of a broken spirit; and when Lord Castlefort again repeated--"Pay us when we meet again," he said, "I think it very improbable that we shall meet again, my Lord. I wished to know what gaming was. I had heard a great deal about it. It is not so very disgusting; but I am a young man, and cannot play tricks with my complexion." 'He reached his house. The Bird was out. He gave orders for himself not to be disturbed, and he went to bed; but in vain he tried to sleep. What rack exceeds the torture of an excited brain and an exhausted body? His hands and feet were like ice, his brow like fire; his ears rung with supernatural roaring; a nausea had seized upon him, and death he would have welcomed. In vain, in vain he courted repose; in vain he had recourse to every expedient to wile himself to slumber. Each minute he started from his pillow with some phrase which reminded him of his late fearful society. Hour after hour moved on with its leaden pace; each hour he heard strike, and each hour seemed an age. Each hour was only a signal to cast off some covering, or shift his position. It was, at length, morning. With a feeling that he should go mad if he remained any longer in bed, he rose, and paced his chamber. The air refreshed him. He threw himself on the floor, the cold crept over his senses, and he slept.'(13) (13) 'The Young Duke,' by B. Disraeli, chapter VIII. This gambling is the turning-point in the young duke's career; he proves himself at length not unworthy of his noble ancestry arm his high hereditary position,--takes his place in the Senate, and weds the maiden of his love. CHAPTER IV. ATROCITIES, DUELS, SUICIDES, AND EXECUTION OF GAMBLERS. The history of all nations is but the record of their cupidity; and when the fury of gaming appears on the scene, it has never failed to double the insolence and atrocities of tyranny. The atrocious gambling of the Hindoo Rajas has been related;(14) and I have incidentally adverted to similar concomitants of the vice among all nations. I now propose to bring together a series of facts specially elucidative of the harrowing theme. (14) Chapter II. One of the Ptolemys, kings of Egypt, required all causes to be submitted to him whilst at play, and pronounced even sentence of death according to chance. On one occasion his wife, Berenice, pronounced thereanent those memorable words:--'There cannot be too much deliberation when the death of a man is concerned'--afterwards adopted by Juvenal--Nulla unquam de morte hominis cunctatio longa est.(15) (15) Aelian, Var. Hist. lib. XLIV. c. xiii.; Juvenal, Sat. vi. Tolomnius, King of the Veii, happened to be playing at dice when the arrival of Roman ambassadors was announced. At the very instant he uttered the word KILL, a term of the game; the word was misinterpreted by the hearers, and they went forthwith and massacred the ambassadors. Livy suggests that this was an excuse alleged AFTER the commission of the deed; but gamesters are subject to such absence of mind that there is really nothing incredible or astonishing in the act. 'Sire,' exclaimed a messenger to the Caliph Alamin, 'it is no longer time for play--Babylon is besieged!' 'Silence!' said the caliph, 'don't you see I am on the point of giving checkmate?' The same story is told of a Duke of Normandy. Wars have arisen from very trivial causes--among the rest gambling. Henry, the son of William the Conqueror, was playing at chess with Louis, the son of Philip, King of France. The latter, perceiving that he was losing the game got into a passion, and calling Henry the son of a bastard, flung the chess-board into his face. Henry took the chess-board and struck Louis with it so violently that he drew blood, and would have killed him if his brother, who happened to come in, had not prevented him. The two brothers took to flight, but a great and lasting war was the consequence of the gambling fracas. A gaming quarrel was the cause of the slap in the face given by the Duc Rene to Louis XII., then only Duc d'Orleans. This slap was the origin of a ligue which was termed 'the mad war.' The resentment of the outraged prince was not appeased until he mounted the throne, when he uttered these memorable words:--'A King of France does not avenge insults offered to a Duke of Orleans.' Many narratives of suicide committed by desperate gamblers are on record, some of which I now adduce. SIR JOHN BLAND, OF KIPPAX PARK. Sir John Bland, of Kippax Park, flirted away his whole fortune at Hazard. 'He, t'other night,' says Walpole, 'exceeded what was lost by the late Duke of Bedford, having at one period of the night (though he recovered the greater part of it) lost two and thirty thousand pounds.' Sir John Kippax shot himself in 1705. LORD MOUNTFORD. Lord Mountford came to a tragic end through his gambling. He had lost money; feared to be reduced to distress; asked for a government appointment, and determined to throw the die of life or death on the answer received from court. The answer was unfavourable. He consulted several persons, indirectly at first, afterwards pretty directly, on the easiest mode of finishing life; invited a dinner-party for the day after; supped at White's, and played at Whist till one o'clock of the New Year's morning. Lord Robert Bertie drank to him 'a happy new year;' he clapped his hand strangely to his eyes. In the morning, he sent for a lawyer and three witnesses, executed his will, made them read it over twice, paragraph by paragraph, asked the lawyer if that will would stand good though a man were to shoot himself. Being assured it would, he said--'Pray stay, while I step into the next room;' went into the next room and shot himself, placing the muzzle of the pistol so close to his head that the report was not heard. A SUICIDE ROBBING PETER TO PAY PAUL. Gamblers have been known to set as coolly and deliberately about blowing out their brains as if they had only been going to light their cigars. Lord Orford, in his correspondence with Horace Walpole, mentions two curious instances. One of the fashionable young men of Lord Orford's day had been unhappily decoyed into a gambling house, where his passion for play became so great that he spent nearly the whole of his time in throwing the dice. He continued to gamble until he had not only lost a princely fortune, but had incurred a large amount of debt among his tradesmen. With the loss of his money, and the utter beggary which stared him in the face, the unfortunate victim of play lost all relish for life; and sought in death the only refuge he could fancy from the infamy and misery which he had brought upon himself. But whilst fully resolved on self-destruction, he thought, before carrying his fatal purpose into execution, he might as well do his tradesmen an act of justice, even if in so doing he should do injustice to others. He insured his life to the extent of his debts, amounting to several thousand pounds. Being acquainted with several of the directors of the company (he called them his life-and-death brokers) in which he insured, he invited them to dinner the following day, with the ostensible view of celebrating the completion of the insurance. The tradesmen also received strict orders to be present; and as the non-payment of their accounts for a long period to come was the penalty of not acceding to his wishes in this respect, it can scarcely be necessary to say that they were all 'punctual as lovers to the moment sworn.' The dinner over, and a liberal allowance of wine having been quaffed, the ruined gambler desired the servant to call up all who were in the hall below. In a few seconds the dining-room was filled with tradesmen, all eager to receive payment of their accounts. 'Now, gentlemen,' said the gambler, addressing his guests, and pointing to the little crowd of tradesmen,--'now, gentlemen, these are all my tradesmen; they are honest industrious men, to whom I am indebted, and as I see no other earthly means of being ever able to meet their just claims, you will be so kind as to pay them out of the sum for which I insured my life yesterday. Allow me, gentlemen, to bid you farewell.' And so saying, he pulled a pistol from his pocket, and placing it to his head, that instant blew out his brains. Of course his insurance office must have been one that undertook to pay insurances whatever might be the cause of death, not excepting suicide--which, like duelling, has usually been a bar to such claims. REVELATIONS OF A GAMBLER ON THE POINT OF COMMITTING SELF-MURDER. The following is 'A full and particular account of a person who threw himself into the Thames, from Blackfriars Bridge, on Wednesday, July 10, 1782; with the melancholy paper he left behind him, accounting to his wife and children for so rash an action.' It is said that several thousands of the papers were dispersed through London, and it is to be hoped that some of them might produce that good effect which seems to have been so anxiously desired by the person who wished them to be distributed. 'Midnight, July 10, 1782. 'Whoever thou art that readest this paper, listen to the voice of one from the DEAD. While thine eyes peruse the lines their writer may be suffering the most horrid punishments which an incensed Creator can inflict upon the greatest sinner. 'Reader, art thou of my own sex? Art thou a man? Oh, in whatever rank of life, whether high or low,--beware of gambling! Beware of so much as approaching an E O table! Had I ever met with such a dreadful warning as I now offer thee, I might perhaps have been saved from death--have been snatched from damnation. Reader, art thou a woman? Oh, whether rich or poor, whether wife, mother, sister, or daughter,--if thou suspect that the late hours, the feverish body, the disturbed mind, the ruffled temper, the sudden extravagance of him whom thou lovest, are caused by frequenting the gaming table, oh, fail not to discover thy suspicions--fail not to remonstrate! Had but my dear wife remonstrated with me, when she saw me, in consequence of my winnings, indulge in expense, which she must have known I could not honestly afford, she would not now, within the next hour, be deprived of her husband--of the only support of herself and her three poor children in this world,--and deprived of him in a manner which effectually cuts off all hopes of our ever meeting in the happiness of another. * * * * 'Yes, in less than an hour, coward as I am, I shall have deserted my duty and my family in this world; and, wretch as I am, shall have rushed into all the horrors of hell in another world, by drowning myself. 'By curiosity I was first led to the E O table. Ashamed to stand idle I put upon E, it came E; upon O, it came O. Fortune favoured me (as I foolishly called it), and I came away a winner. Something worse than curiosity, though hardly more dangerous, carried me to another table another night. My view in going was answered. My view was to WIN, and again I WON in the course of the evening. Again I went, and again I won. For some weeks this was the constant story. Oh, happy had I lost at first! Now I went every night. Everything I ought to have done, neglected. Up all night, I was forced to lie in bed all day. The strength of my mind, which at THIS moment might save me, was hourly wasting away. My wife was deceived with continual falsehoods, to which nothing but her fondness for me blinded her. Even my winnings, with the expense and extravagance in which I indulged myself and family, were every day more than half exhausted. But I felt that I was always to win. Fortune favoured me. Fortune was now my deity. * * * * 'But fortune, my new, my false deity, deserted me. My luck TURNED. I am undone! Ruined! A beggar! My wife and children will want a morsel of bread to eat. * * * * To destroy myself is the only way to preserve my family from want, and to keep myself from the GALLOWS. This morning I absolutely hesitated whether I should not procure a sum of money with which to try my luck by FORGERY. Gamesters, think of that--FORGERY! O my dear wife, is not anything better than seeing me conveyed to Tyburn? Yes, it is better that before many hours you and your three helpless daughters should be hanging in tears (I little merit) over my lifeless, cold, and swollen body. 'Readers, farewell! From my sad and voluntary death, learn wisdom. In consequence of gaming I go to seek my destruction in the Thames. Oh, think in what manner he deserves to be punished who commits a crime which he is fully persuaded merits, and will not fail to meet, the severest punishment.' The narrative proceeds to state that, 'between one and two o'clock in the morning he took a sad farewell of this world, and leaped over Blackfriars Bridge. It pleased Providence, however, that he should be seen committing this desperate action by two watermen, who found his body after it had been a considerable time under water. In consequence of the methods used by the men of the Humane Society, he was at length almost miraculously restored to life and to his family. It is further stated that--'In consequence of the advice of a worthy clergyman he was restored to reason and to religion. He now wonders how he could think of committing so horrid a crime; and is not without hope that by a life of continual repentance and exemplary religion, he may obtain pardon hereafter. The paper which he wrote before he set forth to drown himself he still desires should be made as public as possible, and that this narrative should be added to it. INCORRIGIBLE. In the year 1799, Sir W. L--, Bart., finding his eldest son extremely distressed and embarrassed, told him that he would relieve him from all his difficulties, on condition that he would state to him, without reserve, their utmost extent, and give him his honour never to play again for any considerable sum. The debts--amounting to L22,000--were instantly discharged. Before a week had elapsed he fell into his old habits again, and lost L5000 more at a sitting; upon which he next morning shot himself! SUICIDE IN 1816. In 1816 a gentleman, the head of a first-rate concern in the city, put a period to his existence by blowing out his brains. He had gone to the Argyle Rooms a few nights before the act, and accompanied a female home in a coach, with two men, friends of the woman. When they got to her residence the two men proposed to the gentleman to play for a dozen champagne to treat the lady with, which the gentleman declined. They, however, after a great deal of persuasion, prevailed on him to play for small sums, and, according to the usual trick of gamblers, allowed him to win at first, till they began to play for double, when there is no doubt the fellows produced loaded dice, and the gentleman lost to the amount of L1800! This brought him to his senses--as well it might. He then invented an excuse for not paying that sum, by saying that he was under an agreement with his partner not to draw for a larger amount than L300 for his private account--and gave them a draft for that amount, promising the remainder at a future day. This promise, however, he did not attend to, not feeling himself bound by such a villainous transaction, especially after giving them so much. But the robbers found out who he was and his residence, and had the audacity to go, armed with bludgeons, and attack him publicly on his own premises, in the presence of those employed there, demanding payment of their nefarious 'debt of honour,' and threatening him, if he did not pay, that he should fight! This exposure had such an effect on his feelings that he made an excuse to retire--did so--and blew out his brains with a pistol! This rash act was the more to be lamented because it prevented the bringing to condign punishment, the plundering villains who were the cause of it.(16) (16) Annual Register, vol. lviii. OTHER INSTANCES. A gallant Dutch officer, after having lost a splendid fortune not long since (1823) in a gambling house at Aix-la-Chapelle, shot himself. A Russian general, also, of immense wealth, terminated his existence in the same manner and for the same cause. More recently, a young Englishman, who lost the whole of an immense fortune by gambling at Paris, quitted this world by stabbing himself in the neck with a fork. A short time previously another Englishman, whose birth was as high as his wealth had been considerable, blew his brains out in the Palais Royal, after having literally lost his last shilling. Finally, an unfortunate printer at Paris, who had a wife and five children, finished his earthly career for the same cause, by suffocating himself with the fumes of charcoal; he said, in his farewell note to his unhappy wife--'Behold the effect of gaming!'(17) (17) Ubi supra. 'IF I LOSE I SHALL COMMIT SUICIDE.' A young man having gambled away his last shilling, solicited the loan of a few pounds from one of the proprietors of the hell in which he had been plundered. 'What security will you give me?' asked the fellow. 'My word of honour,' was the reply. 'Your word of honour! That's poor security, and won't do,' rejoined the hellite; 'if you can pawn nothing better than that, you'll get no money out of me.' 'Then you won't lend me a couple of pounds?' 'Not without security,' was the reply. 'Why, surely, you won't refuse me a couple of sovereigns, after having lost so much?' 'I won't advance you a couple of shillings without security.' Still bent upon play, and greedy for the means to gratify his passion, the unhappy man, as if struck by a sudden thought, exclaimed--'I'll give you security--the clothes on my back are quite new, and worth eight guineas; you shall have them as security. Lend me two sovereigns on them.' 'Suppose you lose,' doggedly rejoined the other, 'I cannot strip them off your back.' 'Don't trouble yourself on that head,' replied the desperate wretch; 'if I lose I shall commit suicide, which I have been meditating for some time, and you shall surely have my clothes. I shall return to my lodgings before daylight, in the most worn-out and worthless dressing-gown or great-coat you can procure for me, leaving my clothes with you.' The two sovereigns were advanced, and in ten or twelve minutes were lost. The keeper of the table demanded the clothes, and the unfortunate man stripped himself with the utmost coolness of manner, and wrapping his body in a worn-out greatcoat, quitted the place with the full purpose of committing self-murder. He did not direct his steps homeward, however, but resolved to accomplish the horrid deed by suspending himself from a lamp-post in a dark lane near the place. While making the necessary preparations he was observed by a constable, who at once took him into custody, and on the following morning he was carried before the magistrate, where all the circumstances of the affair came out. SUICIDE AT VERDUN. During the great French War, among other means resorted to in order to ease the English prisoners at Verdun of their loose cash, a gaming table was set up for their sole accommodation, and, as usual, led to scenes of great depravity and horror. For instance, a young man was enticed into this sink of iniquity, when he was tempted to throw on the table a five-franc piece; he won, and repeated the experiment several times successfully, until luck turned against him, and he lost everything he had. The manager immediately offered a rouleau of a thousand francs, which, in the heat of play, he thoughtlessly accepted, and also lost. He then drew a bill on his agent, which his captain (he was an officer in the English army) endorsed. The proceeds of this went the way of the rouleau. He drew two more bills, and lost again. The next morning he was found dead in his bed, with his limbs much distorted and his fingers dug into his sides. On his table was found an empty laudanum bottle, and some scraps of paper on which he had been practising the signature of Captain B----. On inquiry it was found that he had forged that officer's name to the two last bills. 'IN AT THE DEATH.' In 1819 an inquest was held on the body of a gentleman found hanging from one of the trees in St James's Park. The evidence established the melancholy fact that the deceased was in the habit of frequenting gambling houses, and had sunk into a state of dejection on account of his losses; and it seemed probable that it was immediately after his departure from one of these receptacles of rogues and their dupes that he committed suicide. The son of the gate-keeper at St James's saw several persons round the body at four o'clock in the morning, one of whom, a noted gambler, said: 'Look at his face; why, have you forgotten last night? Don't you recollect him now?' They were, no doubt, all gamblers--in at the death.' The three following stories, if not of actual suicide, relate crimes which bear a close resemblance to self-murder. A GAMBLER PAWNING HIS EARS. A clerk named Chambers, losing his monthly pay, which was his all, at a gaming table, begged to borrow of the manager's; but they knew his history too well to lend without security, and therefore demanded something in pawn. 'I have nothing to give but my ears,' he replied. 'Well,' said one of the witty demons, 'let us have them.' The youth immediately took a knife out of his pocket and actually cut off all the fleshy part of one of his cars and threw it on the table, to the astonishment of the admiring gamesters. He received his two dollars, and gambled on. A GAMBLER SUBMITTING TO BE HANGED. The following incident is said to have occurred in London:--Two fellows were observed by a patrol sitting at a lamp-post in the New Road; and, on closely watching them, the latter discovered that one was tying up the other, who offered no resistance, by the neck. The patrol interfered to prevent such a strange kind of murder, and was assailed by both, and very considerably beaten for his good offices; the watchmen, however, poured in, and the parties were secured. On examination next morning, it appeared that the men had been gambling; that one had lost all his money to the other, and had at last proposed to stake his clothes. The winner demurred--observing that he could not strip his adversary naked in the event of his losing. 'Oh,' replied the other, 'do not give yourself any uneasiness about that; if I lose I shall be unable to live, and you shall hang me, and take my clothes after I am dead, for I shall then, you know, have no occasion for them.' The proposed arrangement was assented to; and the fellow having lost, was quietly submitting to the terms of the treaty when he was interrupted by the patrol, whose impertinent interference he so angrily resented. TWO GAMBLERS TOSSING WHO SHOULD HANG THE OTHER. In the year 1812 an extraordinary investigation took place at Bow Street. Croker, the officer, was passing along Hampstead Road; he observed at a short distance before him two men on a wall, and directly after saw the tallest of them, a stout man, about six feet high, hanging by his neck from a lamp-post attached to the wall, being that instant tied up and turned off by the short man. This unexpected and extraordinary sight astonished the officer; he made up to the spot with all speed, and just after he arrived there the tall man, who had been hanged, fell to the ground, the handkerchief with which he had been suspended having given way. Croker produced his staff, said he was an officer, and demanded to know of the other man the cause of such conduct; in the mean time the man who had been hanged recovered, got up, and on Croker's interfering, gave him a violent blow on his nose, which nearly knocked him backward. The short man was endeavouring to make off; however, the officer procured assistance, and both were brought to the office, where the account they gave was that they worked on canals. They had been together on Wednesday afternoon, tossed for money, and afterwards for their CLOTHES; the tall man who was hanged won the other's jacket, trousers, and shoes; they then tossed up which should HANG THE OTHER, and the short one won the toss. They got upon the wall, the one to submit, and the other to hang him on the lamp-iron. They both agreed in this statement. The tall one, who had been hanged, said if he had won the toss he would have hanged the other. He said he then felt the effects upon his neck of his hanging, and his eyes were so much swelled that he saw DOUBLE. The magistrates, continues the report in the 'Annual Register,' expressed their horror and disgust; and ordered the man who had been hanged to find bail for the violent and unjustifiable assault upon the officer; and the short one, for hanging the other--a very odd decision in the latter case--since the act was murder 'to all intents and purposes' designed and intended. The report says, however, that, not having bail, they were committed to Bridewell for trial.(20) The result I have not discovered. (20) Annual Register, 1812, vol. liv. Innumerable duels have resulted from quarrels over the gaming table, although nothing could be more Draconic than the law especially directed against such duels. By the Act of Queen Anne against gaming, all persons sending a challenge on account of gaming disputes were liable to forfeit all their goods and to be committed to prison for two years. No case of the kind, however, was ever prosecuted on that clause of the Act, which was, in other respects, very nearly inoperative. GAMBLING DUELS IN THE YEAR 1818. It so happened that almost every month of the year 1818 was 'distinguished' by a duel or two, resulting from quarrels at gambling or in gambling houses. January. 'A meeting took place yesterday at an early hour, between Captain B--r--y and Lieutenant T--n--n, in consequence of a dispute at play. Wimbledon Common was the ground, and the parties fired twice, when the lieutenant was slightly wounded in the pistol hand, the ball grazing the right side; and here the affair ended.' January. 'A meeting took place on the 9th instant, at Calais, between Lieut. Finch, 20th regiment of Dragoons, and Lieut. Boileau, on half-pay of the 41st regiment. Lieut. Finch was bound over, some days back, to keep the peace in England; in consequence of which he proceeded to Calais, accompanied by his friend, Captain Butler, where they were followed by Lieut. Boileau and his friend Lieut. Hartley. It was settled by Captain Butler, previous to Lieut. Finch taking his ground, that HE WAS BOUND IN HONOUR to receive LIEUT. BOILEAU'S FIRE as he had given so serious a provocation as a blow. This arrangement was, however, defeated, by Lieut. Finch's pistol "accidentally" going off, apparently in the direction of his opponent, which would probably have led to fatal consequences had it not been for the IMPLICIT RELIANCE placed by Lieut. Boileau's friend on the STRICT HONOUR of Capt. Butler, whose anxiety, steadiness, and gentlemanly conduct on this and every other occasion, were too well known to leave a doubt on the minds of the opposite party, that Lieut. Finch's pistol going off was ENTIRELY ACCIDENTAL. A reconciliation, therefore, immediately took place.' February 17. 'Information was received at the public office, Marlborough Street, on Saturday last, that a duel was about to take place yesterday, in the fields contiguous to Chalk Farm, between Colonel Tucker and Lieut. Nixon, the latter having challenged the former in public company, for which and previous abuse the colonel inflicted severe chastisement with a thick stick. Subsequent information was received that the colonel's friends deemed it unnecessary for him to meet the challenger, but that his remedy was to repeat the former chastisement when insulted. It was further stated that a few half-pay officers, of inferior rank, had leagued together for the purpose of procuring others to give a challenge, and which it was the determination to put down by adopting the colonel's plan.' February. 'A captain in the army shook hands with a gallant lieut.-colonel (who had distinguished himself in the Peninsula) at one of the West End gaming houses, and Lieut. N--, who was present, upbraided the colonel with the epithet of "poltroon." On a fit opportunity the colonel inflicted summary justice upon the lieutenant with a cane or horse-whip. This produced a challenge; but the colonel was advised that he would degrade himself by combat with the challenger, and he therefore declined it, but promised similar chastisement to that inflicted. It was then stated that the colonel was bound to fight any other person who would stand forth as the champion of Lieut. N--, to which the colonel consented,--when a Lieut. J--n--e appeared as the champion, and the meeting was appointed for Tuesday morning at Turnham Green. The information of the police was renewed, and Thomas Foy apprehended the parties at an inn near the spot, early in the morning. They were consequently bound over to keep the peace. It appears, however, that the lieutenant in this instance was not the champion of the former, but had been challenged by the colonel.' April. 'A meeting was to have taken place yesterday in consequence of a dispute at play, between Captain R--n--s and Mr B--e--r, a gentleman of fortune; but it was prevented by the interference of the police, and the parties escaped. It took place, however, on the following day, on Wimbledon Common, and after exchanging a single shot the matter was adjusted.' May. 'In consequence of a dispute at a gaming table, on Monday night, in the vicinity of Piccadilly, Mr M--, who was an officer in the British service at Brussels, and Mr B--n, a medical man, met, at three in the morning, on Tuesday, in the King's Road. They fought at twelve paces. Mr B--n was wounded on the back part of the hand, and the affair was adjusted.' July. 'A duel was fought yesterday morning, on Wimbledon Common, between a Mr Arrowsmith and Lieut. Flynn, which ended in the former being wounded in the thigh. The dispute which occasioned the meeting originated in a gaming transaction.' September. 'A duel was fought this morning on Hounslow Heath, between Messrs Hillson and Marsden. The dispute arose in one of the stands at Egham races. The latter was seriously wounded in the left side, and conveyed away in a gig.' November. 'A duel originating, over a dispute at play was fixed to take place on Wimbledon Common, at daybreak, yesterday morning, but information having been received that police officers were waiting, the parties withdrew.' GAMING DUEL AT PARIS, 1827. A medical student, named Goulard, quarrelled at billiards with a fellow-student named Caire. Their mutual friends, having in vain tried every means of persuasion to prevent the consequences of the dispute, accompanied the young men without the walls of Paris. Goulard seemed disposed to submit to an arrangement, but Cairo obstinately refused. The seconds measured the ground, and the first shot having been won by Goulard, he fired, and Caire fell dead. Goulard did not appear during the prosecution that followed; he continued absent on the day fixed for judgment, and the court, conformably to the code of criminal proceedings, pronounced on the charge without the intervention of a jury. It acquitted Goulard of premeditation, but condemned him for contumacy, to perpetual hard labour, and to be branded; and this in spite of the fact that the advocate-general had demanded Goulard's acquittal of the charge. THE END OF A GAMESTER. In 1788, a Scotch gentleman, named William Brodie, was tried and convicted at Edinburgh, for stealing bank-notes and money, with violence. This man, at the death of his father, twelve years before, inherited a considerable estate in houses, in the city of Edinburgh, together with L10,000 in money; but, by an unhappy connection and a too great propensity to gaming, he was reduced to the desperation which brought him at last to the scaffold. It is stated that his demeanour on receiving the dreadful sentence was equally cool and determined; moreover, that he was dressed in a blue coat, fancy vest, satin breeches, and white silk stockings; a cocked hat; his hair full dressed and powdered; and, lastly, that he was carried back to prison in a chair. Such was the respectful treatment of 'gentlemen' prisoners in Scotland towards the end of the last century. DUEL WITH A SHARPER. A Monsieur de Boisseuil, one of the Kings equerries, being at a card-party, detected one of the players cheating, and exposed his conduct. The insulted 'gentleman' demanded satisfaction, when Boisseuil replied that he did not fight with a person who was a rogue. 'That MAY be,' said the other, 'but I do not like to be CALLED one.' They met on the ground, and Boisseuil received two desperate wounds from the sharper. This man's plea against Boisseuil is a remarkable trait. Madame de Stael has alluded to it in her best style. 'In France,' she says, 'we constantly see persons of distinguished rank, who, when accused of an improper action, will say--"It may have been wrong, but no one will dare assert it to my face!" Such an expression is an evident proof of confirmed depravity; for, what would be the condition of society if it was only requisite to kill one another, to commit with impunity every evil action,--to break one's word and assert falsehood--provided no one dared tell you that you lied?' In countries where public opinion is more severe on the want of probity and fair-dealing, should a man transgress the laws of these principles of human conduct, ten duels a day would not enable him to recover the esteem he has forfeited. MAJOR ONEBY AND MR GOWER. This duel originated as follows:--It appears that a Major Oneby, being in company with a Mr Gower and three other persons, at a tavern, in a friendly manner, after some time began playing at Hazard; when one of the company, named Rich, asked if any one would set him three half-crowns; whereupon Mr Gower, in a jocular manner, laid down three half-pence, telling Rich he had set him three pieces, and Major Oneby at the same time set Rich three half-crowns, and lost them to him. Immediately after this, Major Oneby, in a angry manner, turned about to Mr Gower and said--'It was an impertinent thing to set down half-pence,' and called him 'an impertinent puppy' for so doing. To this Mr Gower answered--'Whoever calls me so is a rascal. 'Thereupon Major Oneby took up a bottle, and with great force threw it at Mr Gower's head, but did not hit him, the bottle only brushing some of the powder out of his hair. Mr Gower, in return, immediately tossed a candlestick or a bottle at Major Oneby, which missed him; upon which they both rose to fetch their swords, which were then hung in the room, and Mr Gower drew his sword, but the Major was prevented from drawing his by the company. Thereupon Mr Gower threw away his sword, and the company interposing, they sat down again for the space of an hour. At the expiration of that time, Mr Gower said to Major Oneby--'We have had hot words, and you were the aggressor, but I think we may pass it over'--at the same time offering him his hand; but the Major replied--'No, d--n you, I WILL HAVE YOUR BLOOD.' After this, the reckoning being paid, all the company, excepting Major Oneby, went out to go home, and he called to Mr Gower, saying--'Young man, come back, I have something to say to you.' Whereupon Mr Gower returned to the room, and immediately the door was closed, and the rest of the company excluded--when a clashing of swords was heard, and Major Oneby gave Mr Gower a mortal wound. It was found, on the breaking up of the company, that Major Oneby had his great coat over his shoulders, and that he had received three slight wounds in the fight. Mr Gower, being asked on his death-bed whether he had received his wounds in a manner among swordsmen called fair, answered--'I think I did.' Major Oneby was tried for the offence, and found guilty of murder, 'having acted upon malice and deliberation, and not from sudden passion.' THE NEPHEW OF A BRITISH PEER. In 1813, the nephew of a British peer was executed at Lisbon. He had involved himself by gambling, and being detected in robbing the house of an English friend, by a Portuguese servant, he shot the latter dead to prevent discovery. This desperate act, however, did not enable him to escape the hands of justice. After execution, his head was severed from his body and fixed on a pole opposite the house in which the murder and robbery were committed. The following facts will show the intimate connection between gambling and Robbery or Forgery. EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU AND THE JEW ABRAHAM PAYBA. Edward Wortley Montagu was the only son of the celebrated Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, whose eccentricities he inherited without her genius. Montagu, together with Lords Taffe and Southwell, was accused of having invited one Abraham Payba, alias James Roberts, a Jew, to dine with them at Paris, in the year 1751; and of having plied him with wine till he became intoxicated, and so lost at play the sum of 800 louis d'ors. It was affirmed that they subsequently called at his house, and that on his exhibiting an evident disinclination to satisfy their demands, they threatened to cut him across the face with their swords unless he instantly paid them. Terrified by their violence, and, at the same time, unwilling to part with his gold, the Jew had cunning enough to give them drafts on a Paris banker, by whom, as he had no dealings with him, he well knew that his bills would be dishonoured; and, to escape the vengeance of those whom he had outwitted, quitted Paris. On ascertaining how completely they had been duped, Montagu, with his associates Lords Taffe and Southwell, repaired to the house of the Jew, and after ransacking his drawers and strong boxes, are said to have possessed themselves of a very considerable sum of money, in addition to diamonds, jewels, and other valuable articles. The Jew had it now in his power to turn on his persecutors, and accordingly he appealed to the legislature for redress. Lord Southwell contrived to effect his escape, but Lord Taffe and Montagu were arrested, and were kept in separate dungeons in the Grand Chatelet, for nearly three months. The case was subsequently tried in a court of law, and decided in favour of the accused,--the Jew being adjudged to make reparation and defray the costs! Against the injustice of this sentence he appealed to the high court of La Tournelle at Paris, which reversed it. Lord Taffe and Montagu afterwards appealed, in their turn, but of the definitive result there is no record. DR WILLIAM DODD. Le Sage, in his 'Gil Blas,' says that 'the devil has a particular spite against private tutors;' and he might have added, against popular preachers. By popular preachers I do not mean such grand old things as Bossuet, Massillon, and Bourdaloue. All such men were proof against the fiery darts of the infernal tempter. From their earliest days they had been trained to live up to the Non nobis Domine, 'Not unto us, O Lord, but unto thy name, give glory.' All of them had only at heart the glory of their church-cause; though, of course, the Jesuit Bourdaloue worked also for his great Order, then culminating in glory. The last-named, too, was another La Fontaine in simplicity, preparing for his grandest predications by sorrily rasping on an execrable fiddle. So, if the devil had lifted him up to a high mountain, showing him all he would give him, he would have simply invited him to his lonely cell, to have a jig to the tune of his catguts. Your popular preachers in England have been, and are, a different sort of spiritual workers. They have been, and are, individualities, perpetually reminded of the fact, withal; and fiercely tempted accordingly. The world, the flesh, and the devil, incessantly knock at their door. If they fall into the snare it is but natural, and much to be lamented. Dr Dodd had many amiable qualities; but his reputation as a scholar, and his notoriety as a preacher, appear to have entirely turned his head. He had presented to him a good living in Bedfordshire; but the income thereof was of no avail in supplying his wants: he was vain, pompous, in debt, a gambler. Temptation came upon him. To relieve himself he tried by indirect means to obtain the rectory of St George's, Hanover Square, by sending an anonymous letter to Lady Apsley, offering the sum of L3000 if by her means he could be presented to the living; the letter was immediately sent to the chancellor, and, after being traced to the sender, laid before the king. His name was ordered to be struck out of the list of chaplains; the press abounded with satire and invective; Dodd was abused and ridiculed, and even Foote, in one of his performances at the Haymarket, made him a subject of entertainment. Dodd then decamped, and went to his former pupil, Lord Chesterfield, in Switzerland, who gave him another living; but his extravagance being undiminished, he was driven to schemes which covered him with infamy. After the most extravagant and unseemly conduct in France, he returned to England, and forged a bond as from his pupil, Lord Chesterfield, for the sum of L4200, and, upon the credit of it, obtained a large sum of money; but detection instantly following, he was committed to prison, tried and convicted at the Old Bailey, Feb. 24, and executed at Tyburn, June 27 (after a delay of four months), exhibiting every appearance of penitence. The great delay between the sentence and execution was owing to a doubt for some time respecting the admissibility of an evidence which had been made use of to convict him. Lord Chesterfield has been accused of a cold and relentless disposition in having deserted his old tutor in his extremity. But Mr Jesse says that he heard it related by a person who lived at the period, that at a preliminary examination of the unfortunate divine, Lord Chesterfield, on some pretence, placed the forged document in Dodd's hands, with the kind intention that he should take the opportunity of destroying it, but the latter wanted either the courage or the presence of mind enough to avail himself of the occasion. This, however, is scarcely an excuse, for, certainly, it was not for Dr Dodd to destroy the fatal document. If Lord Chesterfield had wished to suppress that vital evidence he could have done so. Dr Johnson exerted himself to the utmost to try and save poor Dodd; but George III. was inexorable. Respecting this benevolent attempt of the Doctor, Chalmers writes as follows:-- Dr Johnson appears indeed in this instance to have been more swayed by popular judgment than he would perhaps have been willing to allow. The cry was--"the honour of the clergy;" but if the honour of the clergy was tarnished, it was by Dodd's crime, and not his punishment; for his life had been so long a disgrace to his cloth that he had deprived himself of the sympathy which attaches to the first deviation from rectitude, and few criminals could have had less claim to such a display of popular feeling.' All applications for the Royal mercy having failed, Dr Dodd prepared himself for death, and with a warmth of gratitude wrote to Dr Johnson as follows:-- 'June 25, Midnight. 'Accept, thou GREAT and GOOD heart, my earnest and fervent thanks and prayers for all thy benevolent and kind efforts in my behalf.--Oh! Dr Johnson! as I sought your knowledge at an early hour in my life, would to Heaven I had cultivated the love and acquaintance of so excellent a man!--I pray God most sincerely to bless you with the highest transports--the infelt satisfaction of HUMANE and benevolent exertions!--And admitted, as I trust I shall be, to the realms of bliss before you, I shall hail YOUR arrival there with transport, and rejoice to acknowledge that you were my comforter, my advocate, and my FRIEND. God be EVER with YOU!' Dr Johnson's reply. 'To the Reverend Dr Dodd. 'Dear Sir,--That which is appointed to all men is now coming upon you. Outward circumstances, the eyes and thoughts of men, are below the notice of an immortal being about to stand the trial for eternity, before the Supreme Judge of heaven and earth. Be comforted: your crime, morally or religiously considered, has no very deep dye of turpitude. It corrupted no man's principles. It attacked no man's life. It involved only a temporary and reparable injury. Of this, and of all other sins, you are earnestly to repent; and may God, who knoweth our frailty, and desireth not our death, accept your repentance, for the sake of His Son Jesus Christ our Lord! 'In requital of those well-intended offices which you are pleased so emphatically to acknowledge, let me beg that you make in your devotions one petition for my eternal welfare. 'I am, dear Sir, 'Your affectionate servant, 'SAM. JOHNSON. Next day, 27th June, Dr Dodd was executed. CAPTAIN DAVIS. Captain Davis was some time in the Life Guards, and a lieutenant in the Yeomen of the Household--a situation which placed him often about the persons of the Royal family. He was seldom known to play for less stakes than L50, often won or lost large sums, and was represented as a gentleman of extensive and independent fortune, although some of his enemies declared otherwise, and repeated anecdotes to confirm the assertion. He was at length committed for forgeries to an immense amount. To the fidelity of a servant he owed his escape from Giltspur Street prison--another fatal example of the sure result of gambling. Heir to a title--moving in the first society--having held a commission in the most distinguished of the Royal regiments--he was reduced to the alternative of an ignominious flight with outlawry, or risking the forfeiture of his wretched life, to the outraged laws of his country. When in Paris, he at one time had won L30,000, and on his way home he dropped into another gambling house, where he lost it all but L3000. He set out in life with L20,000 in money! DESPERATE CAREER OF HENRY WESTON. Henry Weston was nephew to the distinguished Admiral Sir Hugh Palliser. Having unlimited control of the large property of his employer, a Mr Cowan, during the absence of the latter from town, he was tempted first to gamble in the funds, wherein being unfortunate, he next went to a gambling house in Pall Mall, and lost a very large sum; and at length, gamed away nearly all his master's property. In this tremendous result--lost to all intents and purposes--he made a supreme effort to 'patch up' the ruin he had made. He forged the name of General Tonyn; and so dexterously, that he obtained from the Bank of England the sum of L10,000. This huge robbery from Peter was not to pay Paul. Not a bit of it. It was to try the fickle goddess of gaming once more--a Napoleonic stroke for an Austerlitz of fortune. He lost this L10,000 in two nights. Did he despair at this hideous catastrophe? Did he tear his hair--rush out of the room--blow his brains out or drown himself? Not a bit of it. He 'set his wits to work' once more. He procured a woman to personate General Tonyn's sister--forged again--and again obtained from the Bank of England another large supply of ready cash--with which, however, he 'went off' this time. He was caught; and then only he thought of self-murder, and cut his throat--but not effectually. He recovered, was tried at the Old Bailey, and hanged on the 6th of July, 1796. No doubt the reader imagines that the man of such a career was an OLD stager--some long-visaged, parchment-faced fellow the OTHER side of forty at least. Well, this hero of the gaming table, Henry Weston, was aged only TWENTY-THREE years! What terrible times those must have been to produce such a prodigy! To the judge who tried him Henry Weston sent a list of a number of PROFESSIONAL GAMBLERS, among them was a person of high rank. Weston, at different times, lost above L46,000 at play; and at a house in Pall Mall, where he lost a considerable part of it, three young officers also lost no less than L35,000. ARTHUR THISTLEWOOD. It seems that the wretched traitor Arthur Thistlewood, who paid the forfeit of his life for his crimes, had dissipated by gaming the property he had acquired by a matrimonial connection--L12,000. An unfortunate transaction at cards, during the Lincoln races, involved him in difficulties, which he found it impossible to meet; and he fled to avoid the importunities of his more fortunate associates. He was afterwards known only as the factious demagogue and the professed gambler! FOUNTLEROY, THE FORGER. Henry Fountleroy was a gentleman of rank, a partner in the banking house of Marsh, Sibbold, and Co., of Berners Street. He was convicted of having forged a deed for the transfer of L5450 long annuities, in fraud of a certain Frances Young. Like Thurtell, Fountleroy defended himself, and battled with the prejudicial reports circulated against him--among the rest his addiction to gambling. 'I am accused,' he said, 'of being an habitual gambler, an accusation which, if true, might easily account for the diffusion of the property. I am, indeed, a member of two clubs, the Albion and the Stratford, but never in my life did I play in either at cards, or dice, or any game of chance; this is well known to the gentlemen of these clubs; and my private friends, with whom I more intimately associated, can equally assert my freedom from all habit or disposition to play.'(21) (21) See the case in 'Celebrated Trials,' vol. vi I close this record of crime and misery by a few narratives of a more miscellaneous character. GAMBLING FOR LIFE. Marshal Grammont used to tell a story of three soldiers, who, having committed offences punishable by death, it was ordered that one of them should be hanged as an example, and the three were directed to decide which of them should suffer by throwing dice. The first threw fourteen, the second seventeen, and the last, taking up the dice as coolly as though he were engaged in a trivial game, threw eighteen! Thereupon he exclaimed, with an expression of vexation, 'Ah, now! if I had been playing for money I should not have been so lucky!' This may appear 'taking it very cool;' but I think the following cases of Englishmen' rather stronger.' ONE OF MANY INSTANCES. In the Times of February 11th, 1819, mention is made of a gang of nearly thirty persons, male and female, and all presenting the most shocking appearance of both want and depravity, who were brought to the Marlborough Street Office. Among these wretched beings was a woman named Hewitt, said to be the wife of one Captain Hewitt, a leader of the ton, who, after ruining himself and family at the gambling table, ran away from them, and was not since heard of. His wife being left to herself, and having probably been tainted by his evil example, by an easy gradation became first embarrassed, then a prostitute, then a thief, and on the occasion above mentioned exhibited one of the most distressing spectacles of vice and misery that could be conceived. TRURTELL THE MURDERER. This man, it is well known, was executed for the murder of Weare. Thurtell was evidently no common man. His spoken defence, as reported, is one of the finest specimens of impassioned eloquence--perfectly Demosthenic. His indignation at the reports circulated in prejudice of his case was overwhelming. Nothing can be finer than the turn of the following sentence:--'I have been represented by the Press--WHICH CARRIES ITS BENEFITS OR CURSES ON RAPID WINGS from one extremity of the kingdom to the other--as a man more depraved, more gratuitously and habitually profligate and cruel, than has ever appeared in modern times.' Touching his gambling pursuits, he said:--'I have been represented to you as a man who was given to gambling, and the constant companion of gamblers. To this accusation in some part my heart, with feeling penitence, pleads guilty. I have gambled; I have been a gambler, but not for the last three years. During that time I have not attended or betted upon a horse-race, or a fight, or any public exhibition of that nature. If I have erred in these things, half of the nobility of the land have been my examples; some of the most enlightened statesmen of the country have been my companions in them. I have, indeed, been a gambler; I have been an unfortunate one. But whose fortune have I ruined?--whom undone? My own family have I ruined; I have undone myself!'(22) (22) See the entire speech in 'Celebrated Trials,' vol. vi. 547. A MOST WONDERFUL END OF A GAMBLER. In the Annual Register for the year 1766 occurs the following 'circumstantial and authentic account of the memorable case of Richard Parsons,' transmitted by the high sheriff of Gloucestershire to his friend in London. On the 20th of February, 1766, Richard Parsons and three more met at a private house in Chalfold, in order to play at cards, about six o'clock in the evening. They played at Loo till about eleven or twelve that night, when they changed their game for Whist. After a few deals a dispute arose about the state of the game. Parsons asserted with oaths that they were six, which the others denied; upon which he wished 'that he might never enter the kingdom of heaven, and that his flesh might rot upon his bones, if there were not six in the game.' These wishes were several times repeated both then and afterwards. Upon this the candle was put out by a party present, who said he was shocked with the oaths and expressions he heard, and that he put out the candle with a design to put an end to the game. Presently upon this they adjourned to another house, and there began a fresh game, when Parsons and his partner had great success. They then played at Loo again till four in the morning. During the second playing Parsons complained to one Rolles, his partner, of a bad pain in his leg, which from that time increased. There was an appearance of a swelling, and afterwards the colour changing to that of a mortified state. On the following Sunday he took advice of a surgeon, who attended him until his death. Notwithstanding all the applications that were made the mortification increased, and showed itself in different parts of the body. He was visited by a clergyman, who administered the sacrament to him, without any knowledge of what had happened before--the man appearing to be extremely ignorant of religion, having been accustomed to swear, to drink, to game, and to profane the Sabbath. After receiving the sacrament he said--'Now, I must never sin again.' He hoped God would forgive him, having been wicked not above six years, and that whatever should happen he would not play at cards again. After this he was in great agony--chiefly delirious; spoke of his companions by name, and seemed as if his imagination was engaged at cards. He started, had distracted looks and gestures, and in a dreadful fit of shaking and trembling died on the 4th of March, just about a fortnight after the utterance of his terrible imprecation. The worthy sheriff of Gloucestershire goes on to say that the man's eyes were open when he died, and could not be closed by the common method, so that they remained open when he was put into the coffin. From this circumstance arose a report that he WISHED HIS EYES MIGHT NEVER CLOSE; 'but,' says the sheriff, 'this is a mistake; for, from the most creditable witnesses, I am fully convinced no such wish was uttered; and the fact is, that he did close his eyes after he was taken with the mortification, and either dozed or slept several times. 'When the body came to be laid out, it appeared all over discoloured or spotted; and it might, in the most literal sense, be said, that his flesh rotted on his bones before he died.' At the request of the sheriff, the surgeon (a Mr Pegler) who attended the unfortunate man, sent in the following report:--'Sir,--You desire me to acquaint you, in writing, with what I know relating to the melancholy case of the late Richard Parsons; a request I readily comply with, hoping that his sad catastrophe will serve to admonish all those who profane the sacred name of God. 'February 27th last I visited Richard Parsons, who, I found, had an inflamed leg, stretching from the foot almost to the knee, tending to a gangrene. The tenseness and redness of the skin was almost gone off, and became of a duskish and livid colour, and felt very lax and flabby. Symptoms being so dangerous, some incisions were made down to the quick, some spirituous fomentations made use of, and the whole limb dressed up with such applications as are most approved in such desperate circumstances, joined with proper internal medicines. The next day he seemed much the same; but on March the 1st he was worse, the incisions discharged a sharp fetid odor (which is generally of the worst consequence). On the next day, which was Sunday, the symptoms seemed to be a little more favourable; but, to my great surprise, the very next day I found his leg not only mortified up to the knee, but the same began anew in four different parts, viz., under each eye, on the top of his shoulder, and on one hand; and in about twelve hours after he died. I shall not presume to say there was anything supernatural in the case; but, however, it must be confessed, that such cases are rather uncommon in subjects so young, and of so good a habit as he had always been previous to his illness.' On one occasion Justice Maule was about to pass sentence on a prisoner, who upon being asked to say why judgment should not be pronounced, 'wished that God might strike him dead if he was not innocent of the crime.' After a pause, the judge said:--'As the Almighty has not thought proper to comply with your request, the sentence of the court is,' &c. A SAD REMINDER. Every Englishman recollects the fate of that unhappy heiress, the richest of all Europe, married to a man of rank and family, who was plundered in the course of a few years of the whole of his wealth, in one of those club houses, and was obliged to surrender himself to a common prison, and ultimately fly from his country, leaving his wife with her relations in the greatest despair and despondency.'(23) (23) Rouge et Noir: the Academicians of 1823. GEORGE IV. There are few departments of human distinction in which Great Britain cannot boast a 'celebrity'--genteel or ungenteel. In the matter of gambling we have been unapproachable--not only in the 'thorough' determination with which we have exhausted the pursuit--but in the vast, the fabulous millions which make up the sum total that Englishmen have 'turned over' at the gaming table. I think that many thousands of millions would be 'within the mark' as the contribution of England to the insatiate god of gambling. I have presented to the reader the record of gambling all the world over--the gambling of savages--the gambling of the ancient Persians, Greeks, and Romans--the gambling of the gorgeous monarchs of France and their impassioned subjects; but I have now to introduce upon the horrible stage a Prince Royal, who surpassed all his predecessors in the gaming art, having right royally lost at play not much less than a million sterling, or, as stated, L800,000--before he was twenty-one years of age! If the following be facts, vouched for by a writer of authority,(24) the results were most atrocious. (24) James Grant (Editor of the Morning Advertiser), Sketches in London. 'Every one is aware that George IV., when Prince of Wales, was, as the common phrase is, over-head-and-ears in debt; and that it was because he would thereby be enabled to meet the claims of his creditors, that he consented to marry the Princess Caroline of Brunswick. But although this is known to every one, comparatively few people are acquainted with the circumstances under which his debts were contracted. Those debts, then, were the result of losses at the gaming table. He was an inveterate gambler--a habit which he most probably contracted through his intimacy with Fox. It is a well-ascertained fact that in two short years, after he attained his majority, he lost L800,000 at play. 'It was with the view and in the hope that marriage would cure his propensity for the gaming table, that his father was so anxious to see him united to Caroline; and it was solely on account of his marriage with that princess constituting the only condition of his debts being paid by the country, that he agreed to lead her to the hymeneal altar. 'The unfortunate results of this union are but too well known, not only as regarded the parties themselves, but as regarded society generally. To the gambling habits, then, of the Prince of Wales are to be ascribed all the unhappiness which he entailed on the unfortunate Caroline, and the vast amount of injury which the separation from her, and the subsequent trial, produced on the morals of the nation generally.' CHAPTER V. ODDITIES AND WITTICISMS OF GAMBLERS. OSTENTATIOUS GAMESTERS. Certain grandees and wealthy persons, more through vanity or weakness than generosity, have sacrificed their avidity to ostentation--some by renouncing their winnings, others by purposely losing. The greater number of such eccentrics, however, seem to have allowed themselves to be pillaged merely because they had not the generosity or the courage to give away what was wanted. The Cardinal d'Este, playing one day with the Cardinal de Medicis, his guest, thought that his magnificence required him to allow the latter to win a stake of 10,000 crowns--'not wishing,' he said, 'to make him pay his reckoning or allow him to depart unsatisfied.' Brantome calls this 'greatness;' the following is an instance of what he calls 'kindness.' 'Guilty or innocent,' he says, 'everybody was well received at the house of this cardinal, who kept an open table at Rome for the French chevaliers. These gentlemen having appropriated a portion of his plate, it was proposed to search them: 'No, no!' said the cardinal, 'they are poor companions who have only their sword, cloak, and crucifixes; they are brave fellows; the plate will be a great benefit to them, and the loss of it will not make me poorer.' Vigneul de Marville tells us of certain extravagant abbes, named Ruccellai and Frangipani, who carried their ostentation to such a pitch as to set gold in dishes on their tables when entertaining their gaming companions! Were any of these base enough to put their hands in and help themselves? This is not stated by the historian. These two Italian abbes were ne plus ultras in luxury and effeminacy. In the reign of Henry IV., they laid before their guests vermilion dishes filled with gloves, fans, coins to play with after the repast, essences and perfumes.(25) I wonder if the delightful scent called Frangipani, vouchsafed to us by Rimmel and Piesse and Lubin, was named after this exquisite ecclesiastic of old? (25) Melanges d' Hist. et de Lit. One day when Henry IV. was dining at the Duc de Sully's, the latter, as soon as the cloth was raised, brought in cards and dice, and placed upon the table two purses of 4000 pistoles each, one for the King, the other to lend to the lords of his suite. Thereupon the king exclaimed:--'Great master, come and let me embrace you, for I love you as you deserve: I feel so comfortable here that I shall sup and stay the night.' Evidently Sully was more a courtier than usual on this occasion--as no doubt the whole affair was by the king's order, with which he complied reluctantly; but he made the king play with his own money only. The Duc de Lerme, when entertaining Monsieur the brother of Louis XIII. at his quarters near Maestricht, had the boldness to bring in, at the end of the repast, two bags of 1000 pistoles each, declaring that he gave them up to the players without any condition except to return them when they pleased.(26) (26) Mem. de Jeu M. le Duc d'Orleans. This Duc de Lerme was at least a great lord, and the army which he commanded may have warranted his extravagance; but what are we to think when we find the base and mean-spirited Fouquet giving himself the same princely airs? During certain festivities prepared for Louis XIV., Fouquet placed in the room of every courtier of the king's suite, a purse of gold for gambling, in case any of them should be short of money. Well might Duclos remark that 'Nobody was shocked at this MAGNIFICENT SCANDAL!(27) (27) Consideration sur les Moeeurs. They tell of a certain lordly gamester who looked upon any money that fell from his hands as lost, and would never stoop to pick it up! This reminds us of the freedman Pallas mentioned by Tacitus, who wrote down what he had to say to his slaves, lest he should degrade his voice to their level--ne vocem consociaret!(28) (28) Ann. l. xiii AN INSINUATING, ELEGANT GAMESTER. Osterman, Grand Chancellor of Russia, during the reign of the Empress Anne, obtained information that the court of Versailles had formed a scheme to send an insinuating, elegant gamester, to attack the Duke of Biran on his weak side--a rage for play--and thereby probably gain some political advantage over him. The chancellor called on the duke to make the necessary communication, but the minister did not choose to be at home. The chancellor, then pretending to be suffering from a severe fit of gout, wrote to his sovereign, stating that he had important matter to reveal, but was unable to move, and the Duke of Biran was consequently ordered to wait on him by the empress. Osterman, affecting great pain, articulated with apparent difficulty these words--'The French are sending a gamester!' Thereupon the duke withdrew in a pet, and represented to the empress that the chancellor was delirious from the gout, and had really nothing to communicate. The subject had long been forgotten by the duke, when an elegant, easy, dissipated marquis actually arrived. He had extensive credit on a house of the English Factory, and presently insinuated himself into the good graces of the duke, whom he soon eased of all his superfluous cash. The chancellor became alarmed for the consequences, and resolved to try and play off the French for their clever finesse. He looked about for a match for the redoubtable French gamester, and soon got information of a party who might serve his turn. This was a midshipman at Moscow, named Cruckoff, who, he was assured, was without an equal in the MANAGEMENT of cards, and the knowledge of Quizze--then the fashionable court game--and that at which the Duke of Biran had lost his money. The chancellor immediately despatched a courier to Moscow to fetch the Russian gamester. The midshipman was forthwith made an ensign of the Guards, in order to entitle him to play at court. He set to work at once in accordance with his instructions, but after his own plan in the execution. He began with losing freely; and was, of course, soon noticed by the marquis, and marked as a pigeon worth plucking. The young Russian, however, forced him into high play, and he lost the greater part of his former gain. The marquis got nettled, lost his self-command, and proposed a monstrous stake, to the extent of his credit and gains, of which he thought he might make himself sure by some master-stroke of art. Accordingly, by means of a sleight, he managed to hold fifteen in hand, but his wily antagonist was equal to the occasion: by the aid of some sweetmeats from an adjoining table he SWALLOWED a card, and, being first in hand, the chance was determined in his favour, and he ruined the marquis. Once more the chancellor waited on the duke, and plainly told him that he had been anxious to guard him against the French gamester, purposely sent to fleece him, if he had had the patience to hear him. The duke then became outrageous, and wished to arrest the Frenchman as a cheat; but Osterman coolly said he had punished him in kind; and, producing a large bag, returned the duke's money, bidding him in future not to be so impatient when information was to be communicated by gouty persons. The clever ensign was allowed to retain the rest of the spoil, with an injunction, however, never to touch a card again, unless he wished to end his days among the exiles of Siberia. A PENITENT SONNET. written by the Lord Fitz-Gerald(29) (a great gamester) a little before his death, which was in the year 1580. (29) This Lord Fitzgerald was eldest son to the Earl of Kildare, and died at the age of twenty-one. 'By loss in play, men oft forget The duty they do owe To Him that did bestow the same, And thousand millions moe. 'I loath to hear them swear and stare, When they the Main have lost, Forgetting all the Byes that wear With God and Holy Ghost. 'By wounds and nails they think to win, But truly 'tis not so; For all their frets and fumes in sin They moneyless must go. 'There is no wight that used it more Than he that wrote this verse, Who cries Peccavi now, therefore; His oaths his heart do pierce. 'Therefore example take by me, That curse the luckless time That ever dice mine eyes did see, Which bred in me this crime. 'Pardon me for that is past, I will offend no more, In this most vile and sinful cast, Which I will still abhor.'(30) (30) Harl. Miscel. LOVE AND GAMBLING. Horace Walpole, writing to Mann, says:--'The event that has made most noise since my last is the extempore wedding of the youngest of the two Gunnings, two ladies of surpassing loveliness, named respectively Mary and Elizabeth, the daughters of John Gunning, Esq., of Castle Coote, in Ireland, whom Mrs Montague calls "those goddesses the Gunnings." Lord Coventry, a grave young lord, of the remains of the patriot breed, has long dangled after the eldest, virtuously, with regard to her honour, not very honourably with regard to his own credit. About six weeks ago Duke Hamilton, the very reverse of the earl, hot, debauched, extravagant, and equally damaged in his fortune and person, fell in love with the youngest at the masquerade, and determined to marry her in the spring. About a fortnight since, at an immense assembly at my Lord Chesterfield's, made to show the house, which is really most magnificent, Duke Hamilton made violent love at one end of the room, while he was playing at Faro at the other end; that is, he saw neither the bank nor his own cards, which were of three hundred pounds each: he soon lost a thousand. I own I was so little a professor in love that I thought all this parade looked ill for the poor girl; and could not conceive, if he was so much engaged with his mistress as to disregard such sums, why he played at all. However, two nights afterwards, being left alone with her, while her mother and sister were at Bedford House, he found himself so impatient that he sent for a parson. The Doctor refused to perform the ceremony without license or ring; the duke swore he would send for the archbishop; at last they were married with a ring of the BED-CURTAIN, at half-an-hour after twelve at night, at May-fair Chapel.' This incident occurred in 1752, and reminds us of the marriage-scene described by Dryden in one of his tales, which was quoted by Lord Lyndhurst on that memorable occasion when he opposed Lord Campbell's Bill for the suppression of indecent publications, and made a speech which was more creditable to his wit than his taste, and perfectly horrifying to Lord Campbell, who inflicted a most damaging verbal castigation on his very sprightly but imprudent opponent. 'MANNERS MAKE THE MAN. Mr Manners, a relation of the Duke of Rutland, many years ago, lost a considerable sum to a well-known gamester, who set up his carriage in consequence. Being at a loss for a motto, Mr Manners suggested the following:-- MANNERS MAKE(S) THE MAN. SHARP PRACTICE--NOT BY AN ATTORNEY. The commanding officer of a Militia regiment having passed an evening with several of his officers, carried one of them, who was much intoxicated, to town with him. How the rest of the night was passed was not known--at least to the young man; but in the morning the colonel slipped into his hand a memorandum of his having lost to him at play L700--for which sum he was actually arrested ON THE PARADE the same day, and was compelled to grant an annuity to a nominee of the colonel for L100 per annum! A GAMESTER TO THE BACK-BONE. Archdeacon Bruges mentions a gentleman who was so thorough a gamester, that he left in his will an injunction that his bones should be made into dice, and his skin prepared so as to be a covering for dice-boxes!(31) (31) A similar anecdote is related of a Frenchman. FOOTE'S WITTICISMS. A blackleg, famous for 'cogging a die,' said that there had been great sport at Newmarket. 'What!' said Foote, 'I suppose you were detected, and kicked out of the Hazard room.' F--d, the Clerk of the Arraigns, brought off Lookup when indicted for perjury. Foote, afterwards playing with him at Whist, said, 'F--d, you can do anything, after bringing of Lookup. I don't wonder you hold thirteen trumps in your hand. The least he could do was to teach you the "long shuffle" for your services.' The Rev. Dr Dodd was a very unlucky gamester, and received a guinea to forfeit twenty if he ever played again above a guinea. This, among gamblers, is termed being TIED UP. When the doctor was executed for forgery a gentleman observed to Foote--'I suppose the doctor is launched into eternity by this time.' 'How so?' said Foote, 'he was TIED UP long ago.' EFFECT OF A SEVERE LOSS AT PLAY. Lord C-- lost one night L33,000 to General Scott. The amiable peer, however, benefited by the severe lesson, and resolved never again to lose more than one hundred at a sitting! He is said to have strictly kept his resolve. PADDY'S DECISION. Some gamblers duping a country fellow at the game called Put, in a public-house near St Pancras, one of them appealed to an Irishman who was looking on whether he had not THREE TREYS IN HIS HAND? 'You had all that,' said Paddy; 'and what's more, I saw you TAKE THEM ALL out of your pocket.' GAMBLING CAUSED BY GRIEF. The Honourable Jesse Anker, in order to dissipate the gloom occasioned by the loss of his wife, whom he passionately loved, had recourse to gaming, by which, at different times, he lost considerable sums, but not so as to injure his property, which was very large, in any material degree. The remedy did not prove effectual; he shot himself at his lodgings at Bath. A GAMBLER'S EXCUSE FOR NOT BEING A SECOND IN A DUEL. A gentleman who had been called out, applied to a friend who had won a large sum of money to be his second. 'My dear friend,' answered the gamester, 'I won fifteen hundred guineas last night, and shall cut a poor figure at fighting to-day; but if you apply to the person I won them of, he will fight like a devil, for he has not a farthing left.' 'MORE FORTUNATE.' Lord Mark Stair and Lord Stair were at play in a coffee-house, when a stranger overlooked the game, and disturbed them with questions. Lord Mark said--'Let us throw dice to see which of us shall pink this impudent fellow.' Lord Stair won. The other exclaimed--'Ah! Stair, Stair! you have been always more fortunate in life than I.' CAPTAIN ROCHE. Captain Roche, alias Tyger, alias Savage Roche, who stuck his gaming companion's hand to the table with a fork for concealing a card under it, happened to be at the Bedford Billiard-table, which was extremely crowded. Roche was knocking the balls about with his cue, and Major Williamson, another celebrity, with whom he was engaged on business, desired him to leave off, as he hindered gentlemen from playing. 'Gentlemen?' sneeringly exclaimed Roche; 'why, major, except you and me (and two or three more) there is not a gentleman in the room--the rest are all blacklegs.' On leaving the place, the major expressed his astonishment at his rudeness, and wondered, out of so numerous a company, it was not resented. 'Oh, sir,' said Roche, 'there was no fear of that; there was not a thief in the room who did not suppose himself one of "the two or three gentlemen" I mentioned.' FARO AT ROUTS. The following advertisement appeared in the Courier newspaper in 1794:-- 'As Faro is the most fashionable circular game in the haut ton in exclusion of melancholy Whist, and to prevent a company being cantoned into separate parties, a gentleman of unexceptionable character will, on invitation, do himself the honour to attend the rout of any lady, nobleman, or gentleman, with a Faro Bank and Fund, adequate to the style of play, from 500 to 2000 guineas. 'Address, G. A., by letter, to be left at Mr Harding's, Piccadilly, nearly opposite Bond Street. 'N.B.--This advertisement will not appear again.' PROSPECT OF L5200 PER ANNUM FROM A CAPITAL OF L2000. The following advertisement appeared in the Morning Chronicle in 1817:-- 'Any person who can command Two Thousand Pounds in ready money, may advance it in a speculation which will realize at least L100 per week, and perhaps not require the advance of above one half the money. The personal attendance of the party engaging is requisite; but there will be no occasion for articles of partnership, or any establishment, as the profits may be divided daily.' OF WHAT TRADE IS A GAMING-HOUSE KEEPER? At a Westminster election the keeper of a notorious gaming house in St Ann's parish was asked, as usual, what his trade was, when, after a little hesitation, he said, 'I am an ivory turner.' THE GAME PLAYED IN THE COURT OF CHANCERY. Mrs Law, executrix of George Law, late proprietor of the Smyrna Coffee House, St James's Street, in 1807, found, among her husband's papers, several notes and memoranda of money advanced to a Mr Nelthorpe, which she put in suit. The latter alleged that they were for gambling purposes, and called Mrs Law to say whether her husband did not keep a common gambling house; and his counsel contended that it was clear the notes were for gaming transactions, BECAUSE they were for 100 GUINEAS, 200 GUINEAS, and so on--disdaining the vulgar enumeration of pounds. But the lord chancellor said that THE GAME PLAYED IN THE COURT OF CHANCERY--as far as counsel was concerned--was for GUINEAS. THE ORIGINAL OF A RECENT PROPOSAL. Not long since an advertisement appeared, and was noticed by several of the papers, purporting to enable any person to realize a large fortune by a small advance to the advertiser. It will readily be seen that the following is the ORIGINAL of the scheme, put forth in the Morning Chronicle, in 1818:-- 'Important Offer. A gentleman of respectability has discovered a method of winning at any game of chance, fairly and honourably, to a certainty, by a method hitherto unknown;--he will SELL THE SECRET for a consideration, or treat with a gentleman able to join him with a capital of L300, by which a fortune may be made; in either case he will engage with one person only. This will be found well worth the attention of a member of the superior clubs. **** No personal application will be answered.' GAME AND GAMBLING. A gentleman celebrated for his quickness at repartee, when informed that a young nobleman of his acquaintance (remarkably fond of a fashionable game) had shot an immense number of RED partridges, and also of the BLACK game, which abounded on his estates, replied--'I am not in the least surprised; he was at all times, EVEN WHEN IN LONDON, devotedly attached to the GAME OF ROUGE ET NOIR.' CATCHING A TARTAR. 'My skill at billiards,' says a confessing gamester, 'gave me a superiority over most I met with. I could also hide my skill very dexterously, which is generally found a work of great difficulty, and judiciously winning or losing, I contrived to make it answer my purpose,--until one day, going to a table which I was very much in the practice of frequenting, and where no one was then engaged, I was invited by a stranger to play. I accepted the invitation for a small stake, and won very easily, so much so, that on commencing a new game I offered to give him six, to place us more on an equality. He accepted it eagerly, but it produced him no benefit; he played so badly, and managed both his cue and mace so awkwardly--for I made no objection to his changing them as often as he pleased--that, playing very carelessly, I could not avoid beating him. We continued increasing the stakes every successive game; money seemed of no value to him; he appeared to have plenty, and lost it with a spirit that told me I had got hold of an excellent subject, who could pay me well for beating him. I did not wish to win too palpably, and therefore kept increasing the advantage I yielded him, till it amounted to sixteen. He now proposed making the bet ONE HUNDRED POUNDS, and that I should give him eighteen. His eagerness, as well as the manner in which he handled his tools, convinced me of his inexperience, and I accepted the proposal;--but, to my surprise, he won the game. He laughed so heartily at the event, and conducted himself so extravagantly, that I felt persuaded the thing was accidental. He proposed doubling the stakes, which I refused; yet I agreed to play him for the same sum as before, but giving him only fourteen. By some chance he won again; and then I declined playing any more; but he pushed me so hard, and offered to play the even game rather than I should give over, that I was induced to yield. He declared he did not want my money, and wished to give me an opportunity of recovering it. It was the depth of artifice, and I discovered it too late. He won . . . and I had no money to pay! One of the bystanders took part with him; my case did not invite or interest any one to stand by me. I was treated with great indignity; and though I gave up my watch and every article of value I possessed, yet I was not allowed to depart without very ill usage. I had transgressed the laws of gaming, by betting after I had ceased to be able to pay; but I had so confidently felt that I had my antagonist in my own power, that I considered the stake as my own as soon as the bet was made. The injuries I received were very severe, and confined me to my bed for several days.'(32) (32) Confessions of a Gamester. The splendid and fascinating game of Billiards seems to have been an English invention; and it became greatly in vogue during the reign of Louis XIV. of France, to whom it was recommended by his physicians as an exercise after meals. It is said that Chamillard, who played with the king, entirely owed his political fortune to the skill which he displayed in this game. Billiards has not as yet been placed, like skittles and bowls, under the interdict of the police authorities, and it is difficult to see how they could venture upon so tremendous an experiment. The game seems to be more in vogue than ever, and doubtless heavy sums are lost and won at it. Billiard matches have during the last three years become quite one of the winter exhibitions, and particularly this season have the public shown their taste for the game. Perhaps the extraordinary performances of some of the first-class cueists have stirred up the shades of Kentfield's days, his homely game of cannons off list cushions and gently-played strength strokes; or by chance those that favour Marden's style, his losing hazards and forcing half balls, have revived once more, and we yearn with wonder to see the great spot strokes of the present age, when as many red hazards can be scored in one break as were made in olden times in an evening's play. At the present time Roberts, sen., may claim the honour in the billiard world of having brought the spot stroke to light: he has made no less than 104 consecutive hazards in one break, and up to the present winter that wonderful performance stood unparalleled. Cook, however, very recently in an exhibition match with J. Bennett, scored the spot hazard no less than 119 times, making 388 off the balls, the biggest break on record. Such feats as these, supplemented by the but little inferior play of Roberts, jun., and Bennett, have done more than excite surprise, and have caused old heads carefully to look into the style of play of 1869 and to ponder thereon. It appears that they affirm, and not without reason, that much of the success of the spot stroke arises from the position of the spot being further from the top cushion than formerly, and by this means not only is the angle of the striker's ball for position made easier, by a greater scope for screw or side, but the mouth of the pockets themselves are easier of access; and the chance of a wobble all but avoided. Billiard players and table makers should meet and arrange a regular standard size for table pockets and balls, with the spots at regulated positions. We should then be able to compare merits with greater certainty, and such terrible scores would not trouble the markers. As a healthful exercise, and in its tendency to promote the physical development of the body, the game of Billiards is unsurpassed; but it is much to be regretted that it is generally-played in ill-ventilated and crowded rooms, often reeking with the pestilential fumes of tobacco, and not without the adjunct of frequent alcoholic potations. Moreover, there can be no doubt that many modern instances of billiard sharping occur, such as I have just quoted, in which the unwary are unscrupulously 'fleeced.' I know of several. 'NOT KNOWING YOUR MAN.' A certain high military character sat down to play with a Russian prince, who introduced loaded dice. The travelled Englishman lost every bet; for the Russian never missed his seven or eleven, and modestly threw only ten times. The supposed pigeon then took up the box with fair dice; and, having learned to 'secure,'(33) called different mains at pleasure; threw sixteen times; won all the aristocrat's money, and wished him good night. Such is the effect of not knowing your man! (33) This term means making sure of what you throw. A BLIND GAMESTER. John Metcalfe, much better known by the nickname of blind Jack of Knaresborough, was a celebrity at Harrowgate during the first quarter of the present century. This extraordinary man had been deprived of his eyesight at so early a period that he retained no idea of either light or vision; but his remaining faculties were so actively employed that few persons in the full enjoyment of sight have surpassed him in the execution of undertakings, which seemed particularly to require the exercise of that faculty. He traversed the neighbourhood without a guide or companion; surveyed tracts of country to plan and lay down roads, where none had ever been before; contracted for the building of bridges, and fulfilled his contracts without the assistance of another person, either as architect or superintendent of the work; became a guide to those who, possessing sight, could not find their way across the neighbouring moors when covered with deep falls of snow and impenetrable fogs; rode well, and followed the hounds with a zeal and spirit equal to that of the most dashing horseman in the field, and, finally, played at many games of chance, or skill, with a knowledge and ingenuity that enabled him to come off victorious in many contests with persons eager to try his ability or to prove their own. Such a man was sure to attract notice in any place or neighbourhood, but particularly at a place of general resort. Besides, he possessed a facetious mode of talking, and on several occasions exercised a practical sort of wit, which was equally certain of gaining patronage. Visitors of the highest rank treated him with kindness, and even familiarity; and as he never forgot himself, or trespassed upon those who thus favoured him, he continued in fashion as long as he lived, and terminated his singular career at more than 80 years of age. Among his many exploits was the following. Various trials of his skill and activity were proposed by gentlemen who offered to support their opinions with their money. But Metcalfe had a determination of his own, and refused taking a share in any of the ingenious proposals urged upon him, until a country squire, the Nimrod of a neighbouring district, submitted a plan which he expected would baffle all his manoeuvres. He asked the blind man if he was willing to run 100 yards against his favourite mare. The offer was immediately accepted--provided he might CHOOSE THE GROUND, which should be an open space on the adjoining moor. The stakes were deposited the same evening; and a fine level space being selected, and the distance marked out with great exactness early the following morning, the decision followed with little delay. The party selected to ride against the blind man was much admired for his horsemanship; and at the appointed time, every preparation being completed, the signal was given and the race commenced. The horseman was instantly far ahead, but before he could finish his stipulated distance the fore feet of his hunter sank deep in a bog, from which, being unable to extricate them, he came completely over, treating his rider with a tremendous somerset. The loud shouts of the spectators announced to the blind man that his expectations were realized. The turf showed no apparent difference, and was sufficiently strong to carry a man with safety,--perhaps it would have borne a horse going only at a moderate pace, but at full speed his feet pierced the sod, and entangled him in the hidden danger. Metcalfe passed his extended rival, terminated his career, and won the race before those who had run to the prostrate horseman could render him any assistance. Indeed, it was too late for that purpose, he had finished his earthly course having ruptured a vessel near the heart in his fall! A NOBLE LORD AND A COMMONER, IN 1823. A young and wealthy commoner, who seemed to vie with the pea-green in the desperate folly of getting rid of a suddenly obtained fortune of L130,000 in ready money, as fast as possible, and whose relish for the society of legs, bullies, and fighting men was equally notorious, went to the Fishmonger's Hall Club late one morning, much flushed with wine. The well-lighted avenues directed him to the French Hazard table. There was no play going on at the time, but at the entrance of this PIGEON, who before had been DRAWN of a good round sum, the box and dice were soon put in motion, and 'seven's the main, seven,' was promptly the cry. A certain noble lord, who had been for years an experienced NURSE of the dice, and who knew how to NICK the MAINS or THROW CRABS, as well as the best leg in England, held the bow. The commoner commenced by backing the noble lord IN. The noble lord threw OUT. He then backed the noble lord OUT, and the noble lord threw in. He backed the noble lord OUT again, who threw five to the main. The commoner betted the odds deeply at the rate of three to two. The noble lord threw the FIVE. The commoner, uneasy, changed about, and backed the noble lord IN for a large stake,--the noble lord then threw OUT. The commoner now rose in a rage, and insinuated broadly that he was cheated, robbed, and it could not be fair play. Of course much indignation was shown by the noble lord, and it was with difficulty that a fight was prevented; but his lordship, nevertheless, condescended to demonstrate that he played his own money at the time, and what he lost found its way into the bank, with which 'he was not at all connected.' This reasoning satisfied the suspicious young commoner (poor easy man!); an apology was given; and peace was restored. DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. A party of players were assembled to throw for a stake, which was enormous. It was, however, agreed that the LOWEST throw should win. The players threw until one of them turned up two aces. All but one had thrown, and shouts of applause greeted the lucky caster, when the last who was to throw exclaimed--'Hold! I'll try and beat that.' . . . Rattling the dice, he turned down the box on the table, and on lifting it up displayed the two dice ONE UPON THE TOP OF THE OTHER, and both aces! He was therefore declared the winner.(34) (34) Menageana. A TENDER MOTHER. A French lady had an only child, a handsome young man, much addicted to gaming. He lost at one sitting L40,000, and being destitute of other resources, he joined a company of strolling players. They chanced some time afterwards to pass a short time at Worcester, near which his mother, who was considerably advanced in years, resided. The lady, though highly displeased with her son's life, yet, hearing of his performance, could not resist a wish to see him; and for this purpose she went thither incog. He supported the principal character in 'The Gamester.' The feelings of the mother were so excited at the passages which closely applied to her son's conduct, that she exclaimed aloud, 'Ay, there he is--the--the beggar--the scoundrel! Always the same--no change in him!' The delusion so increased at the fifth act, when Beverley lifts his hand to kill the child, that the lady in a most distressing tone cried out--'Wretch that thou art, don't kill the child--I'll take it home with me!' TWO MASTERS OF THE ART. A Frenchman who had become notorious for the unerring certainty with which he won from all who ventured to play with him, at length found himself unable to induce persons to sit down to the table with him, there being not the slightest chance of winning against his play. After being thus idle for some time, an Englishman, who had heard of his triumphs, expressed his readiness to enter the lists against him. They sat down, and played for three hours without intermission, and at the end of that time were exactly in the same position as when they begun. They at length paused to take some refreshment. 'Sare,' said the Frenchman, in a sort of whisper, to a party who accompanied his antagonist, 'your friend is a very clever man at de cards--deuced clever, sare.' 'He is a very clever fellow,' observed the Englishman. 'I shall try him again,' said Monsieur; and as he made the observation he proceeded to the room in which they had been playing, and which was fixed on as the scene of their continued contest. He had scarcely quitted the place when the other made his appearance, and observed that the Frenchman was the most skilful player he had ever met with. The parties again met, and the cards were again produced. The game was renewed at eleven o'clock, and continued without intermission till six o'clock on the following morning, at which time they found, to the surprise of each other, that they were still as they began. 'Sare,' said the Frenchman, 'you are the best player I ever met with.' 'And you, Monsieur,' returned the other, 'are the only gentleman I ever played with, from whom I could win nothing.' 'Indeed, sare!' said Monsieur, hesitatingly. 'It is a fact, I assure you.' 'Sare, I am quite astonished at your skill.' 'And I'm not less so at yours, Monsieur.' 'You're de most skilfullest man at de cards in England.' 'Not while you are in it, Monsieur,' replied the Englishman, with a smile. 'Sare, I CHEATED, and yet could not win from you!' remarked the Frenchman, hurriedly and with much emphasis, feeling it impossible any longer to conceal his surprise at the circumstance of being unable to play a winning game with the Englishman. 'And, Monsieur, I did the same thing with you, and yet you are no loser!' remarked the other, with corresponding energy of tone. The problem was thus solved: both had been cheating during the whole night, and were exactly equal in dexterity, both being unconscious of the dishonest practices of each other; and the result was that each got up from the table with the same amount of money as he had when he sat down. The cheats cordially shook hands, apparently much gratified that they had at length ascertained how it had happened that neither could pluck the other. CHAPTER VI. THE GAMING CLUBS. On the subject of Clubs Mr Cunningham in his 'Clubs of London,' and Mr Timbs in his 'Club Life in London,' have said pretty well everything that we want to know, and by their help, and that of other writers, I shall endeavour to give an account of the gambling carried on in such places. 1. ALMACK'S. 'The gaming at Almack's,' writes Walpole to Horace Mann, 'which has taken the pas of White's, is worthy of the decline of our empire, or commonwealth, which you please. The young men of the age lose ten, fifteen, twenty thousand pounds in an evening there. Lord Stavordale, not one-and-twenty, lost L11,000 there last Tuesday, but recovered it by one great hand at Hazard. He swore a great oath--"Now, if I had been playing DEEP I might have won millions!" His cousin, Charles Fox, shines equally here and in the House of Commons.' Among the rules of the establishment, it was ordered 'that every person playing at the twenty-guinea table do not keep less than twenty guineas before him,' and 'that every person playing at the new guinea table do keep fifty guineas before him.' That the play ran high may be inferred from a note against the name of Mr Thynne, in the Club-books:--'Mr Thynne having won ONLY 12,000 guineas during the last two months, retired in disgust, March 21st, 1772.' Indeed, the play was unusually high--for rouleaus of L50 each, and generally there was L10,000 in specie on the table. The gamesters began by pulling off their embroidered clothes, and putting on frieze great coats, or turned their coats inside out for luck! They put on pieces of leather (such as are worn by footmen when they clean knives) to save their laced ruffles; and to guard their eyes from the light, and to keep their hair in order, wore high-crowned straw hats with broad brims adorned with flowers and ribbons; they also wore masks to conceal their emotions when they played at quinz.(35) Each gamester had a small neat stand by him, to hold his tea, or a wooden bowl with an edge of ormolu, to hold the rouleaus of guineas. (35) Quinze, the French for fifteen. This is a game at cards, in which the winner is he who counts fifteen, or nearest to that number, in all the points of his hand. Three, five, or six might play at it. Two entire packs of cards are used, so disposed that the spades and clubs are on one side, and the hearts and diamonds on the other. The entire art of the game consists in making fifteen; below that number the party loses. 2. THE COCOA-TREE CLUB. This club was remarkable for high if not for foul play. Walpole, writing to Horace Mann in 1780, says:--'Within this week there has been a cast at Hazard at the Cocoa-tree (in St James's Street) the difference of which amounted to one hundred and fourscore thousand pounds! Mr O'Birne, an Irish gamester, had won one hundred thousand pounds of a young Mr Harvey of Chigwell, just started into an estate by his elder brother's death. O'Birne said,--"You can never pay me." "I can," said the youth, "my estate will sell for the debt." "No," said O'Birne, "I will win ten thousand,--you shall throw for the odd ninety." They did, and Harvey won!' 3. GRAHAM'S CLUB. This gaming club is remarkable for a scandal which made some noise at the time of its occurrence, and one version of which a writer in the Times has been at some pains to rectify. In Mr Duncombe's 'Life' of his father occurs the following account of this curious transaction. 'In Graham's Club there was also a good deal of play, and large sums were lost and won among the noblemen and gentlemen who were its members. An unpleasant rumour circulated in town in the winter of 1836, to the effect that a noble lord had been detected in cheating by means of marked cards. The presumed offender was well known in society as a skilful card-player, but by those who had been most intimate with him was considered incapable of any unfair practice. He was abroad when the scandal was set afloat, but returned to England directly he heard of it, and having traced the accusation to its source, defied his traducers. Thus challenged, they had no alternative but to support their allegation, and it took this shape:--They accused Henry William Lord de Ros of marking the edges of the court cards with his thumb-nail, as well as of performing a certain trick by which he unfairly secured an ace as the turn-up card. His accusers were ---- ----, who had formerly kept a gaming table; Mr ---- ----, also a professional gambler; Lord Henry Bentinck, and Mr F. Cumming. Lord Henry appears to have taken no very active part in the proceedings; the other three had lost money in play with Lord de Ros, and, as unsuccessful gamblers have done before and since, considered that they had lost it unfairly. 'Lord de Ros, instead of prosecuting the four for a libel, brought an action only against Cumming, which permitted the others to come forward as witnesses against him. The cause came on in the Court of King's Bench before Lord Denman. The plaintiff's witnesses were Lord Wharncliffe, Lord Robert Grosvenor, the Earl of Clare, and Sir Charles Dalbiac, who had known and played with him from between 20 to 30 years, as a very skilful but honourable Whist player. The evidence of Mr Lawrence, the eminent surgeon, proved that Lord de Ros had long suffered under a stiffness of the joints of the fingers that made holding a pack of cards difficult, and the performance of the imputed trick of legerdemain impossible. For the defence appeared the keeper of the house and his son; two or three gamblers who had lived by their winnings; one acknowledged to have won L35,000 in 15 years. Mr Baring Wall, one of the witnesses, swore that he had never witnessed anything improper in the play of Lord de Ros, though he had played with and against him many years; another witness, the Hon. Colonel Anson, had observed nothing suspicious; but the testimony of others went to prove that the aces and kings had been marked inside their edges; and one averred that he had seen Lord de Ros perform sauter la coupe a hundred times. The whole case wore much the look of a combination among a little coterie who lived by gambling to drive from the field a player whose skill had diminished their income; nevertheless, the incidents sworn to by some of them wore a suspicious significance, and a verdict was given against Lord de Ros, which he only survived a short time.' On this statement the Times' reviewer comments as follows:-- 'If many old scandals may be revived with impunity, there are some that cannot. Mr Duncombe the younger has hit on one which affects several gentlemen still living, and his injurious version of it cannot be neutralized or atoned for by an apology to one. We call attention to it in the hope that any more serious notice will be rendered needless by the simple exposure of its inaccuracies. 'It is difficult to conceive a more inexcusable misstatement, for the case was fully reported,(36) and the public judgment perfectly coincided with the verdict. Lord de Ros was not abroad when the scandal was set afloat. He went abroad after the scene at Graham's had set all London talking, and he returned in consequence of a peremptory call from his friends. He was most reluctantly induced to take the required steps for the vindication of his character; and it is preposterous to suppose that any little coterie would have dreamt of accusing a man of his rank and position with the view of driving a skilful player from the field. His accusers were not challenged. Neither were they volunteers. They became his accusers, because they formed the Whist party at which he was first openly denounced. They signed a paper particularizing their charge, and offered to refer the question to a tribunal of gentlemen, with the Duke of Wellington or Lord Wharncliffe to preside. Would a little coterie, who lived by gambling, have made this offer? Or would Lord de Ros have refused it if he had been the intended victim of a conspiracy? Lord Henry Bentinck signed the paper, appeared as a witness, and took quite as active a part in the proceedings as any of the four, except Mr Cumming, who undertook the sole legal liability by admitting the publication of the paper. (36) The Times of February 11 and 13, 1837. 'The evidence was overwhelming. Suspicions had long been rife; and on no less than ten or twelve occasions the marked packs had been examined in the presence of unimpeachable witnesses, and sealed up. These packs were produced at the trial. Several witnesses swore to the trick called sauter la coupe. It was the late Sir William Ingilby who swore that he had seen Lord de Ros perform it from 50 to 100 times; and when asked why he did not at once denounce him, he replied that if he had done so before his Lordship began to get blown upon, he should have had no alternative between the window and the door. Of course, every one who had been in the habit of playing with Lord de Ros prior to the exposure would have said the same as Sir Charles Dalbiac and Mr Baring Wall. With regard to the gentlemen whose names we have omitted we take it for granted that the author is not aware of the position they held, and continue to hold, or he would hardly have ventured to describe them so offensively. He has apologized to one, and he had better apologize to the other without delay. 'The case was complete without the evidence of either of the original accusers, and the few friends of Lord de Ros who tried to bear him up against the resulting obloquy were obliged to go with the stream. When Lord Alvanley was asked whether he meant to leave his card, he replied, "No, he will stick it in his chimney-piece and count it among his honours.'" Having read through the long case as reported in the Times, I must declare that I do not find that the evidence against Lord de Ros was, after all, so 'overwhelming' as the reviewer declares; indeed, the 'leader' in the Times on the trial emphatically raises a doubt on the subject. Among other passages in it there is the following:-- 'In the process of the trial it appeared that the most material part of the evidence against Lord de Ros, that called sauter la coupe,--which, for the sake of our English readers we shall translate into CHANGING THE TURN-UP CARD,--the times and places at which it was said to have been done could not be specified. Some of the witnesses had seen the trick done 50 or 100 times by Lord de Ros, but could neither say on what day, in what week, month, or even year, they had so seen it done. People were excessively struck at this deviation from the extreme punctuality required in criminal cases by the British courts of law.' 'The disclosures,' says Mr Grant,(27) 'which took place in the Court of Queen's Bench, on the occasion of the trial of Lord de Ros, for cheating at cards, furnished the strongest demonstration that he was not the only person who was in the habit of cheating in certain clubs; while there were others who, if they could not be charged with direct cheating, or cheating in their own persons, did cheat indirectly, and by proxy, inasmuch as they, by their own admission, were, on frequent occasions, partners with Lord de Ros, long after they knew that he habitually or systematically cheated. The noble lord, by the confession of the titled parties to whom I allude, thus cheated for himself and them at the same time.' (37) Sketches in London. Lord de Ros was at the head of the barons of England. He was the son of Lord Henry Fitzgerald, and Lady de Ros, who inherited in her own right that ancient title, which dates from the reign of Henry III. He had studied at Eton and Oxford, and afterwards on the Continent, and there was not a more accomplished man in Europe. He possessed an ample fortune, was a member of several of the clubs--White's, Boodle's, Brookes', and Graham's, and one of the best Whist players in England. It appears that at Graham's Club, at the commencement of the season, and before Lord de Ros came to town, whispers were circulated of unfair play, and various persons were supposed guilty. A determination was therefore formed that the club should be dissolved and reconstructed, leaving out the names of certain persons to whom suspicion attached. The main object of the master of the club, and of some of those who attended it for the purpose of professional gain, was that its character should be cleared. Not long after Lord de Ros came to town he received an anonymous letter, cautioning him against continuing to play at Graham's, and intimating to him, if he did so, that measures would be taken which he would have reason to regret. Of course his Lordship disregarded the threat; he attended the club for several days more assiduously than before, and continued to play until the end of the season, in the beginning of July. In September the Satirist newspaper published a distinct charge of unfair play against Lord de Ros, whilst the latter was at Baden, and he returned to England and commenced an action for libel against the newspaper. He was charged with being in the habit of marking the cards, the effect being to create a very slight and almost imperceptible indentation, and to make a ridge or wave on the back, so that a practised eye would be able, on looking at the right place, knowing where to expect a mark, to discern whether the ace was there or not. He was also charged with cheating by reversing the cut--that is, when the cards had come to him, after having been cut by his adversary, instead of putting the bottom card at the top, keeping the bottom card at the bottom, by some shuffling contrivance when he dealt. Another witness said:-- 'When he took up the two parcels of cards, after the operation of cutting the pack by his right-hand adversary, he was always attacked with a hacking cough, or what I may properly denominate, especially from the result it produced, a 'king cough,' because a king or an ace was invariably its effect. The cough always came on at the most convenient moment to distract the attention of the other players, and was evidently indulged in for the purpose of abstracting their attention from the table and from the manoeuvre he was about to perform. However, I never saw him "slip the card," and I never had cognizance of its execution, but certain it was that the ace or the king, which was at the bottom of the pack prior to the cut, invariably found its way to the same position after the cut, and hence was the turn-up card. With regard to the operation of dealing, his Lordship delivered the cards particularly slow, examining every card minutely towards its corners, as if looking for some mark.' Many curious facts came out during the trial. It was Mr Brooke Greville who admitted that he was a considerable winner at play--having 'no hesitation in saying that he had won L35,000 in the course of 15 years,' chiefly at Whist; that he had followed play as an occupation, at Graham's Club. He lost, however, L14,000 at Brighton in 1828, a considerable portion of it to Lord de Ros; but this loss he made up in three or four years (that is, won L14,000 in that time), and, excepting that reverse, he was generally fortunate at play.' A Captain J. Alexander, half-pay R. N., declared that he had won as much as L700 at a time, having, however, to pay half to another partner; his winnings might be L1600 a-year. 'I began to play,' he said, 'about 25 or 28 years ago, and, expecting that I should be asked the question, I have looked into my accounts, and find that I am about L10,000 better than as though I had not played. That is a yearly average of L500.' He had, however, lost about L1000 during the previous year. This Captain Alexander was asked how many hours he played before dinner, and he answered--'From three to five hours'--adding, however, that 'he HAD played ALL NIGHT.' Then the counsel said, 'I suppose you take but a slight dinner?' He replied:-- 'Why, I generally make as good a dinner as I can get.' The learned counsel continued:-- 'A small boiled chicken and a glass of lemonade, perhaps?' This seemed an offensive question, and the captain said,-- 'I believe never, and (with increased earnestness of manner) mind, I DENY THE LEMONADE ALTOGETHER; I never take lemonade. (Laughter, in which the noble lords on the bench joined involuntarily.) Sir W. Ingilby entered into a description and practical illustration of the trick of sauter la coupe with a pack of cards, and it is said that the performance of the honourable baronet elicited demonstrations of laughter, which the judge suppressed, and even REPROBATED. Altogether, it must have been a most interesting and exciting trial. As before stated, Lord Denman was the presiding judge; there was a special jury; the attorney-general, Sir W. Follet, and Mr Wightman appeared for the noble plaintiff; and the keen-witted and exquisitely polished Mr Thesiger (now Lord Cholmondeley), Mr Alexander, and Mr W. H. Watson for the defendant. A great many of the nobility were present, together with several foreigners of distinction. 4. BROOKES' CLUB, IN ST JAMES'S STREET. This was a house notorious for very high gaming, and was frequented by the most desperate of gamblers, among the rest Fox, Brummell, and Alderman Combe. According to Captain Gronow:-- At Brookes's, for nearly half a century, the play was of a more gambling character than at White's. . . . On one occasion Lord Robert Spencer contrived to lose the last shilling of his considerable fortune given him by his brother, the Duke of Marlborough. General Fitzpatrick being much in the same condition, they agreed to raise a sum of money, in order that they might keep a Faro bank. The members of the club made no objection, and ere long they carried out their design. As is generally the case, the bank was a winner, and Lord Robert bagged, as his share of the proceeds, L100,000. He retired, strange to say, from the fetid atmosphere of play, with the money in his pocket, and never again gambled. The lowest stake at Brookes' was L50; and it was a common event for a gentleman to lose or win L10,000 in an evening. Sometimes a whole fortune was lost at a single sitting.(38) (38) Walpole, passim. 5. WHITE'S CLUB. White's Club seems to have won the darkest reputation for gambling. Lord Lyttleton, writing to Dr Doddridge, in 1750, says:--'The Dryads of Hogley are at present pretty secure, but I tremble to think that the rattling of a dice-box at White's may one day or other (if my son should be a member of that noble academy) shake down all our fine oaks. It is dreadful to see, not only there, but almost in every house in the town, what devastations are made by that destructive fury, the spirit of play.' A fact stated by Walpole to Horace Mann shows the character of the company at this establishment:--'There is a man about town, Sir William Burdett, a man of very good family, but most infamous character. In short, to give you his character at once--there is a wager in the bet-book at White's (a MS. of which I may one day or other give you an account), that the first baronet that will be hanged is this Sir William Burdett.' Swift says:--'I have heard that the late Earl of Oxford, in the time of his ministry, never passed by White's chocolate-house (the common rendezvous of infamous sharpers and noble cullies) without bestowing a curse upon that famous academy as the bane of half the English nobility.' It was from the beginning a gaming club, 'pure and simple.' The play was mostly at Hazard and Faro. No member was to hold a Faro bank. Whist was comparatively harmless. Professional gamblers, who lived by dice and cards, provided they were free from the imputation of cheating, procured admission to White's. It was a great supper-house, and there was play before and after supper, carried on to a late hour and to heavy amounts. At White's they betted on every possible thing, as shown by the betting-book of the establishment--on births, deaths, and marriages; the length of a life; the duration of a ministry; a placeman's prospect of a coronet; the last scandal at Ranelagh or Madame Cornely's; or the shock of an earthquake! 'A man dropped down at the door of White's; he was carried into the house. Was he dead or not? The odds were immediately given and taken for and against. It was proposed to bleed him. Those who had taken the odds that the man was dead protested that the use of a lancet would affect the fairness of the bet.' I have met with a similar anecdote elsewhere. A waiter in a tavern in Westminster, being engaged in attendance on some young men of distinction, suddenly fell down in a fit. Bets were immediately proposed by some of the most thoughtless on his recovery, and accepted by others. The more humane part of the company were for sending immediately for medical assistance, but this was overruled; since, by the tenor of the bets, he was to be 'left to himself,' and he died accordingly! According to Walpole--'A person coming into the club on the morning of the earthquake, in 1750, and hearing bets laid whether the shock was caused by an earthquake or the blowing up of powder-mills, went away in horror, protesting they were such an impious set that he believed if the last trump were to sound they would bet puppet-show against Judgment.' And again: 'One of the youths at White's, in 1744, has committed a murder, and intends to repeat it. He betted L1500 that a man could live twelve hours under water; hired a desperate fellow, sunk him in a ship, by way of experiment, and both ship and man have not appeared since. Another man and ship are to be tried for their lives instead of Mr Blake, the assassin.' He also tells us of a very curious entry in the betting-book. Lord Mountford bets Sir John Bland twenty guineas that Nash outlives Cibber.' 'How odd,' says Walpole, 'that these two old creatures, selected for their antiquities, should live to see both their wagerers put an end to their own lives! Cibber is within a few days of eighty-four, still hearty, and clear, and well. I told him I was glad to see him look so well. "Faith," said he, "it is very well that I look at all." Lord Mountford would have been the winner: Cibber died in 1757, Nash in 1761.' Hogarth's scene at the gambling house is taken at White's. 'We see the highwayman, with his pistols peeping out of his pocket, waiting by the fireside till the heaviest winner takes his departure, in order to "recoup" himself for his losings; and in the Beaux' Stratagem, Aimwell asks of Gibbet--"Ha'n't I seen your face at White's?" "Ay, and at Will's too," is the highwayman's answer.' According to Captain Gronow, George Harley Drummond, of the famous banking-house, Charing Cross, only played once in his whole life at White's Club, at Whist, on which occasion he lost L20,000 to Brummell. This even caused him to retire from the banking-house, of which he was a partner. 'Walpole and a party of friends (Dick Edgecumbe, George Selwyn, and Williams), in 1756, composed a piece of heraldic satire--a coat of arms for the two gaming clubs at White's--which was "actually engraven from a very pretty painting of Edgecumbe, whom Mr Chute, as Strawberry King at Arms," appointed their chief herald-painter. The blazon is vert (for a card-table); three parolis proper on a chevron sable (for a Hazard table); two rouleaux in saltire between two dice proper, on a canton sable; a white ball (for election) argent. The supporters are an old and young knave of clubs; the crest, an arm out of an earl's coronet shaking a dice-box; and the motto, Cogit amor nummi--"The love of money compels." Round the arms is a claret-bottle ticket by way of order.' 6. WATTIER'S CLUB. This great Macao gaming house was of short duration. Mr Raikes says of it:--'The club did not endure for twelve years altogether; the pace was too quick to last; it died a natural death in 1819, from the paralyzed state of its members. The house was then taken by a set of blacklegs, who instituted a common bank of gambling. To form an idea of the ruin produced by this short-lived establishment among men whom I have so intimately known, a cursory glance to the past suggests the following melancholy list, which only forms a part of its deplorable results: none of the dead reached the average age of man.' Among the members were Beau Brummell and the madman Bligh. 7. CROCKFORD'S CLUB. This once celebrated gaming house is now 'The Wellington,' where the rattle of knives and forks has succeeded that of dice. It was erected in 1827, and at its opening it was described as 'the new Pandemonium--the drawing-rooms, or real hell, consisting of four chambers: the first an ante-room, opening to a saloon embellished to a degree which baffles description; thence to a small curiously-formed cabinet or boudoir, which opens to the supper-room. All these rooms are panelled in the most gorgeous manner; spaces are left to be filled up with mirrors and silk, or gold enrichments; while the ceilings are as superb as the walls. A billiard-room on the upper floor completes the number of apartments professedly dedicated to the use of the members. Whenever any secret manoeuvre is to be carried on, there are smaller and more retired places, both under this roof and the next, whose walls will tell no tales.' 'It rose,' says a writer in the Edinburgh Review, 'like a creation of Aladdin's lamp; and the genii themselves could hardly have surpassed the beauty of the internal decorations, or furnished a more accomplished maitre d'hotel than Ude. To make the company as select as possible, the estabishment was regularly organized as a club, and the election of members vested in a committee. "Crockford's" became the rage, and the votaries of fashion, whether they like play or not, hastened to enroll themselves. The Duke of Wellington was an original member, though (unlike Blucher, who repeatedly lost everything he had at play) the great captain was never known to play deep at any game but war or politics. Card-tables were regularly placed, and Whist was played occasionally; but the aim, end, and final cause of the whole was the Hazard bank, at which the proprietor took his nightly stand, prepared for all comers. Le Wellington des Joueurs lost L23,000 at a sitting, beginning at twelve at night, and ending at seven the following evening. He and three other noblemen could not have lost less, sooner or later, than L100,000 a piece.(39) Others lost in proportion (or out of proportion) to their means; but we leave it to less occupied moralists and better calculators to say how many ruined families went to make Mr Crockford a MILLIONNAIRE--for a millionnaire he was in the English sense of the term, after making the largest possible allowance for bad debts. A vast sum, perhaps half a million, was sometimes due to him; but as he won, all his debtors were able to raise, and easy credit was the most fatal of his lures. He retired in 1840, much as an Indian chief retires from a hunting country when there is not game enough left for his tribe, and the club tottered to its fall.' (39) 'Le Wellington des Joueurs was the name given to Lord Rivers in Paris. The other three, we believe, were Lord Sefton, Lord Chesterfield, and Lord Granville or Lord Talbot.' Times, 7 Jan. 1868. Crockford was originally a FISHMONGER, keeping a shop near Temple Bar. By embarking in this speculation he laid the foundation of the most colossal fortune that was ever made by play. It was said there were persons of rank and station, who had never paid their debts to Crockford, up to 1844, and that some of his creditors compounded with him for their gambling debts. His proprietorship had lasted 15 or 16 years. Crockford himself was examined by the committee of the House of Commons on the Gaming Houses; but in spite of his assurance by the members that were indemnified witnesses in respect of pending actions, he resolutely declined to 'tell the secrets of his prison-house.' When asked whether a good deal of play was carried on at his club, he said:--'There may have been so; but I do not feel myself at liberty to answer that question--to DIVULGE THE PURSUITS OF PRIVATE GENTLEMEN. Situated as I was, I do not feel myself at liberty to do so. I do not feel myself at liberty to answer that question.' When asked to whom he had given up the house, he fenced in like manner, saying that he had given it up to a 'committee' of about 200 gentlemen,--concerning which committee he professed to 'know absolutely nothing'--he could not even say to whom he had given up the house--he gave it up to the gentlemen of the club four years before--he could not even say (upon his word) whether he signed any paper in giving it up--he believed he did not--adding--'I said I grew too old, and I could not continue in the club any longer, and I wished to give up the club to the gentlemen, who made their own arrangement.' Being asked, 'Do you think that a person is just as honourably bound to pay a debt which he loses upon a game of Hazard, as he would be to pay a bet which he loses on a horse-race?' Crockford replied--'I think most certainly he would honourably be bound to pay it.'--'Do you think that if the loser of a bet on a game at Hazard had no charge to make of any kind of unfairness, and he were to commence an action to recover that money back again, he would lay himself open to a charge in the world of having acted dishonourably?' The old gambler's reply was most emphatic, overwhelming, indignant--'I should take all the pains I could to avoid such a man.' If this evidence was not satisfactory, it was, at any rate, very characteristic. A few interesting facts came out before the parliamentary committee on Gaming, in 1844, respecting Crockford's. It was said that Crockford gave up the business in 1840, because there were no more very high players visiting his house. 'A number of persons,' according to the admission of the Honourable Frederick Byng, 'who were born to very large properties, were very nearly ruined at Crockford's.' The sums won on the turf were certainly larger than those won by players at Crockford's; a man might lose L20,000 in one or more bets, to one or more persons; but against this he might have won an equivalent amount in small sums from 200 or more persons.(40) (40) This is not very clearly put, but the meaning is that much more money was lost at Crockford's than on the turf. Some years previously to Crockford's retirement, it is said that he found the debts so bad that he was obliged to leave off his custom of paying cheques; and said he would cancel all previous debts, but that in future gentlemen would have to pay with money. He made them play for money instead of with counters, in consequence of the large sums that were owing to him upon those counters. 8. THE TRAVELLERS' CLUB, next the Athenaeum in Pall Mall, originated soon after the peace of 1814, in a suggestion of the late Lord Londonderry, then Lord Castlereagh, for the resort of gentlemen who had resided or travelled abroad, as well as with a view to the accommodation of foreigners, who, when properly recommended, receive an invitation for the period of their stay.(41) Here Prince Talleyrand was fond of a game at Whist. With all the advantage of his great imperturbability of face, he is said to have been an indifferent player. (41) Quarterly Review, No. cx. p. 481. Rule 10 of the club directs, 'that no dice and no game of hazard be allowed in the rooms of the club, nor any higher stake than guinea points, and that no cards be introduced before dinner.' CHAPTER VII. DOINGS IN GAMING HOUSES. Besides the aristocratic establishments just described, there were numerous houses or places of resort for gambling, genteel and ungenteel. In vain did the officers of the law seem to exert their utmost vigilance; if they drove the serpent out of one hole it soon glided into another; never was the proverb--'Where there's a will there's a way'--more strikingly fulfilled. COFFEE-HOUSE SHARPERS. Sir John Fielding thus describes the men in the year 1776. 'The deceivers of this denomination are generally descended from families of some repute, have had the groundwork of a genteel education, and are capable of making a tolerable appearance. Having been equally profuse of their own substance and character, and learnt, by having been undone, the ways of undoing, they lie in wait for those who have more wealth and less knowledge of the town. By joining you in discourse, by admiring what you say, by an officiousness to wait upon you, and to assist you in anything you want to have or know, they insinuate themselves into the company and acquaintance of strangers, whom they watch every opportunity of fleecing. And if one finds in you the least inclination to cards, dice, the billiard table, bowling-green, or any other sort of Gaming, you are morally sure of being taken in. For this set of gentry are adepts in all the arts of knavery and tricking. If, therefore, you should observe a person, without any previous acquaintance, paying you extraordinary marks of civility; if he puts in for a share of your conversation with a pretended air of deference; if he tenders his assistance, courts your acquaintance, and would be suddenly thought your friend, avoid him as a pest; for these are the usual baits by which the unwary are caught.'(42) (42) The Magistrate: Description of London and Westminster. In 1792, Mr Br--gh--n, the son of a baronet, one day at a billiard-table in St James's Street, won L7000 from a Mr B--, but the latter, at the close of the day, recovered the loss, and won L15,000 more. Payment was thus arranged--L5000 on the death of the father of the former, and L10,000 secured by a reversionary annuity, to commence on the father's decease, on the life of the Duc de Pienne, between whom and B-- a previous gaming account existed. In 1794, Mr ---- was a billiard player of the first class, ranking with Brenton, Phillips, Orrel, and Captain Wallis, who were the leaders of the day in this noble game of skill, tact, and discretion.(43) Having accidentally sported his abilities with two other players, he was marked as a 'pigeon' whom every preparation was made for 'plucking.' Captain Cates, of Covent Garden celebrity, was pitted against him at the coffee-room billiard-table, during Epsom races, to play 21 games, for two guineas each game, and five guineas the odds. Mr ---- won 13 games to eight from his veteran opponent, who was invariably backed by the leading sportingmen of the day, whilst the company at large were casually the adherents of Mr ----. (43) The game of Chess may be played in application of the principles of Strategy; the game of Billiards in application of Tactics; indeed, all man's favourite diversions and pastimes most significantly relate to war--which has been called his natural state--exemplifying always either the brute-force that crushes, the skill that foils, the stratagem that surprises, or the ruse that deceives; and such is war to all intents and purposes. The philosophic diversions of science also come in and lend their aid in the game of war--the pastime of heroes and the necessary defence of nations. The match was renewed at the ensuing Ascot meeting, at the rooms of the celebrated Simson, so much frequented by the Etonians--where Mr ---- again obtained the victory, by 36 games to 17. Immense sums were sported on these occasions. Mr ---- resided at Windsor, and was surprised by a message on the Sunday evening preceding the Winchester races, purporting that a gentleman wished to see him on very particular business. It proved to be a request to play a match at Billiards during the races at Winchester, for which the parties offered 10 guineas for the journey. But it was explained to him that the match was of a particular kind, and must be played in a PARTICULAR way--either to WIN or LOSE--so that those concerned might be sure of winning upon the whole, let the match terminate how it would! . . . . This villainous proposal being made without the presence of a third person, Mr ---- indignantly rejected it, instantly left the room, and communicated the facts for the protection of the unwary against a set of desperate sharpers. MILLER'S GAMING HOUSE. In 1796, one Thomas Miller was indicted for keeping a gaming house; and wished to have the matter settled summarily by admitting conviction; but Lord Kenyon, the presiding judge, chose to have evidence brought forward. John Shepherd, an attorney of the King's Bench, who had himself been plundered, stated that he was at the defendant's, Leicester Street, on a certain night, and saw Hazard played. Sometimes L20 or L30 depended on a throw. One morning between three and four o'clock, a gentleman came in much intoxicated. He had a great deal of money about him. Miller said--'I did not mean to play; but now I'll set to with this fellow.' Miller scraped a little wax with his finger off one of the candles, and put the dice together, so that they came seven every way. Seven was the main, and he could not throw anything but seven. A dispute arose, and the persons at the table gave it in Miller's favour. The young man said he had lost about L70. Miller observed--'We have cleaned him.' If the attorney had remarked on this at the time, they would have broken his head, or thrown him out of the window. He had often seen men pawn their watches and rings to Miller, and once a man actually pawned his coat, and went away without it! When articles were offered to be pawned, Liston, who was a partner in the concern, said--'I don't understand the value of these things well,' and he would then call Miller.(44) (44) Even at the present day it is said that other 'articles' besides 'valuables' are 'left' with the marker at billiards 'for a consideration.' A fine umbrella, very little used, was lately shown to me as having been sold for five shillings, by a marker; it probably cost twenty-five. Miller said there was no disgrace in standing in the pillory for gaming. He could spare L500 out of his coffers without missing it. His gaming table was once broken up by a warrant from Bow Street, when he said it was too good a thing to relinquish, and he set up another, one large enough for 20 or 30 persons to sit at. They played at it all night, and on one or two occasions all the next day too, so that Miller said to witness on his return in the evening--'Some of the people are still here who came last night. They stick to it rarely.' Sunday was the grand day. He had seen more than 40 persons at a time there, and they frequently offered half-a-crown for a seat. Wine and suppers were furnished gratis. Some looked over the backs of others and betted. A Mr Smith, the very man who had pawned his coat, confirmed the above evidence. Miller was convicted, and the judge, Lord Kenyon, made the following solemn observations before passing sentence:-- 'Gaming is a crime of greater enormity, and of more destructive consequences to society, than many which the laws of the country have made capital. What is the crime of stealing a sheep, or picking a pocket of a handkerchief, when placed in comparison with this crime, traced through all its consequences? 'With regard to those in the higher walks of life, experience tells us it often leads to self-murder and duelling, about gambling debts, which terminate in the total ruin of families once opulent, and reduce to beggary their innocent and helpless children; and as for those in a lower sphere of life, when they have lost their money, they often betake themselves to housebreaking and the highway, in order to replenish their coffers, and at last end their lives by the hand of justice.' With many other most excellent observations on the tendency of this selfish and avaricious vice, he concluded by sentencing Miller to a fine of L500, one year's imprisonment, and security for his good behaviour for seven years, himself in L500 and two others in L250 each, adding:--'It appeared that you played with loaded dice. The Court has not taken that into consideration, because it was not charged in the indictment.' ATTACKS ON GAMING HOUSES. In 1797 the Bedford Arms, Covent Garden, kept by one John Twycross, was attacked, under warrant. The gaming-room stood an hour's siege, for the doors were so plated with iron that the repeated blows of a sledge-hammer made no impression on them. The officers at length entered the back through the window. They found fifteen persons at table, but not actually playing, so no conviction could take place. In the same year a party of Bow Street officers searched a gaming house at 19, Great Suffolk Street. They were an hour in effecting their entrance. Two very stout doors, strongly bolted and barred, obstructed them. All the gamesters but one escaped by a subterraneous passage, through a long range of cellars, terminating at a house in Whitcomb Street, whence their leader, having the keys of every door, conducted them safely into the open air. In the previous year a party, mostly French emigrants, were taken at a house in Oxendon Street, with the table, cards, &c. A city magistrate and a city officer had a dispute at cards, and a knock-down game ensued. In 1799 the Marlborough Street officers apprehended at the gaming house, No. 3, Leicester Square, thirteen out of twenty persons, from the first floor, playing at Rouge et Noir. One of the gamblers, when they first entered, threw up the sash, and, stepping from the leads, fell into the area, and died in being conveyed to the hospital. In the same year, two notorious gaming houses, Nos. 1 and 3, King's Place, were attacked, by authority of a search warrant. All the paraphernalia of the profession, as tables, dice, counters, &c., were seized; but the inmates effected their escape over the roofs of the adjoining houses. The proprietor of No. 3 was smoked in a chimney, and three French emigrants intercepted in their retreat. On one of them was found a gold watch, which appeared, by the robbery-book, to have been stolen about five years previously. The banks had been conveyed away,--at least, they were not among the captures. 'SOMETHING HONOURABLE TO THE BRITISH FLAG.' It is stated as highly honourable to the British flag that, among the gamesters of the first quarter of the present century, no Admirals were seen at the INFERIOR tables. Their proper pride kept them from a familiar association with pursers, clerks, grocers, horse-dealers, linen-drapers, silk-mercers, masons, builders, timber-merchants, booksellers, &c., &c., and men of the very lowest walks of life. COARSE LANGUAGE OF GAMESTERS. 'I heard those who, in another place, even in the most polished courts, would take a high rank for good breeding and gentlemanly education, at these tables make use of language which, I hope, Billingsgate itself would turn from with disgust. It cannot be repeated; neither would it be believed, unless by such as, like myself, have had "confirmation strong," too strong to be rejected, if I did not, at the same time, reject the evidence of my senses.'(45) (45) Seymour Harcourt, The Gaming Calendar. BOASTED PROTECTION OF GREAT NAMES TO GAMING HOUSES. 'On one occasion I was at the Pigeon Hole, in St James's Square (since removed to King Street), when the apprehensions which the rapid sale of The Greeks (a work exposing the system) excited among the players were warmly debated. To my great astonishment, a person who I supposed was a proprietor, boasted the impenetrability of HIS house, and on what ground, think you? Why, on that of it having the countenance of the Lord Chief Justice of England! True or false, it seemed to revive the flagging spirits of its visitors. They knew better. Not even the warm feelings of a father would turn the scale of justice in the even hand of Lord Ellenborough.' It must not, however, be taken for granted, merely because these fellows assert it, that the sons of the late Chief Justice really frequented that den of iniquity. It is part of the system of these houses to delude the ignorant, by pretending that this or the other person uses their tables. I had an instance of that myself at ----, in Pall Mall. Asking who that gentleman was, pointing to the party, I was answered--'That is Mr Hay, private secretary to Lord Melville, the First Lord of the Admiralty.' Now, I believe I may safely say, and from my own knowledge, too, that Mr Hay, whose character and conduct is deservedly held in the highest estimation, NEVER was at that or any such house; yet his name was constantly quoted, and particularly to young officers of the navy and marines, to whom his acquaintance held out hopes of future advantage in their profession!(46) (46) Id. ibid. FORTUNATE RISE OF A CLUB-HOUSE WAITER. 'A waitership at a club sometimes led to fortune. Thomas Rumbold, originally a waiter at White's gaming club, got an appointment in India, and suddenly rose to be Sir Thomas, and Governor of Madras! On his return, with immense wealth, a bill of pains and penalties was brought into the House by Dundas, with the view of stripping Sir Thomas of his ill-gotten gains. This bill was briskly pushed through the earlier stages; suddenly the proceedings were arrested by adjournment, and the measure fell to the ground. The rumour of the day attributed Rumbold's escape to the corrupt assistance of Rigby; who, in 1782, found himself, by Lord North's retirement, deprived of his place in the Pay Office, and called upon to refund a large amount of public moneys unaccounted for. In this strait, Rigby was believed to have had recourse to Rumbold. Their acquaintance had commenced in earlier days, when Rigby was one of the boldest "punters" at White's, and Rumbold bowed to him for half-crowns as waiter. Rumbold is said to have given Rigby a large sum of money, on condition of the former being released from the impending pains and penalties. The truth of the report has been vehemently denied; but the circumstances are suspicious. The bill was dropped; Dundas, its introducer, was Rigby's intimate associate. Rigby's nephew and heir soon after married Rumbold's daughter. Sir Thomas himself had married a daughter of Dr Law, Bishop of Carlisle. The worthy bishop stood godfather to one of Rumbold's children; the other godfather was the Nabob of Arcot, and the child was christened "Mahomet." So, at least, Walpole informs Mann.'(47) (47) Timbs, Club Life in London. PLAY IN 1820. According to the Morning Post of May 15, 1820, at one of the gaming houses at the West End, in one night, property to the amount of L50,000 is said to have changed hands. ACCOUNT OF A GAME AT HAZARD. The following account of a game at Hazard was given by a young man, who, in the year 1820, was decoyed into one of the gambling houses in the city, kept by one John Morley, who was convicted by the Lord Mayor, in the penalty of L200, 'for keeping Hazard;' but who, it is stated, left this country for Ireland the moment proceedings were instituted. 'The house in question was to all appearance devoted to the game of billiards, and most of those who frequented it engaged merely in that game. Through the agency of professed gamesters, who shared in the profits of the concern, those who appeared to be proper objects of plunder were soon introduced to the Hazard table, which was kept in a retired and private part of the house. 'The evidence of the young man was to the following effect:--He had been in Morley's house; the game of Hazard was played in the front room on the second floor; a door led into it from the landing-place, and another from the public billiard-room, which was the back room on the same floor; both these doors were during the time of play kept barred and locked, and never opened except to the voice of some person known to the master of the house. During the play the door was seldom or never opened, but before the play commenced there was an understanding given that proceedings were about to begin. 'In the centre of the room was a large circular table, over which a lamp was suspended, and round the table the players sat, in number, generally, from six to ten. 'The play commenced by one of the players taking the dice-box with two dice in it; two other dice were covered on the table, and might be substituted for those in the box, upon application to Morley, who acted as "groom porter." The person who held the box was called the caster, and he called a main, that is, he mentioned aloud any number on the dice from five to nine; and throwing the dice on the table, counted the number on the two dice as his chance, the number which he called being the chance of his setter. Before the main is called, the caster throws down his stake, which any person present has the option of covering, or, as it is called, "setting," by placing a similar sum on the table. For instance, if the caster, after being "set," call five the main, and throws immediately four and one, or three and two, he "nicks" it, that is, wins his money at once. If he throws six and one, five and two, or four and three, each of which two numbers makes seven, he bets the ODDS, which are three to two in his favour--inasmuch as there are three ways of throwing seven, and only two of throwing five; and he continues throwing until either five or seven come off. By the former he loses, by the latter he wins. 'If he calls seven the main, and throws three and one, or six and four, the odds are two to one against him--inasmuch as there are only three ways each of throwing, the four and the ten and six wins, throwing the seven, that is, three on each die.(48) If the caster wishes, he calls a main, and continues to do so till he loses, which, in the technical phraseology, is "throwing out." He then passes the bow to the person next on the left hand, who, in like manner, passes it to his neighbour. Morley is remunerated for his table very handsomely. When the caster throws in three mains successively, he pays to Morley what is called a box (one of the pieces of the house with which the game is played). The prices are eighteen-pence each, and he gives them in exchange for notes, and retakes them. The caster pays nothing unless he wins. The players generally leave off play at eleven or twelve o'clock. On Saturday there is most play, as Morley on that day always gives a dinner at four o'clock, immediately after which the play commences. On other days tea and coffee are given.' (48) I confess I do not understand the above passage. A number of young men, most of whom were clerks, were called to confirm the evidence as to the system, but none of them appeared. In a letter published in the Times of July 22, 1824, we read as follows:-- 'The action against the keepers of a certain notorious "hell," which was noticed in the different journals as "coming on," is withdrawn, or, more properly speaking, is "compromised." Thus it will always be; and the different hells still flourish with impunity, to the enrichment of a few knaves, and the ruin of many thousands, till more effectual laws are framed to meet the evil. As they net thousands a night, a few hundreds or even thousands can be well spared to smother a few actions and prosecutions, which are very rarely instituted against them, and never but by ruined men, who are easily quieted by a small consideration, which, from recent judgments, will not be withheld; therefore we shall see recorded but very few convictions if any at all. At the head of these infamous establishments is one yclept "Fishmollgers' Hall,"(49) which sacks more plunder than all the others put together, though they consist of about a dozen. This place has been fitted up at an expense of L40,000, and is the most splendid house, interiorly and exteriorly, in all the neighbourhood. It is established as a bait for the fortunes of the great, many of whom have already been severe sufferers. Invitations to dinner are sent to noblemen and gentlemen, at which they are treated with every delicacy, and the most intoxicating wines. (49) Otherwise called Crock-odile Hall. 'After such "liberal" entertainment, a visit to the French Hazard table, in the adjoining room, is a matter of course, when the consequences are easily divined. A man thus allured to the den may determine not to lose more than the few pounds he has about him; but in the intoxication of the moment, and the delirium of play, it frequently happens that, notwithstanding the best resolves, he borrows money on his cheques, which are known to be good, and are readily cashed to very considerable amounts. In this manner L10,000, L20,000, L30,000, or more, have been often swept away! They left King Street about three years ago, when, in conjunction with T ---- (a man who a few years ago took the benefit of the act, and subsequently took one or two "hells" in Pall Mall, but has amassed full L150,000 of plunder) and A ----, who has L70,000 of plunder, they opened a club-house in Piccadilly, with a French Hazard bank of L10,000, when in a short time they divided between the four--after all their heavy expenses were covered--upwards of L200,000. In proportion to the extent of the bank and the stakes, so do they collect the plunder.' PROGRESS IN THE GAMING TRADE. In the minor gaming houses the players assembled in parties of from 40 to 50 persons, who probably brought on an average, each night, from one to twenty shillings to play with. As the money was lost, the losers fell off, if they could not borrow or beg more; and this went on sometimes in the winter season for 14 to 16 hours in succession; so that from 100 to 150 persons might be calculated to visit one gaming table in the course of a night; and it not unfrequently happened that ultimately all the money brought to the table got into the hands of one or two of the most fortunate adventurers, save that which was paid to the table for 'box-hands'--that is, when a player won three times in succession. At these establishments the price of a box varied from one shilling to half-a-crown. Every man thus engaged was destined to become either a more finished and mischievous gambler, or to appear at the bar of the Old Bailey. The successful players by degrees improved their external appearance, and obtained admittance into houses of higher play, where two shillings and sixpence or three shillings and fourpence was demanded for the box-hand. If success attended them in the first step of advancement, they next got initiated into better houses, and associated with gamblers of a higher grade. PLAY IN 1838. About the year 1838 the gaming houses were kept open all day, the dice were scarcely ever idle, day or night. From Sunday to Sunday, all the year round, persons were to be found in these places, losing their money, and wasting away their very bodies by the consuming anxiety consequent on their position at the Hazard or Roulette table. STATISTICS OF GAMBLING IN 1844. The following facts came out in evidence before the committee of the House of Commons, in 1844. Down to that year there were no less than 12 gaming houses in St James's and St George's. The play was higher in old times, but not so GENERAL. 'The increase of gambling houses was entirely the offspring of Crockford's.' Such was the opinion of the Honourable Frederick Byng, before the committee, who added, 'that the facility to everybody to gamble at Crockford's led to the establishment of other gambling houses fitted up in a superior style, and attractive to gentlemen who never would have thought of going into them formerly.' Previously, in the clubs, the gambling was confined to a very high rate and to a very few people. The above-named witness said he 'could have named all the gamblers in his early days at the clubs. No person coming into a room where Hazard was carried on would have been permitted to play for a SMALL SUM, and therefore he left it.' The same gentleman remembered the time when gambling tables were kept in private houses. 'It is a fact that most of those who played very high were pretty well cleaned out.' 'Crockford increased gambling everywhere.' 'Persons of the middling classes, butchers, and gentleman's servants went to the low gambling houses.' These places held out inducements to robbery. 'If a servant or shopman could scrape together L200 or L300, he had, by the agency of the keepers of these houses, the opportunity of lending out his money to the losers at 60 per cent.' DESPERATION AT GAMING HOUSES. The most particular inspection was made of the player's person by the gaming house keeper's spies, and even his dress was strictly observed. He was obliged, before entering the saloon, to deposit his great coat and cane, which might perchance afford the introduction of some WEAPON; and the elegance of the covering did not save him from the humiliation of having it taken from him at the door. The attempts which were sometimes made on the lives of the bankers led to these precautions--like the indignities which are practised only in prisons for the security of the unhappy inmates. It is certain that gamesters, reduced to desperation, and on the eve of committing suicide, have conveyed into these places infernal machines with an intention of destroying at once their cruel plunderers and themselves. 'DEVILISH DOINGS IN A "HELL." ' In 'Doings in London,' a work published as lately as the year 1850, we find under this startling title a strange story. 'A scandalous scene of violence, which often happens at these places, but seldom becomes publicly known, on account of the disgrace attending exposures, occurred lately at a low "hell" in King Street, St James's. A gentleman who had lost considerable sums of money at various times, announced his full determination never to come to a place of the sort again with money. His visits, therefore, were no longer wanted, and so orders were given to the porters not to admit him again. About two o'clock on a subsequent night, which happened to be Saturday, he sought admittance, and was refused. A warm altercation ensued in the passage between him and the porters, which brought down some of the proprietors. One of them--a powerful man--a bankrupt butcher--struck him a tremendous blow, which broke the bridge of his nose, covered his face with blood, and knocked him down. On getting up he was knocked down again. He arose once more, and instantly received another blow, which would have laid him upon his back, but one of the porters by this time had got behind him, and as he was falling struck him at the back of his head, which sent him upon his face. The watch had now arrived, into whose hands the keeper of the "hell" and the porter were given. At the watch-house they were ordered to find bail. The gentleman was then about quitting, when he was suddenly called back. A certain little lawyer, who alternately prosecutes and defends keepers of gaming houses, was sent for. He whispered to the ex-butcher to charge the gentleman with stealing his handkerchief and hat, which, it was alleged, had been lost in the affray. Though nothing was found upon the gentleman, who desired to be searched, this preposterous and groundless charge was taken, and the hellites admitted to bail; but the gentleman who had been so cruelly beaten, being charged with a felony on purpose to cause his detention, and the power held by magistrates to take bail in doubtful cases not extending to night-constables, he was locked up below with two wretches who had stolen lead, and five disorderlies--his face a mass of blood and bruises--and there detained till Monday morning, in a most pitiable condition. The magistrate before whom the party appeared on that day, understanding that the affair took place at a gaming house, dismissed both complaints, leaving the parties to their remedy at the sessions.' GAFFING. Gaffing is or was one of the ten thousand modes of swindling practised in London. Formerly it was a game in very great vogue among the macers, who congregated nightly at the 'flash houses.' One of these is described as follows:--This gaffer laughed a great deal and whistled Moore's melodies, and extracted music from a deal table with his elbow and wrist. When he hid a half-penny, and a flat cried 'head' for L10, a 'tail' was sure to turn up. One of his modes of commanding the turn-up was this: he had a half-penny with two heads, and a half-penny with two tails. When he gaffed, he contrived to have both half-pence under his hand, and long practice enabled him to catch up in the wrinkles or muscles of it the half-penny which it was his interest to conceal. If 'tail' was called a 'head' appeared, and the 'tail' half-penny ran down his wrist with astonishing fidelity. This ingenious fellow often won 200 or 300 sovereigns a night by gaffing; but the landlord and other men, who were privy to the robbery, and 'pitched the baby card' (that is, encouraged the loser by sham betting), always came in for the 'regulars,' that is, their share of the plunder. This gaffer contrived to 'bilk' all the turnpikes in the kingdom. In going to a fight or to a race-course, when he reached a turnpike he held a shilling between his fingers, and said to the gatekeeper--'Here, catch,' and made a movement of the hand towards the man, who endeavoured to catch what he saw. The shilling, however, by a backward jerk, ran down the sleeve of the coat, as if it had life in it, and the gate-keeper turned round to look in the dust, when the tall gaffer drove on, saying--'Keep the change.' A young fellow, who previously was a marker at a billiard-table, and who had the appearance of a soft, inexperienced country-lad, was another great hand at gaffing. There was a strong adhesive power in his hand, and such exquisite sensibility about it, that he could ascertain by dropping his palm, even upon a worn-out half-penny or shilling, what side was turned up. Indeed, so perfect a master was he of the science that Breslaw could never have done more upon cards than he could do with a pair of 'grays' (gaffing-coins). A well-known macer, who was celebrated for slipping an 'old gentleman' (a long card) into the pack, and was the inheritor by birth of all the propensities of this description, although the inheritance was equally divided between his brother and himself, got hold of a young fellow who had L170 in his pocket, and introduced him to one of the 'cock-and-hen' houses near Drury Lane Theatre, well-primed with wine. Gaffing began, and the billiard-marker before described was pitched upon to 'do' the stranger. The macer 'pitched the baby card,' and of course lost, as well as the unfortunate victim. He had borrowed L10 of the landlord, who was to come in for the 'regulars;' but when all was over, the billiard-marker refused to make any division of the spoil, or even to return the L10 which had been lost to him in 'bearing up' the cull. The landlord pressed his demand upon the macer, who, in fact, was privately reimbursed by the marker; but he was coolly told that he ought not to allow such improper practices in his house, and that the sum was not recoverable, the transaction being illegal. How these spurious coins are procured is a question; but I am assured that they are still in use and often made to do service at public-houses and other places. TOMMY DODD. This is a mode of gambling very much in vogue at the present time. It is often played at public-houses among parties to decide who is to pay the reckoning. Each party turns down a half-penny, and, on uncovering it, the matter is decided as in 'heads or tails.' Of course this expeditious method is also used in gambling for money. Not long ago a retired tradesman, happening to be in a public-house, where such things were connived at, allowed himself to be induced to play at Tommy Dodd with two low sharpers. They soon eased him of all the cash he had about him. A bright idea, however, occurred to him. 'Stop a bit,' he said, 'I must have my revenge. Just wait till I go home for more money.' The sharpers were rejoiced at the idea, and rubbed their hands with delight, whilst the tradesman went, as they felt sure, only to bring more money into their 'till.' The man made all haste, for he was determined to have his revenge, and soon returned with a large bag of money, which he clinked on the table. He first pulled out some coppers, telling them to choose from the lot the coins they would play with. They assented, although they did not seem 'much to like it.' 'And now,' said the tradesman, 'let's set to business.' The game proceeded with alternate success on both sides; but the tradesman went on DOUBLING THE STAKES EVERY TIME, WHETHER HE LOST OR WON, and, of course, at length completely broke their bank, and went off with their money. GAMBLING AT THE WINE AND OYSTER ROOMS, OR 'SALOONS.' The gambling which was carried on in the private rooms of the wine and oyster houses, about thirty years ago, and perhaps later, was just such as that which had so long flourished in the low vicinity of St James's. Indeed, the constant frequenters of the former had attained the most profound knowledge of the art of robbing at the West End gaming houses. The blacklegs visited the saloons every night, in order to pick up new acquaintances among the young and inexperienced. They were polite, well-dressed, gentlemanlike persons; and if they could trace anything 'soft' in the countenance of a new visitor, their wits went to work at once to establish an acquaintance with him. Wine was set a-going, and cards were proposed. The master of the concern soon provided a room, and play advanced, accompanied by the certainty of loss to the unfortunate stranger. But if the invitation to play was rejected, they made another plant upon him. The ruffians attacked him through a passion of a different kind. They gave the word to one of their female 'pals,' who threw herself in his way, and prevailed upon him to accompany her to HER establishment. In the morning the 'gentleman,' who in vain had solicited him to play at the saloon the night before, would call--just to pay 'a friendly visit.' Cards were again spoken of, and again proposed, with the additional recommendation of the 'lady,' who offered to be the partner of her friend in the game. The consequence was inevitable. Many young noblemen and gentlemen were plundered by this scheme, of hundreds, nay, of thousands of pounds. To escape without loss was impossible. They packed and distributed the cards with such amazing dexterity, that they could give a man, as it were, whatever cards they pleased. CARDS THAT WOULD BEAT THE D--L HIMSELF! A number of sharpers were detected in a trick by which they had won enormous sums. An Ecarte party, consisting of a nobleman, a captain in the army, an Armenian gentleman, and an Irish gentleman, sat down in one of the private chambers attached to one of the large wine and shell-fish rooms. The Armenian and the Irishman were partners, and were wonderfully successful; indeed, so extraordinary was their luck in turning up cards, that the captain, who had been in the town for some time, suspected the integrity of his competitors, and, accordingly, handled the cards very minutely. He soon discovered that there was an 'old gentleman' (a card somewhat larger and thicker than the rest of the pack, and in considerable use among the LEGS) in the midst of them. The captain and his partner exclaimed that they were robbed, and the cards were sealed up, and referred to a card-maker for his opinion. 'The old saying,' said the referee, 'that THE CARDS WOULD BEAT THE CARD-MAKER, was never more true than it is in this instance, for this pack would beat not only me, but the very d--l himself; there is not only an OLD GENTLEMAN, but an OLD LADY (a card broader than the rest) amongst them.' The two 'gentlemen' were immediately accused of the imposition, but they feigned ignorance of the fraud, refused to return a farthing of the 'swag,' and, in their turn, charged the losers with having got up the story in order to recover what they had fairly lost. GENEROSITY (?) OF A GAMING HOUSE KEEPER. A young West Indian chanced one night to enter one of the gaming houses in London, and began trying his chance at Roulette. Fortune favoured him at first, and he won about a hundred pounds. Instead of leaving off he only became the more excited by his success, when his luck began to change, and he lost and lost until he staked the last coin he had in his pocket. He then pawned to the master of the table successively every ring and trinket he had, for money to continue the stakes. All in vain. His luck never returned; and he made his way down-stairs in a mood which may well be imagined. But what was his surprise when the master of the table came running after him, saying--'Sir, these things may be valuable to you--do me the favour to take them with you. Next time I hope you will be more lucky,' and returned all his rings and trinkets. The moon was shining brightly at the time, and the young man swore by it, that he would never again enter a gaming house, and he kept his oath. Of course the generosity was but a decoy to entice the youth to further ruin. HOSPITALITY OF GAMING HOUSES, AND POPULARITY OF CITY MEN AT THEM. Joseph Atkinson and his wife, who for many years kept a gaming house at No. 15 under the Piazza, Covent Garden, gave daily magnificent play dinners,--cards of invitation for which were sent to the clerks of merchants, bankers, and brokers in the city. Atkinson used to say that he liked CITIZENS--whom he called FLATS--better than any one else, for when they had DINED they played freely, and after they had lost all their money they had credit to borrow more. When he had CLEANED THEM OUT, when THE PIGEONS WERE COMPLETELY PLUCKED, they were sent to some of their solvent friends. After dinner play was introduced, and, till dinner time the nest day, different games at cards, dice, and E O were continually going on. THE TRAFFIC IN HUSH MONEY. Theophilus Bellasis, an infamous character, was well known at Bow Street, where he had been charged with breaking into the counting-house of Sir James Sanderson, Bart. Bellasis was sometimes clerk and sometimes client to John Shepherd, an attorney of Bow Street; while at other times Shepherd was prosecutor of those who kept gaming houses, and Bellasis attorney. Sir William Addington, the magistrate, was so well aware that these two men commenced prosecutions solely for the purpose of HUSH MONEY, that he refused to act. The Joseph Atkinson just mentioned at one time gave them L100, at another L80; and in this way they had amassed an immense sum, and undertook, for a specific amount, to defend keepers of gaming houses against all prosecutions! WALKING OFF WITH A L200 BANK-NOTE. The runaway son of an extensive linen-draper went to a gaming house in King Street, and pocketed a L200 bank-note from the table. He was not kicked out, because it would not be safe for the proprietors of these houses to run the risk of getting involved in law; but he was civilly walked down-stairs by the master of the establishment, who forbad him the house evermore. The dashing youth, however, put both the money and the affront in his pocket, and was only too thankful to get away in so good a plight. PERQUISITES OF GAMBLING HOUSE WAITERS. A waiter in one of the gambling houses in St James's Street received in Christmas boxes above L500. A nobleman, who had in the course of a week won L80,000, gave him L100 of his winnings. He was said to have actually borrowed of the waiter the money which led to his extraordinary success! PAUL ROUBEL. Paul Roubel was a gaming house keeper, who seems to have been an exception to his class, according to the following account:--'A foreigner once applied for the situation of croupier at old Paul Roubel's, stating as his qualification that he could cut or turn up whatever card he pleased. The old man (for he was nearly eighty, and a very good hearty fellow in his way) declined the offer, saying--"You are too clever for me; my customers must have some chance!" It is true Roubel kept a gambling house; but it is also true that few men in higher walks of life possessed a kinder heart, or a hand which opened more freely or more liberally to the calls of humanity! Peace be to his manes!' TITLED GREEKS, OR 'DECOYS.' In all the gaming houses of any note there were unprincipled and reckless persons paid by the hellites, employed in various capacities, and for various purposes. Sometimes they played for the proprietors against any one who chose to put down his money; at other times, when there were no other individuals playing at all, they pretended to be strangers themselves, and got up sham games with the proprietors, with the view of practising a deception on any strangers who might be in the room, and by that means inducing them to put down their money. They were dressed in the most fashionable manner, always exhibiting a profusion of jewellery, and living in great splendour when they have any particular person in their eye, in the various hotels throughout town.(50) (50) Grant, Sketches in London. In some cases, in the higher class of gaming establishments, the Greeks, or decoys, being men of title or considerable standing in society, did not receive a fixed salary for seducing young men of fortune, but being in every case very needy men, they nominally borrowed, from time to time, large sums of money from the hell-keepers. It was, however, perfectly understood on both sides that the amount so borrowed was never to be repaid.(51) (51) Grant, Ubi supra. WHY CHEATS WERE CALLED GREEKS. M. Robert-Houdin says that this application of the term 'Greek' originated from a certain modern Greek, named Apoulos, who in the reign of Louis XIV. was caught cheating at court, and was condemned to 20 years at the galleys. I think this a very improbable derivation, and unnecessary withal. Aristotle of old, as before stated, ranked gamesters 'with thieves and plunderers, who for the sake of gain do not scruple to despoil their best friends.' We afterwards find them bearing just as bad a character among the Romans. Says Juvenal-- Graeculus esuriens in coelum jusseris, ibit. 'Bid the hungry Greek to heaven, to heaven he goes.' Dr Johnson translated the words, 'Bid him to h--l, to h--l he goes'--which is wrong. A DIFFICULTY is implied, and everybody knows that it is easier to go to the latter place than the former. It means that a needy Greek was capable of doing anything. Lord Byron protested that he saw no difference between Greeks and Jews--of course, meaning 'Jews' in the offensive sense of the word. Among gamblers the term was chiefly applied to 'decoys.' GAMING TABLE SLANG AND MANOEUVRES. Captain Sharp. A cheating bully, whose office it was to bully any 'Pigeon,' who, suspecting roguery, refused to pay what he had lost. St Hugh's bones. Dice. A bale of bard cinque deuces; a bale of flat cinque deuces; a bale of flat size aces; a bale of bard cater treys; a bale of flat cater treys; a bale of Fulhams; a bale of light graniers; a bale of gordes, with as many highmen and lowmen for passage; a bale of demies; a bale of long dice for even or odd; a bale of bristles; a bale of direct contraries,--names of false dice. Do. To cheat. Done up. Ruined. Down-hills. False dice which run low. Elbow-shaker. A gamester. Fulhams. Loaded dice. Fuzz. To shuffle cards closely: to change the pack. Game. Bubbles, Flats, Pigeons. Gull Gropers. Usurers who lend money to gamesters. Greeks. Cheats at play. Hedge. To secure a bet by betting on the other side. High Jinks. A gambler who drinks to intoxicate his Pigeon. Hunting. Drawing in the unwary. Main. Any number on the dice from five to nine. Paum. To hide a card or die. Pigeons. Dupes of sharpers at play. Vincent's Law. The art of cheating at cards, by the banker, who plays booty, Gripe, who bets, and the Vincent, who is cheated. The gain is called termage. Vowel. To give an I. O. U. in payment. Up-hills. False dice which run high. SPECIMEN OF A QUASI GAMING HOUSE CIRCULAR. 'SIR,--I hope you will join with the rest of the parishioners in recommending what friends you can to my shops. They shall have good candles and fair play. Sir, we are a not gang of swindlers, Like other Gaming Houses, We are men of character. Our Party is, Tom Carlos--alias Pistol, Ned Mogg,--from Charing Cross, Union Clarke, ------------ {The best in the world at A Frenchman,{ {sleight of hand. My poor Brother, and Melting Billy, Your humble Servant. To the Church-Wardens, Overseers, and each respectable inhabitant in the Parish.' A card was enclosed, as follows:-- '**** Gaming House Keeper, and **** **** to The Honourable House of Commons No. 7 and 8 **** St, St James's.' This circular was sent to Stockdale, the publisher, in 1820, who published it with the names in asterisks suppressed. It was evidently intended to expose some doings in high places. CHAPTER VIII. THE DOCTRINE OF PROBABILITIES APPLIED TO GAMBLING. A distinction must be made between games of skill and games of chance. The former require application, attention, and a certain degree of ability to insure success in them; while the latter are devoid of all that is rational, and are equally within the reach of the highest and lowest capacity. To be successful in throwing the dice is one of the most fickle achievements of fickle fortune; and therefore the principal game played with them is very properly and emphatically called 'Hazard.' It requires, indeed, some exertion of the mental powers, of memory, at least, and a turn for such diversions, to play well many games at cards. Nevertheless, it is often found that those who do so give no further proofs of superior memory and judgment, whilst persons of superior memory and judgment not unfrequently fail egregiously at the card-table. The gamester of skill, in games of skill, may at first sight seem to have more advantage than the gamester of chance, in games of chance; and while cards are played merely as an amusement, there is no doubt that a recreation is more rational when it requires some degree of skill than one, like dice, totally devoid of all meaning whatever. But when the pleasure becomes a business, and a matter of mere gain, there is more innocence, perhaps, in a perfect equality of antagonists--which games of chance, fairly played, always secure--than where one party is likely to be an overmatch for the other by his superior knowledge or ability. Nevertheless, even games of chance may be artfully managed; and the most apparently casual throw of the dice be made subservient to the purposes of chicanery and fraud, as will be shown in the sequel. In the matter of skill and chance the nature of cards is mixed,--most games having in them both elements of interest,--since the success of the player must depend as much on the chance of the 'deal' as on his skill in playing the game. But even the chance of the deal is liable to be perverted by all the tricks of shuffling and cutting--not to mention how the honourable player may be deceived in a thousand ways by the craft of the sharper, during the playing, of the cards themselves; consequently professed gamblers of all denominations, whether their games be of apparent skill or mere chance, may be confounded together or considered in the same category, as being equally meritorious and equally infamous. Under the name of the Doctrine of Chances or Probabilities, a very learned science,--much in vogue when lotteries were prevalent,--has been applied to gambling purposes; and in spite of the obvious abstruseness of the science, it is not impossible to give the general reader an idea of its processes and conclusions. The probability of an event is greater or less according to the number of chances by which it may happen, compared with the whole number of chances by which it may either happen or fail. Wherefore, if we constitute a fraction whereof the numerator be the number of chances whereby an event may happen, and the denominator the number of all the chances whereby it may either happen or fail, that fraction will be a proper designation of the probability of happening. Thus, if an event has 3 chances to happen, and 2 to fail, then the fraction 3/5 will fairly represent the probability of its happening, and may be taken to be the measure of it. The same may be said of the probability of failing, which will likewise be measured by a fraction whose numerator is the number of chances whereby it may fail, and the denominator the whole number of chances both for its happening and failing; thus the probability of the failing of that event which has 2 chances to fail and 3 to happen will be measured by the fraction 2/5. The fractions which represent the probabilities of happening and failing, being added together, their sum will always be equal to unity, since the sum of their numerators will be equal to their common denominator. Now, it being a certainty that an event will either happen or fail, it follows that certainty, which may be conceived under the notion of an infinitely great degree of probability, is fitly represented by unity. These things will be easily apprehended if it be considered that the word probability includes a double idea; first, of the number of chances whereby an event may happen; secondly, of the number of chances whereby it may either happen or fail. If I say that I have three chances to win any sum of money, it is impossible from the bare assertion to judge whether I am likely to obtain it; but if I add that the number of chances either to obtain it or miss it, is five in all, from this will ensue a comparison between the chances that are for and against me, whereby a true judgment will be formed of my probability of success; whence it necessarily follows that it is the comparative magnitude of the number of chances to happen, in respect of the whole number of chances either to happen or to fail, which is the true measure of probability. To find the probability of throwing an ace in two throws with a single die. The probability of throwing an ace the first time is 1/6; whereof 1/ is the first part of the probability required. If the ace be missed the first time, still it may be thrown on the second; but the probability of missing it the first time is 5/6, and the probability of throwing it the second time is 1/6; therefore the probability of missing it the first time and throwing it the second, is 5/6 X 1/6 = 5/36 and this is the second part of the probability required, and therefore the probability required is in all 1/6 + 5/36 = 11/36. To this case is analogous a question commonly proposed about throwing with two dice either six or seven in two throws, which will be easily solved, provided it be known that seven has 6 chances to come up, and six 5 chances, and that the whole number of chances in two dice is 36; for the number of chances for throwing six or seven 11, it follows that the probability of throwing either chance the first time is 11/36, but if both are missed the first time, still either may be thrown the second time; but the probability of missing both the first time is 25/36, and the probability of throwing either of them on the second is 11/36; therefore the probability of missing both of them the first time, and throwing either of them the second time, is 25/36 X 11/36 = 275/1296, and therefore the probability required is 11/36 + 275/1296 = 671/1296, and the probability of the contrary is 625/1296. Among the many mistakes that are committed about chances, one of the most common and least suspected was that which related to lotteries. Thus, supposing a lottery wherein the proportion of the blanks to the prizes was as five to one, it was very natural to conclude that, therefore, five tickets were requisite for the chance of a prize; and yet it is demonstrable that four tickets were more than sufficient for that purpose. In like manner, supposing a lottery in which the proportion of the blanks to the prize is as thirty-nine to one (as was the lottery of 1710), it may be proved that in twenty-eight tickets a prize is as likely to be taken as not, which, though it may contradict the common notions, is nevertheless grounded upon infallible demonstrations. When the Play of the Royal Oak was in use, some persons who lost considerably by it, had their losses chiefly occasioned by an argument of which they could not perceive the fallacy. The odds against any particular point of the ball were one and thirty to one, which entitled the adventurers, in case they were winners, to have thirty-two stakes returned, including their own; instead of which, as they had but twenty-eight, it was very plain that, on the single account of the disadvantage of the play, they lost one-eighth part of all the money played for. But the master of the ball maintained that they had no reason to complain, since he would undertake that any particular point of the ball should come up in two and twenty throws; of this he would offer to lay a wager, and actually laid it when required. The seeming contradiction between the odds of one and thirty to one, and twenty-two throws for any chance to come up, so perplexed the adventurers that they began to think the advantage was on their side, and so they went on playing and continued to lose. The doctrine of chances tends to explode the long-standing superstition that there is in play such a thing as LUCK, good or bad. If by saying that a man has good luck, nothing more were meant than that he has been generally a gainer at play, the expression might be allowed as very proper in a short way of speaking; but if the word 'good luck' be understood to signify a certain predominant quality, so inherent in a man that he must win whenever he plays, or at least win oftener than lose, it may be denied that there is any such thing in nature. The asserters of luck maintain that sometimes they have been very lucky, and at other times they have had a prodigious run of bad luck against them, which whilst it continued obliged them to be very cautious in engaging with the fortunate. They asked how they could lose fifteen games running if bad luck had not prevailed strangely against them. But it is quite certain that although the odds against losing so many times together be very great, namely, 32,767 to 1,--yet the POSSIBILITY of it is not destroyed by the greatness of the odds, there being ONE chance in 32,768 that it may so happen; therefore it follows that the succession of lost games was still possible, without the intervention of bad luck. The accident of losing fifteen games is no more to be imputed to bad luck than the winning, with one single ticket, the highest prize in a lottery of 32,768 tickets is to be imputed to good luck, since the chances in both cases are perfectly equal. But if it be said that luck has been concerned in the latter case, the answer will be easy; for let us suppose luck not existing, or at least let us suppose its influence to be suspended,--yet the highest prize must fall into some hand or other, not as luck (for, by the hypothesis, that has been laid aside), but from the mere necessity of its falling somewhere. Among the many curious results of these inquiries according to the doctrine of chances, is the prodigious advantage which the repetition of odds will amount to. Thus, 'supposing I play with an adversary who allows me the odds of 43 to 40, and agrees with me to play till 100 stakes are won or lost on either side, on condition that I give him an equivalent for the gain I am entitled to by the advantage of my odds;--the question is, what I am to give him, supposing we play at a guinea a stake? The answer is 99 guineas and above 18 shillings,(52) which will seem almost incredible, considering the smallness of the odds--43 to 40. Now let the odds be in any proportion, and let the number of stakes played for be never so great, yet one general conclusion will include all the possible cases, and the application of it to numbers may be worked out in less than a minute's time.'(53) (52) The guinea was worth 21s. 6d. when the work quoted was written. (53) De Moivre, Doctrine of Chances. The possible combinations of cards in a hand as dealt out by chance are truly wonderful. It has been established by calculation that a player at Whist may hold above 635 thousand millions of various hands! So that, continually varied, at 50 deals per evening, for 313 evenings, or 15,650 hands per annum, he might be above 40 millions of years before he would have the same hand again! The chance is equal, in dealing cards, that every hand will have seven trumps in two deals, or seven trumps between two partners, and also four court cards in every deal. It is also certain on an average of hands, that nothing can be more superstitious and absurd than the prevailing notions about luck or ill-luck. Four persons, constantly playing at Whist during a long voyage, were frequently winners and losers to a large amount, but as frequently at 'quits;' and at the end of the voyage, after the last game, one of them was minus only one franc! The chance of having a particular card out of 13 is 13/52, or 1 to 4, and the chance of holding any two cards is 1/4 of 1/4 or 1/16. The chances of a game are generally inversely as the number got by each, or as the number to be got to complete each game. The chances against holding seven trumps are 160 to 1; against six, it is 26 to 1; against five, 6 to 1; and against four nearly 2 to 1. It is 8 to 1 against holding any two particular cards. Similar calculations have been made respecting the probabilities with dice. There are 36 chances upon two dice. It is an even chance that you throw 8. It is 35 to 1 against throwing any particular doublets, and 6 to 1 against any doublets at all. It is 17 to 1 against throwing any two desired numbers. It is 4 to 9 against throwing a single number with either of the dice, so as to hit a blot and enter. Against hitting with the amount of two dice, the chances against 7, 8, and 9 are 5 to 1; against 10 are 11 to 1; against 11 are 17 to 1; and against sixes, 35 to 1. The probabilities of throwing required totals with two dice, depend on the number of ways in which the totals can be made up by the dice;--2, 3, 11, or 12 can only be made up one way each, and therefore the chance is but 1/36;--4, 5, 9, 10 may be made up two ways, or 1/8;--6, 7, 8 three ways, or 1/12. The chance of doublets is 1/36, the chance of PARTICULAR doublets 1/216. The method was largely applied to lotteries, cock-fighting, and horse-racing. It may be asked how it is possible to calculate the odds in horse-racing, when perhaps the jockeys in a great measure know before they start which is to win? In answer to this a question may be proposed:--Suppose I toss up a half-penny, and you are to guess whether it will be head or tail--must it not be allowed that you have an equal chance to win as to lose? Or, if I hide a half-penny under a hat, and I know what it is, have you not as good a chance to guess right, as if it were tossed up? My KNOWING IT TO BE HEAD can be no hindrance to you, as long as you have liberty of choosing either head or tail. In spite of this reasoning, there are people who build so much upon their own opinion, that should their favourite horse happen to be beaten, they will have it to be owing to some fraud. The following fact is mentioned as a 'paradox.' It happened at Malden, in Essex, in the year 1738, that three horses (and no more than three) started for a L10 plate, and they were all three distanced the first heat, according to the common rules in horse-racing, without any quibble or equivocation; and the following was the solution:--The first horse ran on the inside of the post; the second wanted weight; and the third fell and broke a fore-leg.(54) (54) Cheany's Horse-racing Book. In horse-racing the expectation of an event is considered as the present value, or worth, of whatsoever sum or thing is depending on the happening of that event. Therefore if the expectation on an event be divided by the value of the thing expected, on the happening of that event, the quotient will be the probability of happening. Example I. Suppose two horses, A and B, to start for L50, and there are even bets on both sides; it is evident that the present value or worth of each of their expectations will be L25, and the probabilities 25/50 or 1/2. For, if they had agreed to divide the prize between them, according as the bets should be at the time of their starting, they would each of them be entitled to L25; but if A had been thought so much superior to B that the bets had been 3 to 2 in his favour, then the real value of A's expectation would have been L30, and that of B's only L20, and their several probabilities 30/50 and 20/50. Example II. Let us suppose three horses to start for a sweepstake, namely, A, B, and C, and that the odds are 8 to 6 A against B, and 6 to 4 B against C--what are the odds--A against C, and the field against A? Answer:--2 to 1 A against C, and 10 to 8, or 5 to 4 the field against A. For A's expectation is 8 B's expectation is 6 C's expectation is 4 ---- 18 But if the bets had been 7 to 4 A against B; and even money B against C, then the odds would have been 8 to 7 the field against A, as shown in the following scheme:-- 7 A 4 B 4 C ---- 15 But as this is the basis upon which all the rest depends, another example or two may be required to make it as plain as possible. Example III. Suppose the same three as before, and the common bets 7 to 4 A against B; 21 to 20 (or 'gold to silver') B against C; we must state it thus:--7 guineas to 4 A against B; and 4 guineas to L4, B against C; which being reduced into shillings, the scheme will stand as follows:-- 147 A's expectation. 81 B's expectation. 80 C's expectation.----311 By which it will be 164 to 147 the field against A, (something more than 39 to 35). Now, if we compare this with the last example, we may conclude it to be right; for if it had been 40 to 35, then it would have been 8 to 7, exactly as in the last example. But, as some persons may be at a loss to know why the numbers 39 and 35 are selected, it is requisite to show the same by means of the Sliding Rule. Set 164 upon the line A to 147 upon the slider B, and then look along till you see two whole numbers which stand exactly one against the other (or as near as you can come), which, in this case, you find to be 39 on A, standing against 35 on the slider B (very nearly). But as 164/311 and 147/311 are in the lowest terms, there are no less numbers, in the same proportion, as 164 to 147,--39 and 35 being the nearest, but not quite exact. Example IV. There are four horses to start for a sweepstake, namely, A, B, C, D, and they are supposed to be as equally matched as possible. Now, Mr Sly has laid 10 guineas A against C, and also 10 guineas A against D. Likewise Mr Rider has laid 10 guineas A against C, and also 10 guineas B against D. After which Mr Dice laid Mr Sly 10 guineas to 4 that he will not win both his bets. Secondly, he laid Mr Rider 10 guineas to 4 that he will not win both his bets. Now, we wish to know what Mr Dice's advantage or disadvantage is, in laying these two last-mentioned wagers. First, the probability of Mr Sly's winning both his bets is 1/3 of 14 guineas; and Mr Dice's expectation is 2/3 of 14 guineas, or L9 16s., which being deducted from his own stake (10 guineas), there remains 14s., which is his disadvantage in that bet. Secondly, Mr Rider's expectation of winning his two bets is 1/4, and, therefore, Mr Dice's expectation of the 14 guineas, is 3/4, or L11 0s. 6d., from which deduct 10 guineas (his own stake), and there remains 10s. 6d., his advantage in this bet,--which being deducted from 14s. (his disadvantage in the other), there remains 3s 6d., his disadvantage in paying both these bets. These examples may suffice to show the working of the system; regular tables exist adapted to all cases; and there can be no doubt that those who have realized large fortunes by horse-racing managed to do so by uniformly acting on some such principles, as well as by availing themselves of such 'valuable information' as may be secured, before events come off, by those who make horse-racing their business. The same system was applied, and with still greater precision, to Cock-fighting, to Lotteries, Raffles, Backgammon, Cribbage, Put, All Fours, and Whist, showing all the chances of holding any particular card or cards. Thus, it is 2 to 1 that your partner has not one certain card; 17 to 2 that he has not two certain cards; 31 to 26 that he has not one of them only; and 32 to 25 (or 5 to 4) that he has one or both--that is, when two cards are in question. It is 31 to 1 that he has three certain cards; 7 to 2 that he has not two; 7 to 6 that he has not one; 13 to 6 that he has either one or two; 5 to 2 that he has one, two, or three cards; that is, when three cards are in question. With regard to the dealer and his partner, it is 57,798 to 7176 (better than 8 to 1) that they are not four by honours; it is 32,527 to 32,448 (or about an even bet) that they are not two by honours; it is 36,924 to 25,350 (or 11 to 7 nearly) that the honours count; it is 42,237 to 22,737 (or 15 to 8 nearly) that the dealer is nothing by honours.(55) (55) Proctor, The Sportsman's Sure Guide. Lond. A.D. 1733. Such is a general sketch of the large subject included under the term of the calculation of probabilities, which comprises not only the chances of games of hazard, insurances, lotteries, &c., but also the determination of future events from observations made relative to events of the same nature. This subject of inquiry dates only from the 17th century, and occupied the minds of Pascal, Huygens, Fermot, Bernouilli, Laplace, Fourier, Lacroix, Poisson, De Moivre; and in more modern times, Cournot, Quetelet, and Professor De Morgan. In the matter of betting, or in estimating the 'odds' in betting, of course an acquaintance with the method must be of some service, and there can be no doubt that professional gamesters endeavoured to master the subject. M. Robert-Houdin, in his amusing work, Les Tricheries des Grecs devoilees, has propounded some gaming axioms which are at least curious and interesting; they are presented as those of a professional gambler and cheat. 1. 'Every game of chance presents two kinds of chances which are very distinct,--namely, those relating to the person interested, that is, the player; and those inherent in the combinations of the game.' In the former there is what must be called, for the want of a better name, 'good luck' or 'bad luck,' that is, some mysterious cause which at times gives the play a 'run' of good or bad luck; in the latter there is the entire doctrine of 'probabilities' aforesaid, which, according to M. Houdin's gaming hero, may be completely discarded for the following axiom:-- 2. 'If chance can bring into the game all possible combinations, there are, nevertheless, certain limits at which it seems to stop. Such, for instance, as a certain number turning up ten times in succession at Roulette. This is possible, but it has never happened.' Nevertheless a most remarkable fact is on record. In 1813, a Mr Ogden betted 1000 guineas to ONE guinea, that calling seven as the main, the caster would not throw that number ten times successively. Wonderful to relate! the caster threw seven nine times following. Thereupon Mr Ogden offered him 470 guineas to be off the bet--which he refused. The caster took the box again and threw nine,--and so Mr Ogden won his guinea!(56) In this case there seems to have been no suspicion whatever of unfair dice being used. (56) Seymour Harcourt, The Gaming Calendar. 3. 'In a game of chance, the oftener the same combination has occurred in succession, the nearer we are to the certainty that it will not recur at the next cast or turn up. This is the most elementary of the theories on probabilities; it is termed the MATURITY OF THE CHANCES.' 'Hence,' according to this great authority, 'a player must come to the table not only "in luck," but he must not risk his money excepting at the instant prescribed by the rules of the maturity of the chances.' Founded on this theory we have the following precepts for gamesters:-- 1. 'For gaming, prefer Roulette, because it presents several ways of staking your money(57)--which permits the study of several. (57) 'Pair, impair, passe, manque, and the 38 numbers of the Roulette, besides the different combinations of POSITION' and 'maturities' together. 2. 'A player should approach the gaming table perfectly calm and cool--just as a merchant or tradesman in treaty about any affair. If he gets into a passion, it is all over with prudence, all over with good luck--for the demon of bad luck invariably pursues a passionate player. 3. 'Every man who finds a pleasure in playing runs the risk of losing. 4. 'A prudent player, before undertaking anything, should put himself to the test to discover if he is "in vein"--in luck. In all doubt, you should abstain.' I remember a curious incident in my childhood, which seems much to the point of this axiom. A magnificent gold watch and chain were given towards the building of a church, and my mother took three chances, which were at a very high figure, the watch and chain being valued at more than L100. One of these chances was entered in my name, one in my brother's, and the third in my mother's. I had to throw for her as well as myself. My brother threw an insignificant figure; for myself I did the same; but, oddly enough, I refused to throw for my mother on finding that I had lost my chance, saying that I should wait a little longer--rather a curious piece of prudence for a child of thirteen. The raffle was with three dice; the majority of the chances had been thrown, and 34 was the highest. After declining to throw I went on throwing the dice for amusement, and was surprised to find that every throw was better than the one I had in the raffle. I thereupon said--'Now I'll throw for mamma.' I threw thirty-six, which won the watch! My mother had been a large subscriber to the building of the church, and the priest said that my winning the watch for her was quite PROVIDENTIAL. According to M. Houdin's authority, however, it seems that I only got into 'vein'--but how I came to pause and defer throwing the last chance, has always puzzled me respecting this incident of my childhood, which made too great an impression ever to be effaced. 5. 'There are persons who are constantly pursued by bad luck. To such I say--NEVER PLAY. 6. 'Stubborness at play is ruin. 7. 'Remember that Fortune does not like people to be overjoyed at her favours, and that she prepares bitter deceptions for the imprudent, who are intoxicated by success.' Such are the chief axioms of a most experienced gamester, and M. Houdin sums up the whole into the following:-- 8. 'Before risking your money at play, you must deeply study your "vein" and the different probabilities of the game--termed the maturity of the chances.' M. Robert-Houdin got all this precious information from a gamester named Raymond. It appears that the first meeting between him and this man was at a subscription-ball, where the sharper managed to fleece him and others to a considerable amount, contriving a dexterous escape when detected. Houdin afterwards fell in with him at Spa, where he found him in the greatest poverty, and lent him a small sum--to practise his grand theories as just explained--but which he lost--whereupon Houdin advised him 'to take up a less dangerous occupation.' He then appears to have revealed to Houdin the entertaining particulars which form the bulk of his book, so dramatically written. A year afterwards Houdin unexpectedly fell in with him again; but this time the fellow was transformed into what he called 'a demi-millionnaire,' having succeeded to a large fortune by the death of his brother, who died intestate. According to Houdin the following was the man's declaration at the auspicious meeting:--'I have,' said Raymond, 'completely renounced gaming. I am rich enough, and care no longer for fortune. And yet,' he added proudly, 'if I now cared for the thing, how I could BREAK those bloated banks in their pride, and what a glorious vengeance I could take of BAD LUCK and its inflexible agents! But my heart is too full of my happiness to allow the smallest place for the desire of vengeance.' A very proper speech, unquestionably, and rendered still more edifying by M. Houdin's assurance that Raymond, at his death three years after, bequeathed the whole of his fortune to various charitable institutions at Paris. With regard to the man's gaming theories, however, it may be just as well to consider the fact, that very many clever people, after contriving fine systems and schemes for ruining gaming banks, have, as M. Houdin reminds us, only succeeded in ruining themselves and those who conformed to their precepts. Et s'il est un joueur qui vive de son pain, On en voit tous les jours mille mourir de faim. 'If ONE player there be that can live by his gain, There are thousands that starve and strive ever in vain!' CHAPTER IX. THE HISTORY OF DICE AND CARDS. The knights of hazard and devotees of chance, who live in and by the rattle of the box, little know, or care, perhaps, to whom they are indebted for the invention of their favourite cube. They will solace themselves, no doubt, on being told that they are pursuing a diversion of the highest antiquity, and which has been handed down through all civilized as well as barbarous nations to our own times. The term 'cube,' which is the figure of a die, comes originally from the Arabic word 'ca'b,' or 'ca'be,' whence the Greeks derived their cubos, and cubeia, which is used to signify any solid figure perfectly square every way--such as the geometrical cube, the die used in play, and the temple at Mecca, which is of the same figure. The Persic name for 'die' is 'dad,' and from this word is derived the name of the thing in Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian, namely, dado. In the old French it is det, in the plural dets; in modern French de and dez, whence our English name 'die,' and its plural 'dies,' or 'dice.' Plato tells us that dice and gaming originated with a certain demon, whom he calls Theuth, which seems very much like the original patronymic of our Teutonic races, always famous for their gambling propensity. The Greeks generally, however, ascribed the invention of dice to one of their race, named Palamedes, a sort of universal genius, who hit upon many other contrivances, among the rest, weights and measures. But this worthy lived in the times of the Trojan war, and yet Homer makes no mention of dice--the astragaloi named by the poet being merely knuckle-bones. Dice, however, are mentioned by Aristophanes in his comedies, and so it seems that the invention must be placed between the times of the two poets, that is, about 2300 years ago. At any rate the cube or die has been in use as an instrument of play, at least, during that period of time. The great antiquity, therefore, of the die as an instrument of pastime is unquestionable, and the general reason assigned for its invention was the amusement and relaxation of the mind from the pressure of difficulties, or from the fatigues and toils of protracted war. Indeed, one conjecture is, that gaming was invented by the Lydians when under the pressure of a great famine; to divert themselves from their sufferings they contrived dice, balls, tables, &c. This seems, however, rather a bad joke. The afflicted Job asks--'Can a man fill his belly with the east wind?' And we can imagine that plenty of tobacco to smoke and 'chaw' would mitigate the pangs of starvation to an army in the field, as has been seriously suggested; but you might just as well present a soldier with a stone instead of bread, as invite him to amuse himself with dice, or anything else, to assuage the pangs of hunger. Be that as it may, time soon matured this instrument of recreation into an engine of destruction; and the intended palliative of care and labour has proved the fostering nurse of innumerable evils. This diminutive cube has usurped a tyranny over mankind for more than two thousand years, and continues at this day to rule the world with despotic sway--levelling all distinctions of fortune in an instant by the fiat of its single turn. The use of dice was probably brought into this island by the Romans, if not before known; it became more frequent in the times of our Saxon ancestry, and has prevailed with almost unimpaired vigour from those days to our own. The Astragalos of the Greeks and Talus of the Romans were, as before stated, nothing but the knuckle-bones of sheep and goats, numbered, and used for gaming, being tossed up in the air and caught on the back of the hand. Two persons played together at this game, using four bones, which they threw up into the air or emptied out of a dice-box (fritillus), observing the numbers of the opposite sides. The numbers on the four sides of the four bones admitted of thirty-five different combinations. The lowest throw of all was four aces; but the value of the throw was not in all cases the sum of the four numbers turned up. The highest in value was that called Venus, in which the numbers cast up were all different; the sum of them being only fourteen. It was by obtaining this throw, hence called basilicus, that 'the King of the Feast' was appointed by the Romans. Certain other throws were called by particular names, taken from the gods, heroes, kings, courtesans, animals; altogether there were sixty-four such names. Thus, the throw consisting of two aces and two treys, making eight, was denominated Stesichorus. When the object was simply to throw the highest number, the game was called pleistobolinda, a Greek word of that meaning. When a person threw the tali, he often invoked either a god or his mistress. Dice were also made of ivory, bone, or some close-grained wood, especially privet ligustris tesseris utilissima, (Plin. H. N.). They were numbered as at present. Arsacides, King of the Parthians, presented Demetrius Nicator, among other presents, with golden dice--it is said, in contempt for his frivolous propensity to play--in exprobationem puerilis levitatis.'(58) (58) Justini Hist., lib. xxxviii. 9. 9. Dice are also mentioned in the New Testament, where occurs the word cubeia (Eph. iv. 14), ('the only word for "gambling" used in the Bible'), a word in very common use, among Paul's kith and kin, for 'cube,' 'dice,' 'dicery,' and it occurs frequently in the Talmud and Midrash. The Mishna declares unfit either as 'judge or witness,' 'a cubea-player, a usurer, a pigeon-flier (betting-man), a vendor of illegal (seventh-year) produce, and a slave.' A mitigating clause--proposed by one of the weightiest legal authorities, to the effect that the gambler and his kin should only be disqualified 'if they have but that one profession'--is distinctly negatived by the majority, and the rule remains absolute. The classical word for the gambler or dice-player, cubeutes, appears aramaized in the same sources into something like kubiustis, as the following curious instances may show: When the Angel, after having wrestled with Jacob all night, asks him to let him go, 'for the dawn has risen' (A. V., 'the day breaketh'), Jacob is made to reply to him, 'Art thou, then, a thief or a kubiustis, that thou art afraid of the day?' To which the Angel replies, 'No, I am not; but it is my turn to-day, and for the first time, to sing the Angelic Hymn of Praise in Heaven: let me go.' In another Tadmudical passage an early biblical critic is discussing certain arithmetical difficulties in the Pentateuch. Thus he finds the number of Levites (in Numbers) to differ, when summed up from the single items, from that given in the total. Worse than that, he finds that all the gold and silver contributed to the sanctuary is not accounted for, and, clinching his argument, he cries, 'Is, then, your master Moses a thief or a kubiustis? Or could he not make up his accounts properly?' The critic is then informed of a certain difference between 'sacred' and other coins; and he further gets a lesson in the matter of Levites and Firstborn, which silences him. Again, the Talmud decides that, if a man have bought a slave who turns out to be a thief or a kubiustis,--which has here been erroneously explained to mean a 'manstealer,'--he has no redress. He must keep him, as he bought him, or send him away; for he has bought him with all his vices. Regarding the translation 'sleight' in the A.V., this seems a correct enough rendering of the term as far as the SENSE of the passage goes, and comes very near the many ancient translations--'nequitia,' 'versutia,' 'inanis labor,' 'vana et inepta (?) subtilitas,' &c., of the Fathers. Luther has 'Schalkheit,'--a word the meaning of which at his time differed considerably from our acceptation of the term. The Thesaurus takes Paul's cubeia (s.v.) more literally, to mean 'in alea hominum, i. e., in certis illis casibus quibus jactantur homines.'(59) (59) E. Deutseh in the Athenaeum of Sept. 28, 1867. The ancient tali, marked and thrown as above described, were also used in DIVINATION, just as dice are at the present day; and doubtless the interpretations were the same among the ancients--for all superstitions are handed down from generation to generation with wondrous fidelity. The procedure is curious enough, termed 'the art of telling fortunes by dice.' Three dice are taken and well shaken in the box with the left hand, and then cast out on a board or table on which a circle is previously drawn with chalk; and the following are the supposed predictions of the throws:-- Three, a pleasing surprise; four, a disagreeable one; five, a stranger who will prove a friend; six, loss of property; seven, undeserved scandal; eight, merited reproach; nine, a wedding; ten, a christening, at which some important event will occur; eleven, a death that concerns you; twelve, a letter speedily; thirteen, tears and sighs; fourteen, beware that you are not drawn into some trouble or plot by a secret enemy; fifteen, immediate prosperity and happiness; sixteen, a pleasant journey; seventeen, you will either be on the water, or have dealings with those belonging to it, to your advantage; eighteen, a great profit, rise in life, or some desirable good will happen almost immediately, for the answers to the dice are said to be fulfilled within nine days. To throw the same number twice at one trial shows news from abroad, be the number what it may. If the dice roll over the circle, the number thrown goes for nothing, but the occurrence shows sharp words impending; and if they fall on the floor it is blows. In throwing the dice if one remain on the top of the other, 'it is a present of which you must take care,' namely, 'a little stranger' at hand. Two singular facts throw light on the kind of dice used some 100 and 150 years ago. In an old cribbage card-box, curiously ornamented, supposed to have been made by an amateur in the reign of Queen Anne, and now in my possession, I found a die with one end fashioned to a point, evidently for the purpose of spinning--similar to the modern teetotum. With the same lot at the sale where it was bought, was a pack of cards made of ivory, about an inch and a half in length and one inch in width--in other respects exactly like the cards of the period. Again, it is stated that in taking up the floors of the Middle Temple Hall, about the year 1764, nearly 100 pairs of dice were found, which had dropped, on different occasions, through the chinks or joints of the boards. They were very small, at least one-third less that those now in use. Certainly the benchers of those times did not keep the floor of their magnificent hall in a very decent condition. A curious fact relating to dice may here be pointed out. Each of the six sides of a die is so dotted or numbered that the top and bottom of every die (taken together) make 7; for if the top or uppermost side is 5, the bottom or opposite side will be 2; and the same holds through every face; therefore, let the number of dice be what it may, their top and bottom faces, added together, must be equal to the number of dice multiplied by 7. In throwing three dice, if 2, 3, and 4 are thrown, making 9, their corresponding bottom faces will be 5, 4, and 3, making 12, which together are 21--equal to the three dice multiplied by 7. CARDS. The origin of cards is as doubtful as that of dice. All that we know for certain is that they were first used in the East. Some think that the figures at first used on them were of moral import: the Hindoo and Chinese cards are certainly emblematic in a very high degree; the former illustrate the ten avatars, or incarnations of the deity Vishnu; and the so-called 'paper-tickets' of the Chinese typify the stars, the human virtues, and, indeed, every variety of subject. Sir William Jones was convinced that the Hindoo game of Chaturaji--that is, 'the Four Rajahs or Kings'--a species of highly-complicated chess--was the first germ of that parti-coloured pasteboard, which has been the ruin of so many modern fortunes. A pack of Hindoostani cards, in the possession of the Royal Asiatic Society, and presented to Captain Cromline Smith in 1815, by a high caste Brahman, was declared by the donor to be actually 1000 years old: 'Nor,' said the Brahman, 'can any of us now play at them, for they are not like our modern cards at all.' Neither, indeed, do they bear any remarkable resemblance to our own--the pack consisting of no less than eight sorts of divers colours, the kings being mounted upon elephants, and viziers, or second honours, upon horses, tigers, and bulls. Moreover, there are other marks distinguishing the respective value of the common cards, which would puzzle our club-quidnuncs not a little--such as 'a pine-apple in a shallow cup,' and a something like a parasol without a handle, and with two broken ribs sticking through the top. The Chinese cards have the advantage over those of Hindoostan by being oblong instead of circular. It was not before the end of the 14th century that cards became known in Europe; and it is a curious fact that the French clergy took greatly to card-playing about that time--their favourite game being the rather ungenteel 'All Fours,' as now reputed; for they were specially forbidden that pastime by the Synod of Langres in 1404. The ancient cards of both Spain and France, particularly the 'court-cards,' exhibit strong marks of the age of chivalry; but here we may observe that the word is written by some ancient writers, 'coate-cards,' evidently signifying no more than figures in particular dresses. The giving pre-eminence or victory to a certain suit, by the name of 'trump,' which is only a corruption of the word 'triumph,' is a strong trait of the martial ideas of the inventors of these games. So that, if the Chinese started the idea, it seems clear that the French and Spanish improved upon it and gave it a plain significance; and there is no reason to doubt that cards were actually employed to amuse Charles VI. in his melancholy and dejection. The four suits of cards are supposed to represent the four estates of a kingdom:--1. The nobility and gentry; 2. The ecclesiastics or priesthood; 3. The citizens or commercial men; 4. The peasantry or Husbandmen. The nobility are represented in the old Spanish cards by the espada, or sword, corrupted by us into 'spades,'--by the French with piques, 'pikes or spears.' The ecclesiastical order is pointed out by copas, or sacramental cups, which are painted in one of the suits of old Spanish cards, and by coeurs, or 'hearts,' on French cards, as in our own--thereby signifying choir-men, gens de choeur, or ecclesiastics--from choeur de l'eglise, 'the choir of the church,' that being esteemed the most important part or the HEART of the church. The Spaniards depicted their citizens or commercial men under dineros, a small coin, an emblem very well adapted to the productive classes; the French by carreaux, squares or lozenges--importing, perhaps, unity of interest, equality of condition, regularity of manners, and the indispensable duty of this class of men to deal with one another 'on the square.' The Spaniards made bastos, or knotty clubs, the emblem of the 'bold peasantry,' taken probably from the custom that the plebeians were permitted to challenge or fight each other with sticks and quarter-staves only, but not with the sword, or any arms carried by a gentleman; while the French peasantry were pointed out under the ideas of husbandry, namely, by the trefles, trefoil or clover-grass. So much for the SUITS. With regard to the depicted figures of cards, each nation likewise followed its own inventions, though grounded in both on those ideas of chivalry which then strongly prevailed. The Spanish cards were made to carry the insignia and accoutrements of the King of Spain, the ace of deneros being emblazoned with the royal arms, supported by an eagle. The French ornamented their cards with fleurs de lis, their royal emblem. The Spanish kings, in conformity to the martial spirit of the times when cards were introduced, were all mounted on horseback, as befitted generals and commanders-in-chief; but their next in command (among the cards) was el caballo, the knight-errant on horseback--for the old Spanish cards had no queens; and the third in order was the soto, or attendant, that is, the esquire, or armour-bearer of the knight--all which was exactly conformable to those ideas of chivalry which ruled the age. It is said that David (king of spades), tormented by a rebellious son, is the emblem of Charles VII., menaced by his son (Louis XI.), and that Argine (queen of clubs) is the anagram of Regina, and the emblem of Marie d'Anjou, the wife of that prince; that Pallas (queen of spades) represents Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orleans; that Rachel (queen of diamonds) is Agnes Sorel; lastly, that Judith (queen of hearts) is the Queen Isabeau. The French call the queens at cards dames. The four knaves (called in French, valets or varlets) are four valiant captains--Ogier and Lancelot, the companions of Charlemagne, Hector de Gallard, and Lahire, the generals of Charles VII. The remainder of the pack equally presents a sort of martial allegory; the heart is bravery; the spade (espad, 'sword') and the diamond (carreau, that is, a square or shield) are the arms of war; the club (in French trefle, 'trefoil') is the emblem of provisions; and the ace (in French as, from the Latin aes, 'coin') is the emblem of money--the sinews of war. In accordance with this allegorical meaning, the function of the ace is most significant. It leads captive every other card, queen and king included--thus indicating the omnipotence of gold or mammon! 'To the mighty god of this nether world--To the spirit that roams with banner unfurl'd O'er the Earth and the rolling Sea--And hath conquer'd all to his thraldom Where his eye hath glanced or his footstep sped--Who hath power alike o'er the living and dead--Mammon!(59) I sing to thee! (59) Steinmetz Ode to Mammon. Some say that the four kings represent those famous champions of antiquity--David, Alexander, Julius Caesar, and Charlemagne; and that the four queens, Argine, Pallas, Esther, and Judith, are the respective symbols of majesty, wisdom, piety, and fortitude; and there can be no doubt, if you look attentively on the queens of a pack of cards, you will easily discern the appropriate expressions of all these attributes in the faces of the grotesque ladies therein depicted. The valets, or attendants, whom we call knaves, are not necessarily 'rascals,' but simply servants royal; at first they were knights, as appears from the names of some of the famous French knights being formerly painted on the cards. Thus a pack of cards is truly a monument of the olden time--the days of chivalry and its numberless associations. In addition to the details I have given in the previous chapter respecting the probability of holding certain cards, there are a few other curious facts concerning them, which it may be interesting to know. There is a difference in the eyes of two of the knaves--those of diamonds and hearts, more apparent in the old patterns, suggesting the inference that they are blind. This has been made the basis of a card trick, as to which two of the four knaves presenting themselves would be selected as servants. Of course the blind ones would be rejected. A bet is sometimes proposed to the unwary, at Whist, but one of the party will have in his hand, after the deal, only one of a suit, or none of a suit. The bet should not be taken, as this result very frequently happens. Lastly, there is an arithmetical puzzle of the most startling effect to be contrived with a pack of cards, as follows. Let a party make up parcels of cards, beginning with a number of pips on any card, and then counting up to twelve with individual cards. In the first part of the trick it must be understood that the court cards count as ten, all others according to the pips. Thus, a king put down will require only two cards to make up 12, whereas the ace will require 11, and so on. Now, when all the parcels are completed, the performer of the trick requires to know only the number of parcels thus made, and the remainder, if any, to declare after a momentary calculation, the exact number of pips on the first cards laid down--to the astonishment of those not in the secret. In fact, there is no possible arrangement of the cards, according to this method, which can prevent an adept from declaring the number of pips required, after being informed of the number of parcels, and the remainder, if any. This startling performance will be explained in a subsequent chapter--amusing card tricks. Cards must soon have made their way among our countrymen, from the great intercourse that subsisted between England and France about the time of the first introduction of cards into the latter kingdom. If the din of arms in the reign of our fifth Henry should seem unfavourable to the imitation of an enemy's private diversions, it must be remembered that France was at that period under the dominion of England, that the English lived much in that country, and consequently joined in the amusements of the private hour, as well as in the public dangers of the field. Very soon, however, the evil consequences of their introduction became apparent. One would have thought that in such a tumultuous reign at home as that of our sixth Henry, there could not have been so much use made of cards as to have rendered them an object of public apprehension and governmental solicitude; but a record appears in the beginning of the reign of Edward IV., after the deposition of the unfortunate Henry, by which playing cards, as well as dice, tennis-balls, and chessmen, were forbidden to be imported. If this tended to check their use for a time, the subsequent Spanish connection with the court of England renewed an acquaintance with cards and a love for them. The marriage of Prince Arthur with the Infanta Catherine of Arragon, brought on an intimacy between the two nations, which probably increased card-playing in England,--it being a diversion to which the Spaniards were extremely addicted at that period. Cards were certainly much in use, and all ideas concerning them very familiar to the minds of the English, during the reign of Henry VIII., as may be inferred from a remarkable sermon of the good bishop Latimer. This sermon was preached in St Edward's church, Cambridge, on the Sunday before Christmas day, 1527, and in this discourse he may be said to have 'dealt' out an exposition of the precepts of Christianity according to the terms of card-playing. 'Now ye have heard what is meant by this "first card," and how you ought to "play" with it, I purpose again to "deal" unto you "another card almost of the same suit," for they be of so nigh affinity that one cannot be well "played" without the other, &c.' 'It seems,' says Fuller, 'that he suited his sermon rather to the TIME--being about Christmas, when cards were much used--than to the text, which was the Baptist's question to our Lord--"Who art thou?"--taking thereby occasion to conform his discourse to the "playing at cards," making the "heart triumph."' This blunt preaching was in those days admirably effectual, but it would be considered ridiculous in ours--except from the lips of such original geniuses as Mr Spurgeon, who hit upon this vein and made a fortune of souls as well as money. He is, however, inimitable, and any attempt at entering into his domain would probably have the same result as that which attended an imitation of Latimer by a country minister, mentioned by Fuller. 'I remember,' he says, 'in my time (about the middle of the seventeenth century), a country minister preached at St Mary's, from Rom. xii. 3,--"As God has DEALT to every man the measure of faith." In a fond imitation of Latimer's sermon he followed up the metaphor of DEALING,--that men should PLAY ABOVE-BOARD, that is, avoid all dissembling,--should not POCKET CARDS, but improve their gifts and graces,--should FOLLOW SUIT, that is, wear the surplice, &c.,--all which produced nothing but laughter in the audience. Thus the same actions by several persons at several times are made not the same actions, yea, differenced from commendable discretion to ridiculous absurdity. And thus he will make but bad music who hath the instruments and fiddlesticks, but none of the "resin" of Latimer.' The habit of card-playing must have been much confirmed and extended by the marriage of Philip of Spain with our Queen Mary, whose numerous and splendid retinue could not but bring with them that passionate love of cards which prevailed in the Spanish court. It seems also probable that the cards then used (whatever they might have been before) were of Spanish form and figure, in compliment to the imperious Philip; since even to this day the names of two Spanish suits are retained on English cards, though without any reference to their present figure. Thus, we call one suit spades, from the Spanish espada, 'sword,' although we retain no similitude of the sword in the figure,--and another clubs, in Spanish, bastos, but without regard to the figure also. Old Roger Ascham, the tutor of Queen Elizabeth, gives us a picture of the gambling arts of his day, as follows:--How will they use these shiftes when they get a plaine man that cannot skill of them! How they will go about, if they perceive an honest man have moneye, which list not playe, to provoke him to playe! They will seek his companye; they will let him pay noughte, yea, and as I hearde a man once saye that he did, they will send for him to some house, and spend perchaunce a crowne on him, and, at last, will one begin to saye: "at, my masters, what shall we do? Shall every man playe his twelve-pence while an apple roste in the fire, and then we will drincke and departe?" "Naye" will another saye (as false as he), "you cannot leave when you begin, and therefore I will not playe: but if you will gage, that every man as he hath lost his twelve-pence, shall sit downe, I am contente, for surelye I would Winne no manne's moneye here, but even as much as woulde pay for my supper." Then speaketh the thirde to the honeste man that thought not to play:--"What? Will you play your twelve-pence?" If he excuse him--"Tush! man!" will the other saye, "sticke not in honeste company for twelve-pence; I will beare your halfe, and here is my moneye." Nowe all this is to make him to beginne, for they knowe if he be once in, and be a loser, that he will not sticke at his twelve-pence, but hopeth ever to get it againe, whiles perhappes he will lose all. Then every one of them setteth his shiftes abroache, some with false dyse, some with settling of dyse, some with having outlandish silver coynes guilded, to put awaye at a time for good golde. Then, if there come a thing in controversye, must you be judged by the table, and then farewell the honeste man's parte, for he is borne downe on every syde.' It is evident from this graphic description of the process, that the villany of sharpers has been ever the same; for old Roger's account of the matter in his day exactly tallies with daily experience at the present time. The love of card-playing was continued through the reign of Elizabeth and James I.,(60) and in the reign of the latter it had reached so high a pitch that the audiences used to amuse themselves with cards at the play-house, while they were waiting for the beginning of the play. The same practice existed at Florence. If the thing be not done at the present day, something analogous prevails in our railway carriages throughout the kingdom. It is said that professed card-sharpers take season-tickets on all the lines, and that a great DEAL of money is made by the gentry by duping unwary travellers into a game or by betting. (60) King James, the British Solomon, although he could not 'abide' tobacco, and denounced it in a furious 'Counterblaste,' could not 'utterly condemn' play, or, as he calls it, 'fitting house-pastimes.' 'I will not,' he says, 'agree in forbidding cards, dice, and other like games of Hazard,' and enters into an argument for his opinion, which is scarcely worth quoting. See Basilicon Doron--a prodigy of royal fatuity--but the perfect 'exponent' of the characteristics of the Stuart royal race in England. There is no reason to suppose that the fondness for this diversion abated, except during the short 'trump or triumph of the fanatic suit'--in the hard times of Old Oliver--when undoubtedly cards were styled 'the devil's books.' But, indeed, by that time they had become an engine of much fraud and destruction; so that one of the early acts of Charles II.'s reign inflicted large penalties on those who should use cards for fraudulent purposes. 'Primero was the fashionable game at the court of England during the Tudor dynasty. Shakspeare represents Henry VIII. playing at it with the Duke of Suffolk; and Falstaff says, "I never prospered since I forswore myself at Primero." In the Earl of Northumberland's letters about the Gunpowder-plot, it is noticed that Joscelin Percy was playing at this game on Sunday, when his uncle, the conspirator, called on him at Essex House. In the Sidney papers, there is an account of a desperate quarrel between Lord Southampton, the patron of Shakspeare, and one Ambrose Willoughby. Lord Southampton was then "Squire of the Body" to Queen Elizabeth, and the quarrel was occasioned by Willoughby persisting to play with Sir Walter Raleigh and another at Primero, in the Presence Chamber, after the queen had retired to rest, a course of proceeding which Southampton would not permit. Primero, originally a Spanish game, is said to have been made fashionable in England by Philip of Spain, after his marriage with Queen Mary. Maw succeeded Primero as the fashionable game at the English court, and was the favourite game of James I., who appears to have played at cards, just as he played with affairs of state, in an indolent manner; requiring in both cases some one to hold his cards, if not to prompt him what to play. Weldon, alluding to the poisoning of Sir Thomas Overbury, in his Court and Character of King James, says: 'The next that came on the stage was Sir Thomas Monson, but the night before he was to come to his trial, the king being at the game of Maw, said, "To-morrow comes Thomas Monson to his trial." "Yea," said the king's card-holder, "where, if he do not play his master's prize, your Majesty shall never trust me." This so ran in the king's mind, that at the next game he said he was sleepy, and would play out that set the next night. 'It is evident that Maw differed very slightly from Five Cards, the most popular game in Ireland at the present day. As early as 1674 this game was popular in Ireland, as we learn from Cotton's Compleat Gamester, which says: "Five Cards is an Irish game, and is much played in that kingdom for considerable sums of money, as All-fours is played in Kent, and Post-and-pair in the west of England." 'Noddy was one of the old English court games. This has been supposed to have been a children's game, and it was certainly nothing of the kind. Its nature is thus fully described in a curious satirical poem, entitled Batt upon Batt, published in 1694. "Show me a man can turn up Noddy still, And deal himself three fives too, when he will; Conclude with one-and-thirty, and a pair, Never fail ten in Stock, and yet play fair, If Batt be not that wight, I lose my aim." 'From these lines, there can be no doubt that the ancient Noddy was the modern cribbage--the Nod of to-day, rejoicing in the name of Noddy, and the modern Crib, being termed the Stock. 'Ombre was most probably introduced into this country by Catherine of Portugal, the queen of Charles II.; Waller, the court poet, has a poem on a card torn at Ombre by the queen. This royal lady also introduced to the English court the reprehensible practice of playing cards on Sunday. Pepys, in 1667, writes: "This evening, going to the queen's side to see the ladies, I did find the queen, the Duchess of York, and another at cards, with the room full of ladies and great men; which I was amazed at to see on a Sunday, having not believed, but contrarily flatly denied the same, a little while since, to my cousin."(61) (61) Hombre, or rather El Hombre, or 'The Man,' was so named as requiring thought and reflection, which are qualities peculiar to man; or rather, alluding to him who undertakes to play the game against the rest of the gamesters, emphatically called The Man. It requires very great application to play it well: and let a man be ever so expert, he will be apt to fall into mistakes if he thinks of anything else, or is disturbed by the conversation of those that look on. It is a game of three, with 40 cards, that is, rejecting the eights, nines, and tens of all the suits. 'In a passage from Evelyn's Memoirs, the writer impressively describes another Sunday-evening scene at Whitehall, a few days before the death of Charles II., in which a profligate assemblage of courtiers is represented as deeply engaged in the game of Basset. This was an Italian game, brought by Cardinal Mazarin to France; Louis XIV. is said to have lost large sums at it; and it was most likely brought to England by some of the French ladies of the court. It did not stand its ground, however, in this country; Ombre continuing the fashionable game in England, down till after the expiration of the first quarter of the last century. 'Quadrille succeeded Ombre, but for a curious reason did not reign so long as its predecessor. From the peculiar nature of Quadrille, an unfair confederacy might be readily established, by any two persons, by which the other players could be cheated. 'While the preceding games were in vogue the magnificent temple of Whist, destined to outshine and overshadow them, was in course of erection. "Let India vaunt her children's vast address, Who first contrived the warlike sport of Chess; Let nice Piquette the boast of France remain, And studious Ombre be the pride of Spain; Invention's praise shall England yield to none, When she can call delightful Whist her own." 'All great inventions and discoveries are works of time, and Whist is no exception to the rule; it did not come into the world perfect at all points, as Minerva emerged from the head of Jupiter. Nor were its wonderful merits early recognized. Under the vulgar appellations of Whisk and Swobbers, it long lingered in the servants'-hall ere it could ascend to the drawing-room. At length, some gentlemen, who met at the Crown coffee-house, in Bedford Row, studied the game, gave it rules, established its principles, and then Edward Hoyle, in 1743, blazoned forth its fame to all the world. 'Many attempts have been made, at various times, to turn playing-cards to a very different use from that for which they were originally intended. Thus, in 1518, a learned Franciscan friar, named Murner, published a Logica Memorativa, a mode of teaching logic, by a pack of cards; and, subsequently, he attempted to teach a summary of civil law in the same manner. In 1656, an Englishman, named Jackson, published a work, entitled the Scholar's Sciential Cards, in which he proposed to teach reading, spelling, grammar, writing, and arithmetic, with various arts and sciences, by playing-cards; premising that the learner was well grounded in all the games played at the period. And later still, about the close of the seventeenth century, there was published the Genteel Housekeeper's Pastime; or the Mode of Carving at Table represented in a Pack of Playing-Cards, by which any one of ordinary Capacity may learn how to Carve, in Mode, all the most usual Dishes of Flesh, Fish, Fowl, and Baked Meats, with the several Sauces and Garnishes proper to Every Dish of Meat. In this system, flesh was represented by hearts, fish by clubs, fowl by diamonds, and baked-meat by spades. The king of hearts ruled a noble sirloin of roast-beef; the monarch of clubs presided over a pickled herring; and the king of diamonds reared his battle-axe over a turkey; while his brother of spades smiled benignantly on a well-baked venison-pasty. 'The kind of advertisements, now called circulars, were often, formerly, printed on the backs of playing-cards. Visiting-cards, too, were improvised, by writing the name on the back of playing-cards. About twenty years ago, when a house in Dean Street, Soho, was under repair, several visiting-cards of this description were found behind a marble chimney-piece, one of them bearing the name of Isaac Newton. Cards of invitation were written in a similar manner. In the fourth picture, in Hogarth's series of "Marriage a-la-Mode," several are seen lying on the floor, upon one of which is inscribed: "Count Basset begs to no how Lade Squander sleapt last nite." Hogarth, when he painted this inscription, was most probably thinking of Mrs Centlivre's play, The Basset Table, which a critic describes as containing a great deal of plot and business, without much sentiment or delicacy. 'A curious and undoubtedly authentic historical anecdote is told of a pack of cards. Towards the end of the persecuting reign of Queen Mary, a commission was granted to a Dr Cole to go over to Ireland, and commence a fiery crusade against the Protestants of that country. On coming to Chester, on his way, the doctor was waited on by the mayor, to whom he showed his commission, exclaiming, with premature triumph, "Here is what shall lash the heretics of Ireland." Mrs Edmonds, the landlady of the inn, having a brother in Dublin, was much disturbed by overhearing these words; so, when the doctor accompanied the mayor downstairs, she hastened into his room, opened his box, took out the commission, and put a pack of cards in its place. When the doctor returned to his apartment, he put the box into his portmanteau without suspicion, and the next morning sailed for Dublin. On his arrival he waited on the lord-lieutenant and privy council, to whom he made a speech on the subject of his mission, and then presented the box to his Lordship; but on opening it, there appeared only a pack of cards, with the knave of clubs uppermost. The doctor was petrified, and assured the council that he had had a commission, but what was become of it he could not tell. The lord-lieutenant answered, "Let us have another commission, and, in the mean while, we can shuffle the cards." Before the doctor could get his commission renewed Queen Mary died, and thus the persecution was prevented. We are further informed that, when Queen Elizabeth was made acquainted with the circumstances, she settled a pension of L40 per annum on Mrs Edmonds, for having saved her Protestant subjects in Ireland.'(62) (62) The Book of Days, Dec. 28. All the pursuits of life, all the trades and occupations of men, have, in all times, lent expressions to the languages of nations, and those resulting from the propensity of GAMING are among those which perpetually recur in daily conversation, and with the greatest emphasis. Thus we have:--'He has played his cards well or ill,'--applied to the management of fortune or one's interest; jacta est alea, 'the die is cast,' as exclaimed Julius Caesar before crossing the Rubicon; 'he has run his RACE--reached the GOAL' a turf adage applied to consummate success or disastrous failure; 'a lucky throw or hit;' 'within an ACE,' meaning one point of gaining a thing; 'he HAZARDS everything;' 'chances are for and against;' 'he was PIQUED,' from the game of piquet, meaning, angry at losing something; 'left in the lurch,' from the French game l'Ourche, wherein on certain points happening the stake is to be paid double, and meaning, 'under circumstances unexpected and peculiarly unfavourable;' 'to save your bacon or gamon,' from the game Back-gammon(63) a blot is hit,' from the same; 'checked in his career,' that is, stopped in his designs from the game of chess. (63) The etymology of the word Back-gamon has been disputed. Hyde seems to have settled it. A certain portion of the hog is called in Italian gambone, whence our English word gambon or gammon. Confounding things that differ, many think that 'gamon' in the game has the same meaning, and therefore they say--'he saved his gamon or bacon,' which is absurd, although it is a proverbial phrase of sufficient emphasis. The word Backgamon seems to be derived from the very nature of the game itself, namely, back-game-on, that is, when one of your pieces is taken, you must go back--begin again--and then game on--'Back-game-on'. The fabrication of cards is a most important manufacture of France; and Paris and Nancy are the two places where most cards are made. The annual consumption of cards in France amounts to 1,500,000 francs, or L62,500; but France also supplies foreigners with the article, especially the Spanish, American, Portuguese, and English colonies, to the value of 1,000,000 francs, or L41,666. The government derives from this branch of French industry not much less than L25,000 annual revenue, that is, from 20 to 25 per cent. of the product. The duty on cards is secured and enforced by severe penalties. English cards are about a third larger than the French. The double-headed cards are an English invention, and they are being adopted by the French. Their advantage is obvious, in securing the secrecy of the hand, for by observing a party in arranging his cards after the deal, the act of turning up a card plainly shows that it must be at least a face card, and the oftener this is done the stronger the hand, in general. In Germany, a fourth face-card is sometimes added to the pack, called the Knight, or Chevalier. The Italians have also in use long cards, called tarots, which, however, must not be confounded with the French cards called tarotees, with odd figures on them, and used by fortune-tellers. The method of making playing-cards seems to have given the first hint to the invention of printing, as appears from the first specimens of printing at Haerlem, and those in the Bodleian Library. 'The manufacture of playing-cards comprises many interesting processes. The cardboard employed for this purpose is formed of several thicknesses of paper pasted together; there are usually four such thicknesses; and the paper is so selected as to take paste, paint, and polish equally well. The sheets of paper are pasted with a brush, and are united by successive processes of cold-drying, hot-drying, and hydraulic pressure. Each sheet is large enough for forty cards. The outer surfaces of the outer sheets are prepared with a kind of flinty coating, which gives sharpness to the outline of the various coloured devices. Most packs of cards are now made with coloured backs. The ground-tint is laid on with a brush, and consists of dis-temper colour, or pigments mixed with warm melted size. The device impressed on this ground-tint is often very beautiful. Messrs De la Rue, the leading firm in the manufacture, employ tasteful artists, and invest a large amount of capital in the introduction of new patterns. On cards sold at moderate prices, the colours at the back are generally two--one for the ground, and one for the device; but some of the choicer specimens display several colours; and many of the designs are due to the pencil of Mr Owen Jones. The printing of the design is done on the sheets of paper, before the pasting to form cardboard. The pips or spots on the faces of playing-cards are now spades, clubs, hearts, and diamonds; but at different times, and in different countries, there have been leaves, acorns, bells, cups, swords, fruit, heads, parasols, and other objects similarly represented. In English cards the colours are red and black; Messrs De la Rue once introduced red, black, green, and blue for the four suits; but the novelty was not encouraged by card-players. The same makers have also endeavoured to supersede the clumsy devices of kings, queens, and knaves, by something more artistic; but this, too, failed commercially; for the old patterns, like the old willow-pattern dinner-plates, are still preferred--simply because the users have become accustomed to them. Until within the last few years the printing of cards was generally done by stencilling, the colour being applied through perforated devices in a stencil-plate. The colour employed for this purpose is mixed up with a kind of paste. When there is a device at the back, the outline of the device is printed from an engraved wood-block, and the rest filled in by stencilling. The stencilling of the front and back can be done either before or after the pasting of the sheets into cardboard. One great improvement in the manufacture has been the substitution of oil colour for paste or size colour; and another, the substitution of printing for stencilling. Messrs De la Rue have expended large sums of money on these novelties; for many experiments had to be made, to determine how best to employ oil colour so that the spots or pips may be equal-tinted, the outline clear and sharp, the pigment well adherent to the surface, and the drying such as to admit of polishing without stickiness. The plates for printing are engraved on copper or brass, or are produced by electrotype, or are built up with small pieces of metal or interlaced wire. The printing is done in the usual way of colour-printing, with as many plates as there are colours (usually five), and one for the outlines; it is executed on the sheets of paper, before being pasted into cardboard. When the printing, drying, and pasting are all completed, a careful polish is effected by means of brush-wheels, pasteboard wheels, heated plates, and heated rollers; in such a way that the polish on the back may differ from that on the face--since it is found that too equally polished surfaces do not slide quite so readily over each other. Formerly, every pack of cards made in England for home use paid a duty of one shilling, which duty was levied on the ace of spades. The maker engraved a plate for twenty aces of spades; the printing was done by the government at Somerset House, and L1 was paid by the maker for every sheet of aces so printed. The law is now altered. Card sellers pay an annual license of 2s. 6d., and to each pack of cards is affixed a three-pence stamp, across which the seller must write or stamp his name, under a penalty of L5 for the omission. The cardboard, when all the printing is finished, is cut up into cards; every card is minutely examined, and placed among the 'Moguls,' 'Harrys,' or 'Highlanders,' as they are technically called, according to the degree in which they may be faultless or slightly specked; and the cards are finally made up into packs.'(64) (64) Chambers's Cyclopaedia. Machinery has been called into requisition in card-playing. In 1815 a case was tried in which part of the debt claimed was for an instrument to cut cards so as to give an unfair advantage to the person using it. The alleged debtor had been most fortunate in play, winning at one time L11,000 from an officer in India. For an exactly opposite reason another machine was used in 1818 by the Bennet Street Club. It consisted of a box curiously constructed for dealing cards, and was invented by an American officer. Another curious fact relating to cards is the duty derived from them. In the year 1775 the number of packs stamped was 167,000, amounting to between L3000 and L4000 duty. Lord North put on another sixpence. Of course, a vast number of packs were smuggled in, paying no duty, as in the case of tobacco, in all times since its fiscal regulations. In the time of Pitt, 1789, L9000 were to be raised by an additional duty of sixpence on cards and dice, consequently there must have been no less than 360,000 packs of cards and pairs of dice stamped in the year 1788, to justify the calculation--a proof that gaming in England was not on the decline. In the year 1790, the duty on cards was two shillings per pack, and on dice thirteen shillings per pair. This duty on cards went on increasing its annual addition to the revenue, so that about the year 1820 the monthly payments of Mr Hunt alone, the card-maker of Picadilly, for the stamp-duty on cards, varied from L800 to L1000, that is, from L9600 to L12,000 per annum. In 1833 the stamp-duty on cards was 6d., and it yielded L15,922, showing a consumption of 640,000 packs per annum. Much of this, however, was sheer waste, on account of the rule of gamesters requiring a fresh pack at every game. In the Harleian Miscellany(65) will be found a satirical poem entitled 'The Royal Gamesters; or, the Odd Cards new shuffled for a Conquering Game,' referring to the political events of the years from 1702 to 1706, and concluding with the following lines-- 'Thus ends the game which Europe has in view, Which, by the stars, may happen to be true.' (65) Vol. i. p. 177. In vol. iv. of the same work there is another poem of the kind, entitled 'The State Gamesters; or, the Old Cards new packed and shuffled,' which characteristically concludes as follows-- 'But we this resolution have laid down--Never to play so high as for a Crown.' Finally, as to allusions to gaming, the reader may remember the famous sarcasm of the late Earl of Derby (as Lord Stanley) some thirty years ago, comparing the Government to Thimble-riggers in operation. CHAPTER X. PIQUET, BASSET, FARO, HAZARD, PASSE-DIX, PUT, CROSS AND PILE, THIMBLE-RIG. PIQUET Piquet is said to have derived its name from that of its inventor, who contrived it to amuse Charles VI. of France. The game was played with thirty two cards, that is, discarding out of the pack all the deuces, treys, fours, fives, and sixes. Regular piquet-packs were sold. In reckoning up the points, every card counted for its value, as ten for ten, nine for nine, and so on down to seven, which was, of course, the lowest; but the ace reckoned for eleven. All court cards reckoned for ten. As in other games, the ace won the king, the king the queen, and so on, to the knave, which won the ten. The cards were dealt at option by fours, threes, or twos, to the number of twelve, which was the hand--'discarding' being allowed; but both the dealer and he that led were OBLIGED to discard at least one card, let their game be ever so good. When the cards were played out, each counted his tricks; and he that had most reckoned 10 for winning the cards; if the tricks were equal, neither reckoned at all. He who, without playing (that is, according to the various terms of the game), could reckon up 30 in hand, when his antagonist reckoned nothing, scored 90 for them; this was called a repic; and all above 30 counted so many,--32 counting 92, and so on. He who could make up 30, part in hand and part by play, before the other made anything, scored 60; this was called a pic. The game was also played as pool precisely according to the rules briefly sketched as above, the penalty for losing being a guinea to the pool. Piquet required much practice to play it well. It became so great a favourite that, by the middle of the 18th century, the meanest people were well acquainted with it, and 'let into all the tricks and secrets of it, in order to render them complete sharpers.' Such are the words of an old author, who adds that the game was liable to great imposition, and he explains the methods in use. Short cards were used for cutting, as in Whist, at the time. Of these cards there were two sorts, one longer than the rest; and the advantage gained by them was as the adversary managed it, by cutting the longer or broader, as best suited his purpose, or imposing on the dealer, when it was his turn, to cut those which made most against him. The aces, kings, queens, and knaves were marked with dots at the corners, and in the very old book from which I am quoting precise directions are given how this marking can be effected in such a manner 'as not to be discovered by your ADVERSARY, and at the same time appear plain to YOURSELF.' With a fine pointed pen and some clear spring water, players made dots upon the glazed card at the corners according to the above method; or they coloured the water with india ink, to make the marks more conspicuous. The work concludes as follows:--'There are but 32 cards made use of at Piquet, so that just half of them will be known to you; and in dealing you may have an opportunity to give yourself those you LIKE best; and if you cannot conveniently CHANGE the PACK according to your desire, you will commonly KNOW what YOU are to TAKE IN, which is a demonstrative advantage to win any one's money.' Evidently they did not 'assume a virtue' in those days, 'if they had it not.' BASSET. The game of Basset (in French Wassette) was considered one of the most polite games with cards, and only fit for persons of the highest rank to play at, on account of the great losses or gains that might accrue on one side or the other. The sums of money lost in France at this game were so considerable that the princes of the blood were in danger of being undone; and after many persons of distinction were ruined the court of France thought fit to forbid Basset. Then Faro was invented; and both were soon introduced into England, and after three or four years' play here, they impoverished so many families, that Parliament enacted a suppression of both games, with severe penalties. The two games are, therefore, of historical interest, and deserve an explanation. Basset was a sort of lottery. The dealer who kept the bank at Basset, having the sole disposal of the first and last card, and other considerable privileges in dealing the cards, had a much greater prospect of gaining than those who played. This was a truth so acknowledged in France that the king, by public edict, ordered that the privilege of a talliere, or banker at Basset, should only be allowed to the 'chief cadets,' or sons of noblemen--supposing that whoever kept the bank must, in a very short time, acquire a considerable fortune. In this game there was: 1. The Talliere, the banker, who laid down a sum of money to answer every winning card which might turn up. 2. The Croupiere, the assistant of the former, standing by to supervise the losing cards,--so that when there were many at play he might not lose by overlooking anything which might turn up to his profit. 3. The Punter, or every player. 4. The Fasse, that is, the first card turned up by the talliere, by which he gained half the value of the money laid upon every card of THAT SORT by the punters or players. 5. The Couch, which was the first stake that every punter laid upon each card--every player having a book of 13 cards before him, upon which he must lay his money, more or less, according to his fancy. 6. The Paroli: in this, whoever won the couch, and intended to go on for another advantage, crooked the corner of his card, letting his money lie, without being paid the value by the talliere. 7. The Masse, which was, when those who had won the couch, would venture more money on the SAME card. 8. The Pay, which was when the player had won the couch, and, being doubtful of making the paroli, left off; for by going the pay, if the card turned up wrong, he lost nothing, having won the couch before; but if by this adventure fortune favoured him, he won double the money he had staked. 9. The Alpieu was when the couch was won by turning up, or crooking, the corner of the winning card. 10. The Sept-et-le-va was the first great chance that showed the advantages of the game, namely, if the player had won the couch, and then made a paroli by crooking the corner of his card, and going on to a SECOND chance, if his winning card turned up again it became a sept-et-le-va, which was seven times as much as he had laid upon his card. 11. Quinze-et-le-va, was attending the player's humour, who, perhaps, was resolved to follow his fancy, and still lay his money upon the SAME card, which was done by crooking the third corner of his card: if this card came up by the dealing of the talliere, it made him win fifteen times as much money as he staked. 12. Trent-et-le-va was marked by the lucky player by crooking the end of the fourth corner of his card, which, coming up, made him win thirty-three times as much money as he staked. 13. Soissante-et-le-va was the highest chance that could happen in the game, for it paid sixty-seven times as much money as was staked. It was seldom won except by some player who resolved to push his good fortune to the utmost. The players sat round a table, the talliere in the midst of them, with the bank of gold before him, and the punters or players each having a book of 13 cards, laying down one, two, three, or more, as they pleased, with money upon them, as stakes; then the talliere took the pack in his hand and turned them up--the bottom card appearing being called the fasse; he then paid half the value of the stakes laid down by the punters upon any card of THAT SORT. After the fasse was turned up, and the talliere and croupiere had looked round the cards on the table, and taken advantage of the money laid on them, the former proceeded with his deal; and the next card appearing, whether the king, queen, ace, or whatever it might be, won for the player, the latter might receive it, or making paroli, as before said, go on to sept-et-le-va. The card after that won for the talliere, who took money from each player's card of that sort, and brought it into his bank--obviously a prodigious advantage in the talliere over the players. The talliere, if the winning card was a king, and the next after it was a ten, said (showing the cards all round), 'King wins, ten loses,' paying the money to such cards as are of the winning sort, and taking the money from those who lost, added it to his bank. This done, he went on with the deal, it might be after this fashion--'Ace wins, five loses;' 'Knave wins, seven loses;' and so on, every other card alternately winning and losing, till all the pack was dealt but the last card. The LAST card turned up was, by the rules of the game, for the advantage of the talliere; although a player might have one of the same sort, still it was allowed to him as one of the dues of his office, and he paid nothing on it. The bold player who was lucky and adventurous, and could push on his couch with a considerable stake to sept-et-le-va, quinze-et-le-va, trente-et-le-va, &c., must in a wonderful manner have multiplied his couch, or first stake; but this was seldom done; and the loss of the players, by the very nature of the game, invariably exceeded that of the bank; in fact, this game was altogether in favour of the bank; and yet it is evident that--in spite of this obvious conviction--the game must have been one of the most tempting and fascinating that was ever invented. Our English adventurers made this game very different to what it was in France, for there, by royal edict, the public at large were not allowed to play at more than a franc or ten-penny bank,--and the losses or gains could not bring desolation to a family; but in England our punters could do as they liked--staking from one guinea to one hundred guineas and more, upon a card, 'as was often seen at court,' says the old author, my informant. When the couch was alpieued, parolied, to sept-et-le-va, quinze-et-le-va, trente-et-le-va, &c., the punter's gains were prodigious, miraculous; and if fortune befriended him so as to bring his stake to soissante-et-le-va, he was very likely to break the bank, by gaining a sum which no talliere could pay after such tremendous multiplication. But this rarely happened. The general advantage was with the bank--as must be quite evident from the explanation of the game--besides the standing rule that no two cards of the same sort turning up could win for the players; the second always won for the bank. In addition to this there were other 'privileges' which operated vastly in favour of the banker. However, it was 'of so bewitching a nature,' says our old writer, 'by reason of the several multiplications and advantages which it seemingly offered to the unwary punter, that a great many like it so well that they would play at small game rather than give out; and rather than not play at all would punt at six-penny, three-penny, nay, a twopenny bank,--so much did the hope of winning the quinze-et-le-va and the trente-et-le-va intoxicate them.' Of course there were frauds practised at Basset by the talliere, or banker, in addition to his prescriptive advantages. The cards might be dealt so as not to allow the punter any winning throughout the pack; and it was in the power of the dealer to let the punter have as many winnings as he thought convenient, and no more! It is said that Basset was invented by a noble Venetian, who was punished with exile for the contrivance. The game was prohibited by Louis XIV., in 1691, and soon after fell into oblivion in France, although flourishing in England. It was also called Barbacole and Hocca. FARO, OR PHARAOH. Although both Basset and Faro were forbidden in France, on severe penalties, yet these games still continued in great vogue in England during the 18th century, especially Faro; for the alleged reasons that it was easy to learn, that it appeared to be very fair, and, lastly, that it was a very quiet game. It was, however, the most dangerous game for the destruction of families ever invented. The Faro bankers seem to have employed some 'gentlemen' to give a very favourable report of the game to the town, and so every one took it upon trust without further inquiry. Faro was the daughter of Basset--both alike notorious frauds, there being no one, except professed gamblers, who could be said to understand the secrets of these games. Faro was played with an entire pack of cards, and admitted of an indeterminate number of players, termed 'punters,' and a 'banker.' Each player laid his stake on one of the 52 cards. The banker held a similar pack, from which he drew cards, one for himself, placed on the right, and the other, called the carte anglaise, or English card, for the players, placed on the left. The banker won all the money staked on the card on the right, and had to pay double the sums staked on those on the left. Certain advantages were reserved to the banker:--if he drew a doublet, that is, two equal cards, he won half of the stakes upon the card which equalled the doublet; if he drew for the players the last card of the pack, he was exempt from doubling the stakes deposited on that card. Suppose a person to put down 20s. upon a card when only eight are in hand; the last card was a cipher, so there were four places to lose, and only three to win, the odds against being as 4 to 3. If 10 cards only were in, then it was 5 to 4 against the player; in the former case it was the seventh part of the money, whatever it was, L1 or L100; in the latter case, a ninth. The odds from the beginning of the deal insensibly stole upon the player at every pull, till from the first supposed 4 per cent. it became about 15 per cent. At the middle of the 18th century the expenses of a Faro bank, in all its items of servants, rent, puffs, and other incidental charges of candles, wine, arrack-punch, suppers, and safeguard money, &c., in Covent Garden, amounted to L1000 per annum. Throughout this century Faro was the favourite game. 'Our life here,' writes Gilly Williams to George Selwyn in 1752, 'would not displease you, for we eat and drink well, and the Earl of Coventry holds a Pharaoh-bank every night to us, which we have plundered considerably.' Charles James Fox preferred Faro to any other game. HAZARD. This game was properly so called; for it made a man or undid him in the twinkling of an eye. It is played with only two dice; 20 persons may be engaged, or as many as will. The chief things in the game are the Main and the Chance. The chance is the caster's and the main is the setter's. There can be no main thrown above 9, nor under 5; so that 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9 are all the mains which are flung at Hazard. Chances and nicks are from 4 to 10. Thus 4 is a chance to 9, 5 to 8, 6 to 7, 7 to 6, 8 to 5, and 9 and 10 a chance to 5, 6, 7, and 8; in short, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10 are chances to any main, if any of these 'nick' it not. Nicks are either when the chance is the same with the main, as 5 and 5, 6 and 6, 7 and 7, and so on; or 6 and 12, 7 and 11, 8 and 12, where observe, that 12 is out to 9, 7, and 5, and 11 is out to 9, 8, 6, and 5. The better to illustrate the game we shall give an example. Let 7 be the main named. The caster throws 5, and that is his chance; and so he has 5 to 7. If the caster throws his own chance he wins all the money set to him by the setter; but if he throws 7, which is the main, he must pay as much money as is on the table. If, again, 7 be the main, and the caster throws 11, that is a nick, and sweeps away all the money on the table; but if he throws a chance he must wait which will come first. The worst chances in the game are 4 to 10, and 7 is considered the best and easiest main to be thrown. It might be thought that 6 and 8 should admit of no difference in advantage to 7, but it is just the reverse, although 6, 7, and 8 have eight equal chances. For 6, or sice, we have quatre-duce, cinque-ace, and two treys; for 8, we have sice-duce, cinque-trey, and two quatres; but the disadvantage is in the doublets required--two treys, two quatres; therefore sice-duce is easier thrown than two quatres, and so, consequently, cinque-ace or quatre-duce sooner than two treys. 'I saw an old rook (gambler),' says the writer before quoted, 'take up a young fellow in a tavern upon this very bet. The bargain was made that the rook should have seven always, and the young gentleman six, and throw continually. To play they went; the rook won the first day L10, and the next day the like sum; and so for six days together, in all L60. Notwithstanding the gentleman, I am confident, had fair dice, and threw them always himself. And further to confirm what I alleged before, not only this gamester, but many more have told me that they desired no greater advantage than this bet of 7 to 6. But it is the opinion of most that at the first throw the caster hath the worst of it. 'Hazard is certainly the most bewitching game that is played with dice; for when a man begins to play, he knows not when to leave off; and having once accustomed himself to it, he hardly ever after minds anything else.'(66) (66) The Compleat Gamester, by Richard Seymour, Esq. 1739. As this game is of a somewhat complicated character, another account of it, which appeared in the Pall Mall Gazette for Sept. 3, 1869, may not be unacceptable. 'The players assemble round a circular table, a space being reserved for the "groom-porter," who occupies a somewhat elevated position, and whose duty it is to call the odds and see that the game is played correctly. Whoever takes the box and dice places in the centre of the table as much money as he wishes to risk, which is at once covered with an equal amount either by some individual speculator, or by the contributions of several. The player (technically called the "caster") then proceeds to call a "main." There are five mains on the dice, namely, 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9; of these he mentally selects that one which either chance or superstition may suggest, calls it aloud, shakes the box, and delivers the dice. If he throws the exact number he called, he "nicks" it and wins; if he throws any other number (with a few exceptions, which will be mentioned), he neither wins nor loses. The number, however, which he thus throws becomes his "chance," and if he can succeed in repeating it before he throws what was his main, he wins; if not, he loses. In other words, having completely failed to throw his main in the first instance, he should lose, but does not in consequence of the equitable interference of his newly-made acquaintance, which constitutes itself his chance. For example, suppose the caster "sets"--that is, places on the table--a stake of L10, and it is covered by an equal amount, and he then calls 7 as his main and throws 5; the groom-porter at once calls aloud, "5 to 7"--that means, 5 is the number to win and 7 the number to lose, and the player continues throwing until the event is determined by the turning up of either the main or the chance. During this time, however, a most important feature in the game comes into operation--the laying and taking of the odds caused by the relative proportions of the main and the chance. These, as has been said, are calculated with mathematical nicety, are proclaimed by the groom-porter, and are never varied. In the above instance, as the caster stands to win with 5 and to lose with 7, the odds are declared to be 3 to 2 against him, inasmuch as there are three ways of throwing 7, and only two of throwing 5. As soon as the odds are declared, the caster may increase his stake by any sum he wishes, and the other players may cover it by putting down (in this instance) two-thirds of the amount, the masse, or entire sum, to await the turning up of either main or chance. If a player "throws out" three times in succession, the box passes to the next person on his left, who at once takes up the play. He may, however, "throw in" without interruption, and if he can do so some half-dozen times and back his luck, the gains will be enormous. 'The choice of a main is quite optional: many prefer 7 because they may make a coup at once by throwing that number or by throwing 11, which is a "nick" to 7, but to 7 only. Shrewd players, however, prefer some other main, with the view of having a more favourable chance to depend upon of winning both stake and odds. For example, let us reverse what was mentioned above, and suppose the caster to call 5 and throw 7; he then will have 7 as his chance to win with odds of 3 to 2 IN HIS FAVOUR. 'Such is the game of English Hazard, at which large fortunes have been won and lost. It is exceedingly simple, and at times can become painfully interesting. Cheating is impossible, unless with loaded dice, which have been used and detected by their splitting in two, but never, perhaps, unless at some disreputable silver hell. The mode of remunerating the owner of the rooms was a popular one. The loser never paid, and the winner only when he succeeded in throwing three mains in succession; and even then the "box fee," as it was called, was limited to 5s.--a mere trifle from what he must have gained. In French Hazard a bank is constituted at a board of green cloth, and the proceedings are carried on in a more subdued and regular mode than is the case in the rough-and-ready English game. Every stake that is "set" is covered by the bank, so that the player runs no risk of losing a large amount, when, if successful, he may win but a trifling one; but en revanche, the scale of odds is so altered as to put the double zero of roulette and the "aprez" of Rouge et Noir to the blush, and to operate most predjudicially to the player. In no case is an equal rate of odds between main and chance laid by the French "banquier," as is insisted on by the English groomporter; while again "direct nicks" alone are recognized by the former. Very extraordinary runs of luck have occurred at Hazard, one player sometimes throwing five, seven, and even eleven mains in a single hand. In such cases as these the peculiar feature in the French game becomes valuable, the bank being prepared to pay all winnings, while, generally speaking, a hand of six or seven mains at English Hazard would exhaust all the funds of the players, and leave the caster in the position of "setting the table" and finding the stakes totally unnoticed or only partially covered. 'In addition to the fixed rules of English Hazard, there are several regulations which require to be observed. The round table on which it is played has a deeply bevelled edge, which is intended to prevent the dice from landing on the floor, which would be no throw. Again, if either die after having left the box should strike any object on the table (such as a man's elbow or stick) except MONEY, it would be called no throw. Again, each player has the privilege of "calling dice," even when the dice are in transitu, which, if done, renders the throw void, and causes another set to be handed to the caster by the groom-porter. Many a lucky coup has become manque by some captious player exercising this privilege, and many an angry rencontre has ensued between the officious meddler and the disappointed caster, who finds that he has nicked his main to no advantage. Sometimes one die remains in the box after the other has been landed; then the caster may either throw it quickly, or may tantalize those interested in the event by gently coaxing it from the bow. If one die lands on the top of another, it is removed by the groom-porter and declared a throw. 'Some thirty years ago English Hazard was a favourite game in Ireland, and Dublin could boast of three or four hells doing a brisk trade. The most frequented and longest established was called "The Coal Hole," being situated on the coal quay. Here, at any hour after midnight, a motley company might be seen, each individual, however, well known to the porter, who jealously scanned his features before drawing back the noiseless bolts which secured the door. The professional gambler trying to live by his winnings, the fashionable swell finishing his round of excitement, the struggling tradesman hoping to avert impending bankruptcy, the prize-fighter, and, more conspicuous than any, the keen-eyed usurer with his roll of notes and sheaf of bill stamps, were to be found there. Many strange scenes have occurred in this house, some followed by tragic consequences too painful to relate, others ridiculous and amusing. Here it was that an angry caster, having lost his last sovereign and his temper, also placed his black hat in the centre of the table, swore that it was white, and finding no one disposed to dispute his accuracy, flung himself from the room, and enabled the next player who had won so largely and smiled so good-humouredly to take the box in turn. But fortune deserted him also, and left him penniless, when, glaring savagely round the room, and striking the table violently, he thundered forth the inquiry, "Where was the rascal who said his hat was white?" It was here also (although the venue has been changed by story-mongers) that a well-known frequenter of the house, a sporting M.P., on one occasion dropped on the 'door or in the passage a bank-note without discovering his loss till he had reached home. On the next evening he returned to inquire for it in a forlorn-hope spirit, when the following conversation took place between him and the porter:-- "M.P. I think, Simpson, I dropped a note here last night--did you see it? "Porter. Shure, then, mony a note was dropped here beside yours. "M. P. Ah! but I mean out of my pocket. I did not lose it at play. It was for L20, one of Ball's Bank, and very old." 'Hereupon the porter brought the senator into a corner, fumbled the note out of his fob, and, placing it in his hands, whispered, "Shure, I know it's yours, and here it is; but (looking cautiously round) wasn't it lucky that none of the jintlemin found it?" 'Another establishment much patronized in those days was in Nassau Street, where early in the evening unlimited Loo, never under "three and three," sometimes "six and six," might be indulged in, while a little later Roulette formed the attraction of an adjacent room, and still later at night all flocked down-stairs to the hot supper and rattling English Hazard. For one or two seasons St Stephen's Green lent one of its lordly mansions, formerly the residence of a cruel and witty Lord Chief Justice, to the votaries of fortune; here everything was done in grand style, with gilded saloons, obsequious waiters, and champagne suppers. All this has long since become matter of the past, and it would now puzzle the keenest detective to find the trace even of a silver hell in the Irish capital. No one will be hardy enough to defend the vice of gambling, but some have argued, and not without truth, that if a man will play it is far better for him to indulge the propensity at Hombourg or Baden, where he cannot lose more money than he has with him, than to do so in the cozy club-room of a private "salon," where indulgent friends may tempt him to become bankrupt not only in fortune but in reputation.' Passing over other less important games, called Biribi, and Kraps (played with dice), we come to Passe-Dix, which seems to demand some notice. PASSE-DIX. This game, considered the most ancient of all games of chance, is said to have actually been made use of by the executioners at the crucifixion of our Saviour, when they 'parted his garments, casting lots,' Matt. xxvii. 35. It is played with three dice. There is always a banker, and the number of players is unlimited. Each gamester holds the box by turns, and the other players follow his chance; every time he throws a point UNDER ten he, as well as the other players, loses the entire stakes, which go to the banker. Every time he throws a point ABOVE ten (or PASSES TEN--whence the name of the game), the banker must double the player's stakes and the stakes of all those who have risked their money on the same chance. When the game is played by many together, each gamester is banker in his turn. PUT. This was and doubtless still is the special card-game of our London sharpers. Many of these are men who have run through a fortune in the early part of their lives, by associating with gamblers and sharpers, set up for themselves, set honour and conscience at defiance, become blacklegs, and are scouted out of even the gambler's company; and, as a last resource, are obliged to resort to low pot-houses, robbing the poorest and most ignorant of society. Behind the dupe there stood a confederate sharper, looking over the novice's hand, and telling his opponent, by his fingers, what cards he holds--hence he was said to work the telegraph, of which more in the sequel. Another confederate plied the novice with drink. 'The game of Put is played with an entire pack of cards, generally by two, and sometimes by four persons. At this game the cards rank differently from all others; a trey being the best, then a two, then an ace, then the king, queen, &c. The game consists of five points. The parties cut for deal, as in Whist. The deal is made by giving three cards, one at a time, to each player. The non-dealer then examines his cards, and if he thinks them bad, he is at liberty to PUT them upon the pack, and his adversary scores one point to his game. This, however, should never be done. Either party saying--"I put," that is, I play, cannot retract, but must abide the event of the game, or pay the stakes. 'The THREE being the best card, if the sharper can make certain of having a three every time his opponent deals, he must have considerably the best of the game; and this is effected as follows:--the sharper places a three underneath an old gentleman (a card somewhat larger and thicker than the rest of the pack), and it does not signify how much his opponent shuffles the pack, it is about five to one that he does not disturb the OLD GENTLEMAN or the three. The sharper then cuts the cards, which he does by feeling for the old gentleman; the three being then the top card, it is dealt to the sharper by his opponent. That is one way of securing a three, and this alone is quite sufficient to make a certainty of winning.'(67) (67) Doings in London. CROSS AND PILE. Cross and Pile, so called because anciently English coins were stamped on one side with a cross, now bears the names, Head and Tail, and is a pastime well known among the lowest and most vulgar classes of the community, and to whom it is now confined; formerly, however, it held a higher rank and was introduced at Court. Edward II. was partial to this and other frivolous diversions, and spent much of his time in the pursuit of them. In one of his wardrobe 'rolls,' or accounts, we find the following entries--'Item, paid to Henry, the king's barber, for money which he lent to the king to play at Cross and Pile, five shillings. Item, paid to Pires Bernard, usher of the king's chamber, money which he lent the king, and which he lost at Cross and Pile; to Monsieur Robert Wartewille, eight-pence.' A half-penny is now generally used in playing this game; but any other coin with a head impressed will answer the purpose. One person tosses the half-penny up and the other cries at pleasure HEAD or TAIL, and loses according to the result. Cross and Pile is evidently derived from the Greek pastime called Ostra Kinda, played by the boys of ancient Greece. Having procured a shell, they smeared it over with pitch on one side and left the other side white. A boy tossed up this shell, and his antagonist called white or black,(68) as he thought proper, and his success was determined by the white or black part of the shell being uppermost. (68) In the Greek, nux kai hmera, that is, 'night and day.' It is the favourite game of the boys of London and the vicinity, now, however, considerably, if not entirely, discontinued through the vigilance of the police and the severity of the magistrates. Not long ago, however, I witnessed a sad and striking scene of it at Twickenham. It was on a Sunday morning. Several boys surrounded two players, one of the latter being about 14 years of age, well dressed, and the other of about 10 years, all in tatters and shoeless. The younger urchin had a long run of good luck, whereat his antagonist exhibited much annoyance, swearing intemperately. At length, however, his luck changed in turn, and he went on winning until the former refused to play any longer, saying--'There, you've got back all I won from you.' The bigger boy became enraged at this refusal to continue the play, and seemed inclined to resort to fisticuff, but I interposed and put a stop to the affray. I then questioned the elder boy, and gathered from him that he played as often as he could, sometimes winning or losing from eight to ten shillings. 'And do you generally win? was my next question.' 'No, sir,' he replied, 'I oftener lose.' I shuddered to conjecture what would be the future of this boy. The word of warning I gave him was received with a shrug of the shoulder, and he walked off with the greatest unconcern. THIMBLE-RIG. All races, fairs, and other such conglomerations of those whom Heaven had blessed with more money than wit, used to be frequented by minor members of 'The Fancy,' who are technically called flat-catchers, and who picked up a very pretty living by a quick hand, a rattling tongue, a deal board, three thimbles, and a pepper-corn. The game they played with these three curious articles is a sort of Lilliputian game at cups and balls; and the beauty of it lies in dexterously seeming to place the pepper-corn under one particular thimble, getting a green to bet that it was there, and then winning his money by showing that it is not. Every operator at this game was attended by certain of his friends called eggers and bonnetters--the eggers to 'egg' on the green ones to bet, by betting themselves; and the bonnetters to 'bonnet' any green one who might happen to win--that is to say, to knock his hat over his eyes, whilst the operator and the others bolted with the stakes. Some years ago a curious case was tried, exemplifying the mode of procedure. A Frenchman, M. Panchaud, was at Ascot Races, and he there saw the defendant and several other 'gentlemen' betting away, and apparently winning 'lots of sovereigns,' at one of these same thimble-rigs. 'Try your luck, gentlemen,' cried the operator; 'I'll bet any gentleman anything, from half-a-crown to five sovereigns, that he doesn't name the thimble as covers the corn!' M. Panchaud betted half-a-crown--won it; betted a sovereign--won it; betted a second sovereign--LOST it. 'Try your luck, gentlemen!' cried the operator again, shifting his thimbles and pepper-corn about the board, here and there and everywhere in a moment; and this done, he offered M. Panchaud a bet of five sovereigns that he could not 'name the thimble what covered the corn.' 'Bet him! Bet him! Why don't you bet him?' said the defendant (a landlord), nudging M. Panchaud on the elbow; and M. Panchaud, convinced in his 'own breast' that he knew the right thimble, said--'I shall betta you five sovereign if you will not touch de timbles again till I name.' 'Done!' cried the operator; and M. Panchaud was DONE--for, laying down his L10 note, it was caught up by SOMEBODY, the board was upset, the operator and his friends vanished 'like a flash of lightning,' and M. Panchaud was left full of amazement, but with empty pockets, with the defendant standing by his side. 'They are a set of rascals!' said the defendant; 'but don't fret, my fine fellow! I'll take you to somebody that shall soon get your money again; and so saying he led him off in a direction thus described in court by the fleeced Frenchman.--'You tooke me the WRONG way! The thieves ran one way, and you took me the other, you know, ahah! You know what you are about--you took me the WRONG WAY--ahah!' CHAPTER XI. COCK-FIGHTING. Cock-fighting is a practice of high antiquity, like many other detestable and abominable things that still cling to our social fabric. It was much in vogue in Greece and the adjacent isles. There was an annual festival at Athens called 'The Cock-fighting,' instituted by Themistocles at the end of the Persian war, under the following circumstances. When Themistocles was leading his army against the Persians, he saw some cocks fighting; he halted his troops, looked on, and said:--'These animals fight neither for the gods of their country, nor for the monuments of their ancestors, nor for glory, nor for freedom, nor for their children, but for the sake of victory, and in order that one may not yield to the other;' and from this topic he inspirited the Athenians. After his victorious return, as an act of gratitude for this accidental occasion of inspiring his troops with courage, he instituted the above festival, 'in order that what was an incitement to valour at that time might be perpetuated as an encouragement to the like bravery hereafter.' One cannot help smiling at these naive stories of the ancients to account for their mightiest results. Only think of any modern warrior halting his troops to make use of a cock-fight for the purpose of inspiriting them to victory! On one occasion during the Peninsular war, when an important point was to be carried by assault, the officers were required to say something encouraging to their men, in order to brace them up for the encounter; but whilst the majority of the former recalled the remembrance of previous victories, an Irish captain contented himself with exclaiming--'Now, my lads, you see those fellows up there. Well, if you don't kill THEM, SHURE they'll kill YOU. That's all!' Struck with the comic originality of this address, the men rushed forward with a laugh and a shout, carrying all before them. Among the ancient Greeks the cock was sacred to Apollo, Mercury, and aesculapius, on account of his vigilance, inferred from his early rising--the natural consequence of his 'early to bed'--and also to Mars, on account of his magnanimous and daring spirit. It seems, then, that at first cock-fighting was partly a religious, and partly a political, institution at Athens; and was there continued--according to the above legend--for the purpose of cherishing the seeds of valour in the minds of youth; but that it was afterwards abused and perverted, both there and in other parts of Greece, by being made a common pastime, and applied to the purpose of gambling just as it was (and is still secretly) practised in England. An Attic law ran as follows--'Let cocks fight publicly in the theatre one day in the year.'(69) (69) Pegge, in Archoeologia, quoting aelian, Columella, &c. As to cock-fighting at Rome, Pegge, in the same work, gives his opinion, that it was not customary there till very late; but that quails were more pitted against each other for gambling purposes than cocks. This opinion seems confirmed by the thankfulness expressed by the good Antoninus--'that he had imbibed such dispositions from his preceptor, as had prevented him from breeding quails for the fight.' 'One cannot but regret,' wrote Pegge in 1775, 'that a creature so useful and so noble as the cock should be so enormously abused by us. It is true the massacre of Shrove Tuesday seems in a declining way, and in a few years, it is to be hoped, will be totally disused; but the cock-pit still continues a reproach to the humanity of Englishmen. It is unknown to me when the pitched battle first entered England; but it was probably brought hither by the Romans. The bird was here before Caesar's arrival; but no notice of his fighting has occurred to me earlier than the time of William Fitz-Stephen, who wrote the Life of Archbishop Becket, some time in the reign of Henry II. William describes the cocking as the sport of school-boys on Shrove Tuesday. "Every year, on the day which is called Carnelevaria (Carnival)--to begin with the sports of the London boys,--for we have all been boys--all the boys are wont to carry to their schoolmaster their fighting-cocks, and the whole of the forenoon is made a holiday for the boys to see the fights of their cocks in their schoolrooms." The theatre, it seems, was their school, and the master was the controller and director of the sport. From this time at least the diversion, however absurd, and even impious, was continued among us.' 'Although disapproved of by many, and prohibited by law, cock-fighting continued in vogue, patronized even by royalty, and commonly called "the royal diversion." St James's Park, which, in the time of Henry VIII., belonged to the Abbot of Westminster, was bought by that monarch and converted into a park, a tennis court, and a cockpit, which was situated where Downing Street now is. The park was approached by two noble gates, and until the year 1708 the Cock-pit Gate, which opened into the court where Queen Anne lived, was standing. It was surmounted with lofty towers and battlements, and had a portcullis, and many rich decorations. Westminster Gate, the other entrance, was designed by Hans Holbein, and some foreign architect doubtless erected the Cockpit Gate. The scene of the cruel diversion of cock-fighting was, however, obliterated before Anne's time, and the palace, which was a large range of apartments and offices reaching to the river, extended over that space.'(69) (69) Wharton, Queens of Society. Cock-fighting was the favourite amusement of James I., in whose reign there were cock-pits in St James's Park, Drury Lane, Tufton Street, Shoe Lane, and Jermyn Street. There was a cock-pit in Whitehall, erected for the more magnificent exhibition of the sport; and the present room in Westminster in which her Majesty's Privy Council hold their sittings, is called the Cock-pit, from its being the site of the veritable arena of old. Cock-fighting was prohibited by one of Oliver's acts in 1654; but with the return of Charles and his profligacy, the sport again flourished in England. Pepys often alludes to it in his 'Diary.' Thus, Dec. 21, 1663, he writes:-- 'To Shoe Lane, to see a cocke-fighting at a new pit there, a spot I was never at in my life; but, Lord! to see the strange variety of people, from Parliament man, by name Wildes, that was Deputy-Governor of the Tower when Robinson was Lord Mayor, to the poorest 'prentices, bakers, brewers, butchers, draymen, and what not; and all these fellows one with another cursing and betting. I soon had enough of it. It is strange to see how people of this poor rank, that look as if they had not bread to put in their mouths, shall bet three or four pounds at a time, and lose it, and yet bet as much the next battle; so that one of them will lose L10 or L20 at a meeting.' Again, April 6, 1668:-- 'I to the new Cocke-pit by the king's gate, and there saw the manner of it, and the mixed rabble of people that came thither, and saw two battles of cockes, wherein is no great sport; but only to consider how these creatures, without any provocation, do fight and kill one another, and aim only at one another's heads!' Up to the middle of the 18th century cock-fighting was 'all the rage' in England. 'Cocking,' says a writer of the time, 'is a sport or pastime so full of delight and pleasure, that I know not any game in that respect which is to be preferred before it.' The training of the pugnacious bird had now become a sort of art, and this is as curious as anything about the old 'royal diversion.' A few extracts from a treatise on the subject may be interesting as leaves from the book of manners and customs of the good old times. The most minute details are given as to the selection of fighting-cocks, the breeding of game cocks, and 'the dieting and ordering a cock for battle.' Under this last head we read:--'In the morning take him out of the pen, and let him spar a while with another cock. Sparring is after this manner. Cover each of your cock's heels with a pair of hots made of bombasted rolls of leather, so covering the spurs that they cannot bruise or wound one another, and so setting them down on straw in a room, or green grass abroad; let them fight a good while, but by no means suffer them to draw blood of one another. The benefit that accrues hereby is this: it heateth and chafeth their bodies, and it breaketh the fat and glut that is within them. Having sparred as much as is sufficient, which you may know when you see them pant and grow weary, then take them up, and, taking off their hots, give them a diaphoretic or sweating, after this manner. You must put them in deep straw-baskets, made for this purpose, and fill these with straw half way, then put in your cocks severally, and cover them over with straw to the top; then shut down the lids, and let them sweat; but don't forget to give them first some white sugar-candy, chopped rosemary, and butter, mingled and incorporated together. Let the quantity be about the bigness of a walnut; by so doing you will cleanse him of his grease, increase his strength, and prolong his breath. Towards four or five o'clock in the evening take them out of their stoves, and, having licked their eyes and head with your tongue, and put them into their pens, and having filled their throats with square-cut manchet, **** therein, and let them feed whilst the****is hot; for this will cause their scouring to work, and will wonderfully cleanse both head and body.' Was ever poor animal subjected to such indignity? The preparation of the other animal, the jockey, is nothing to it. But, to continue:-- 'The second day after his sparring, take your cock into a fair green close, and, having a dunghill cock in your arms, show it him, and then run from him, that thereby you may entice him to follow, permitting him to have now and then a blow, and thus chafe him up and down about half an hour; when he begins to pant, being well-heated, take him up and carry him home, and give him this scouring, &c.' This training continued for six weeks, which was considered a sufficient time for 'ordering a cock for the battle;' and then, after the 'matching,' came the last preparation of the poor biped for the terrible fight in which he would certainly be either killed or kill his antagonist, if both were not doomed to bite the dust. This consisted in the following disfigurement of the beautiful creature:-- 'With a pair of fine cock-shears cut all his mane off close into his neck from the head to the setting on of the shoulders: secondly, clip off all the feathers from the tail close to his rump; the redder it appears the better is the cock in condition: thirdly, take his wings and spread them forth by the length of the first rising feather, and clip the rest slope-wise with sharp points, that in his rising he may therewith endanger the eye of his adversary; fourthly, scrape, smooth, and sharpen his spurs with a pen-knife; fifthly, and lastly, see that there be no feathers on the crown of his head for his adversary to take hold of; then, with your spittle moistening his head all over, turn him into the pit TO MOVE TO HIS FORTUNE.' I should, perhaps, state that, instead of the natural spurs, long artificial ones of well-tempered steel were fixed to the cock's heels in later times, and these were frequently driven into the body of his antagonist with such vigour that the two cocks were spitted together, and had to be separated. The dreadful fight having come off, the following was the treatment prescribed for the fortunate conqueror. 'The battle being ended, immediately search your cock's wounds, as many as you can find. SUCK the blood out of them; then wash them well with warm ****, and that will keep them from rankling; after this give him a roll of your best SCOURING, and so stove him up as hot as you can for that night; in the morning, if you find his head swelled, you must suck his wounds again, and bathe them with warm ****; then take the powder of herb Robert, and put it into a fine bag, and pounce his wounds therewith; after this, give him a good handful of bread to eat out of warm ****, and so put him into the stove again, and let him not feel the air till the swelling be fallen.' A cock sometimes took a long time to recover from his wounds--as, indeed, may be well supposed from the terrible 'punishment' which he necessarily received; and so our professor goes on to say:--'If after you have put out your wounded cock to their walks, and visiting them a month or two after, you find about their head any swollen bunches, hard and blackish at one end, you may then conclude that in such bunches there are unsound cores, which must be opened and crushed out with your thumbs; and after this, you must suck out the corruption, and filling the holes full of fresh butter, you need not doubt a cure.' A poetical description of a cock-fight, by Dr R. Wild, written at the commencement of the last century, will give an idea of the 'diversion.' 'No sooner were the doubtful people set, The match made up, and all that would had bet, But straight the skilful judges of the play; Brought forth their sharp-heel'd warriors, and they Were both in linnen bags--as if 'twere meet, Before they died, to have their winding-sheet. Into the pit they're brought, and being there, Upon the stage, the Norfolk Chanticleer Looks stoutly at his ne'er before seen foe, And like a challenger began to crow, And clap his wings, as if he would display His warlike colours, which were black and grey. 'Meantime, the wary Wisbich walks and breathes His active body, and in fury wreathes His comely crest, and often with a sound, He whets his angry beak upon the ground. This done, they meet, not like that coward breed Of Aesop; these can better fight than feed: They scorn the dunghill; 'tis their only prize TO DIG FOR PEARLS WITHIN EACH OTHER'S EYES. 'They fought so nimbly that 'twas hard to know, E'en to the skill'd, whether they fought or no; If that the blood which dyed the fatal floor Had not borne witness of 't. Yet fought they more; As if each wound were but a spur to prick Their fury forward. Lightning's not more quick, Or red, than were their eyes: 'twas hard to know Whether 'twas blood or anger made them so. I'm sure they had been out had they not stood More safe by being fenced in with blood. Thus they vied blows; but yet (alas!) at length, Altho' their courage was full tried, their strength And blood began to ebb. Their wings, which lately at each blow they clapp'd (As if they did applaud themselves), now flapp'd. And having lost th' advantage of the heel, Drunk with each other's blood, they only reel. From either eyes such drops of blood did fall As if they wept them for their funeral. And yet they fain would fight; they came so near, Methought they meant into each other's ear TO WHISPER WOUNDS; and when they could not rise, They lay and look'd blows into each other's eyes. But now the tragic part! After this fit, When Norfolk cock had got the best of it, And Wisbich lay a dying, so that none, Tho' sober, but might venture Seven to One; Contracting, like a dying taper, all His strength, intending with the blow to fall, He struggles up, and having taken wind, Ventures a blow, and strikes the other blind! 'And now poor Norfolk, having lost his eyes, Fights only guided by antipathies: With him, alas! the proverb holds not true-- The blows his eyes ne'er saw his heart most rue. At length, by chance, he stumbled on his foe, Not having any power to strike a blow. He falls upon him with his wounded head, And makes his conqueror's wings his feather-bed; Where lying sick, his friends were very chary Of him, and fetch'd in haste a Pothecary; But all in vain! His body did so blister That 'twas incapable of any glyster; Wherefore, at length, opening his fainting bill, He call'd a scriv'ner and thus made his Will. 'IMPRIMIS--Let it never be forgot, My body freely I bequeath to th' pot, Decently to be boil'd. **** ITEM: Executors I will have none But he that on my side laid Seven to One; And, like a gentleman that he may live, To him, and to his heirs, my COMB I give, Together with my brains, that all may know That oftentimes his brains did use to crow. **** To him that 's dull I do my SPURS impart, And to the coward I bequeath my HEART. To ladies that are light, it is my will My FEATHERS shall be given; and for my BILL I'd give 't a tailor, but it is so short, That I'm afraid he'll rather curse me for 't: **** Lastly, because I feel my life decay, I yield and give to Wisbich COCK THE DAY!'(70) (70) The passages left out in the Will, as marked by asterisks, though witty, are rather too gross for modern eyes. To quote from Pegge once more:--What aggravates the reproach and disgrace upon us Englishmen, are those species of fighting which are called--"the battle royal and the Welsh main"--known nowhere in the world, as I think, but here; neither in China, nor in Persia, nor in Malacca, nor among the savage tribes of America. These are scenes so bloody as almost to be too shocking to relate; and yet as many may not be acquainted with the horrible nature of them, it may be proper, for the excitement of our aversion and detestation, to describe them in a few words. 'In the battle royal, an unlimited number of fowls are pitted; and after they have slaughtered one another, for the diversion (dii boni!) of the otherwise generous and humane Englishman, the single surviving bird is to be esteemed the victor, and carries away the prize. The Welsh main consists, we will suppose, of sixteen pairs of cocks; of these the sixteen conquerors are pitted a second time; and, lastly, the two conquerors of these are pitted a fifth time; so that (incredible barbarity!) thirty-one cocks are sure to be most inhumanly murdered for the sport and pleasure, the noise and nonsense, nay, I may say the profane cursing and swearing, of those who have the effrontery to call themselves, with all these bloody doings, and with all this impiety about them--Christians!' Moreover, this ungenerous diversion was the bane and destruction of thousands, who thus dissipated their patrimonial fortunes. That its attractions were irresistible is evident from the difficulty experienced in suppressing the practice. Down to a very recent date cock-fighting was carried on in secret,--the police now and then breaking into the secret pits, dispersing and chasing a motley crew of noblemen, gentlemen, and 'the scum of rascaldom.' The practice is very far from having died out; mains are still fought in various parts of the country; but of course the greatest precautions are taken to insure secrecy and to prevent the interference of the police. In connection with cock-fighting I remember a horrible incident that occurred in the West Indies. A gentleman who was passionately fond of the sport, and prided himself on the victories of his cocks, had the misfortune to see one of his birds so terribly wounded in the first onset that, although not killed, it was impossible for it to continue the fight. His rage at the mishap knew no bounds, and he vented it madly on the poor creature. He roasted it alive--standing by and hearing its piteous cries. In the midst of the horrible torture the wretched man became so excited that a fit of apoplexy supervened, and he positively expired before the poor bird at the fire! CHAPTER XII. THE TURF, HISTORICAL, SOCIAL, MORAL. It appears that horse-races were customary at public festivals even as early as the times of the patriarchs. They originated among the eastern nations, who were the first to discover the physical aptitudes of the noble animal and the spirited emulation of which he is capable. The Persians, the Greeks, the Romans, in succession, all indulged in the excitement; and it is a curious fact that the Romans, like the English jockeys of the present day, rode in different colours. Horse-racing began very early in England. Fitz-Stephen, who wrote in the time of Henry VIII., mentions the delight taken by the citizens of London in the diversion. In the reign of Queen Elizabeth it appears to have greatly flourished, and to have been carried to such an excess as to have ruined many of the nobility. The celebrated George, Earl of Cumberland, is said to have wasted more of his estates than any of his ancestors, and principally by his love of the turf and the tilt-yard. In the reign of James I., Croydon in the South, and Garterly in the North, were celebrated courses. Camden also states that in 1607 there were meetings near York, and the prize was a small golden bell; hence the origin of the saying 'bearing off the bell.' Lord Herbert of Cherbury denounced the practice. 'The exercise,' says this gallant philosopher, 'I do not approve of is running of horses--there being much CHEATING in that kind,--neither do I see why a brave man should delight in a creature whose chief use is to help him to run away.' As far as the cheating is concerned, the philosopher may be right, but most assuredly his views of the horse do no credit to his Lordship's understanding. It appears that the turf-men of those days went on breeding for shape and speed alone, without considering 'bottom,' until the reign of Queen Anne; when a public-spirited nobleman left thirteen plates or purses to be run for, at such places as the Crown should appoint, upon condition that every horse should carry twelve stone for the best of three heats--four miles. By this means a stronger horse was raised, who, if he was not good enough upon the race-course, made a hunter. The Merry Monarch, Charles II., had given cups or bowls, estimated at one hundred guineas value, and upon which the names of the winning horses, the winner, and jockey were usually engraved. William III. added to the plates, as did Queen Anne; but in 1720 George I. discontinued this royal encouragement to the sport, apparently through sheer meanness. Since that period 'King's Plates' and 'Queen's Plates' have been paid in specie. In the reign of Charles I. races were performed in Hyde Park; and until a very recent period 'the Ring' in the Park was the rendezvous of gentlemen's servants, for the purpose of betting or making up their betting books. Newmarket races were established by Charles II., in 1667. Epsom, by Mr Parkhurst, in 1711. Ascot, by the Duke of Cumberland, uncle to George III. Doncaster, by Colonel St Leger, in 1778. Goodwood, by the Duke of Richmond, who died in 1806. The Jockey Club began in the time of George II. Its latest rules, by which races are regulated, were enacted in 1828. Tattersall's, the 'High Change of Horse-flesh,' was established by Richard Tattersall, near Hyde Park Corner--hence termed 'The Corner'--in 1766, for the sale of horses. The lease of the ground having expired, the new premises at Brompton were erected, and opened for business, in 1803. On the accession of Queen Victoria the Royal stud was sold for L16,476, in Oct., 1837.(71) (71) Haydon, Book of Dates. Among the distinguished men who have supported the turf in this country may be mentioned George IV.(72) and William IV.; the late Duke of York; the Dukes of Richmond, Cleveland, Grafton, Bedford, and Beaufort; Marquises of Exeter and Westminster; Earls of Glasgow, Stradbrooke, Wilton, Chesterfield, Eglintoun, Verulam, and Lonsdale; Lords George Bentinck, Foley, Kinnaird, &c.; and last, though not least, the Right Honourable Charles James Fox. As to the turf, Fox used always to animadvert on his losses, and repeatedly observed--that 'his horses had as much bottom as other people's, but that they were such slow, good ones that they never went fast enough to tire themselves.' He had, however, the gratification of experiencing some few exceptions to this imaginary rule. In April, 1772, he was so lucky at Newmarket as to win nearly L16,000--the greater part of which he got by betting against the celebrated Pincher, who lost the match by only half a neck. The odds at STARTING were two to one on the losing horse. At the spring meeting at Newmarket, in 1789, Fox is said to have won not less than L50,000; and at the October meeting, at the same place, the following year, he sold two of his horses--Seagull and Chanticleer--for 4400 guineas. In the course of 1788 Fox and the Duke of Bedford won 8000 guineas between them at the Newmarket spring meeting, and during these races Fox and Lord Barrymore had a heavy match, which was given as a dead heat, and the bets were off. (72) For some period previous to 1790, George IV. had patronized horse-racing and pugilism; but in that year, having attended a prize fight in which one of the boxers was killed, he ceased to support the ring, declaring that he would never be present at such a scene of murder again; and in 1791 he disposed of his stud, on account of some apparently groundless suspicion being attached to his conduct with regard to a race, in the event of which he had little or no real interest. On coming into office with Lord North, in 1783, Mr Fox sold his horses, and erased his name from several of the clubs of which he was a member. It was not long, however, before he again purchased a stud, and in October he attended the Newmarket meeting. The king's messenger was obliged to appear on the course, to seek one of the ministers of England among the sportsmen on the heath, in order to deliver despatches upon which perhaps the fate of the country might have depended. The messenger on these occasions had his badge of office, the greyhound, not liking that the world should know that the king's adviser was amusing himself at Newmarket, when he should have been serving him in the metropolis. But Charles Fox preferred the betting rooms to Downing Street. Again, in the year 1790, his horse Seagull won the Oatlands stakes at Ascot, of 100 guineas (19 subscribers), beating the Prince of Wales's Escape, Serpent, and several of the very best horses of that year--to the great mortification of His Royal Highness, who immediately matched Magpie against him, to run four days afterwards, two miles, for 500 guineas. This match, on which immense sums were depending, was won with ease by Seagull. At this period Lord Foley and Mr Fox were confederates. In those days the plates averaged from L50 to L100. Lord Foley, who died in 1793, entered upon the turf with a clear estate of L1800 a year, and L100,000 ready money, which was considerably diminished by his losses at Newmarket, Ascot, and Epsom. The race-horse of this country excels those of the whole world, not only for speed, but bottom. There is a great difference, however, between the present race and that of fifty or sixty years ago; for in those days four-mile heats were the fashion. The sporting records at the end of the last century give the following exploits of horses of that and previous periods. Childers, known by the name of Flying Childers, the property of the Duke of Devonshire, was looked upon as the fleetest horse that ever was bred. He was never beaten; the sire of this celebrated horse was an Arabian. Dorimont, belonging to Lord Ossory, won prizes to the amount of L13,360. Eclipse was allowed to be the fastest horse that ever ran in England since the time of Childers. After winning largely for his owner, he covered, by subscription, forty mares at 30 guineas each, or 1200 guineas. Highflyer, by King Herod, was the best horse of his day; was never beaten, nor paid forfeit but once. His winnings amounted to above L9000, although he only ran as a three, four, and five years old. Matchem stood high both as a racer and as the sire of many of our most favourite horses. As a stallion he realized for his master more than L12,000. He died in 1781, at the advanced age of thirty-three. Shark won a cup value 120 guineas, eleven hogsheads of claret, and above L16,000 in plates, matches, and forfeits.(73) (73) Lord William Lennox, Merrie England. Among recent celebrities must be mentioned Lord Stamford, who is said to have engaged Jemmy Grimshaw, a light-weighted jockey, at a salary of L1000 a year. The most astounding 'event' of late years was that of 1867, when the horse Hermit--previously represented as being in an unfit condition even to run, won the race--to the unspeakable ruin of very many, and inflicting on the late Marquis of Hastings the enormous loss of about L100,000, which, however, in spite of unseemly rumours and, it is said, hopes of that nobleman's ruin, was honourably paid, to the day and hour. But if ruin did not immediately come upon the young marquis, still the wound was deadly, inflicted as though with the ferocity of a demon. In his broken health and rapid decay sympathy was not withheld from him; and when a premature death put an end to his sufferings, and was speedily followed by the breaking up of his establishment and the dispersion of his ancestral effects, most men felt that he had, perhaps, atoned for his errors and indiscretions, whilst all united in considering him another unfortunate victim added to the long list of those who have sacrificed their fortune, health, and honour to the Gambling Moloch presiding over the Turf of England.(74) (74) The 'Odds' or probabilities of horse racing are explained in chapter VIII., in which the entire 'Doctrine of Chances' is discussed. Such are the leading facts of horse-racing in England. One cannot help observing that the sturdy strength and muscular exertions of an Olympic charioteer of old exhibit a striking contrast to the spider-like form and emaciated figure of a Newmarket jockey. Qui studet optatam cursu contingere metam, Multa tulit, fecitque puer, SUDAVAT et alsit. 'Who in a race would reach the long'd-for goal, Must suffer much, do much, in youth, indeed, Must SWEAT and fag.' This is literally true respecting the English jockey, whose attenuated form is accounted for in the following dialogue in an old work entitled 'Newmarket, or an Essay on the Turf,' 1771. 'Stop, stop, OLD GENTLEMAN! I desire to speak a word to you; pray which is the way to----.' 'I beg, sir, you will not interrupt me. I am a Newmarket jockey--am to ride in a few days a match, upon which there is a great deal depending, and I am now PREPARING.' 'Oh, I see now, you are a YOUNG man, instead of that old one for whom I mistook you by your wrappings; but pray, explain.' 'Why, your Honour must know that we jockeys, in order to bring ourselves down to the weight required for the horses we are to ride, sweat under a load of flannel wrapped about us beneath coats and great coats, and walk two or three miles in the heat of summer, till we are ready to faint under our burden.' 'Indeed! Why, you go through a deal!' 'Ah, sir, a great deal indeed! Why, we sometimes lie hours and hours between two feather-beds--to melt away our extraordinary weight.' 'But will you give me leave to examine your present dress? Hum! Two flannel waistcoats, a thick cloth coat, a Bath surtout! It is a vast weight to carry this warm weather. I only hope you won't sink under it.' 'Never fear, sir, I do not doubt but I shall do very well.' The rewards of victory were as plain and simple in the Grecian games as they were distinguishing and honourable. A garland of palm, or laurel, or parsley, or pine leaves, served to adorn the brow of the fortunate victor, whilst his name stood a chance of being transmitted to posterity in the strains of some lofty Pindar. The rewards of modern days are indeed more substantial and solid, being paid in weighty gold or its equivalent, no matter whether obtained by the ruin of others, while the fleet coursers and their exulting proprietors stand conspicuous in the list of the Racing Calendar. The ingenious and ironical author of 'Newmarket, or an Essay on the Turf,' in the year 1771, bestowed the following titles and honours on the most famous horse of the day--Kelly's Eclipse:--'Duke of Newmarket, Marquis of Barnet, Earl of Epsom and York, Viscount Canterbury, Baron Eclipse of Mellay; Lord of Lewes, Salisbury, Ipswich, and Northampton; Comptroller-General of the race-grounds, and Premier Racer of All England.' To bear coat of arms--'A Pegasus argent on a field verd;--the supporters--two Englishmen in ermined robes and ducal coronets;--the crest--a purse, Or;--the motto--"Volat ocior Euro." '(75) (75) 'He flies swifter than the east wind.' Again, in the exhibition of those useful and honourable Olympic pastimes of old, the cause of morality was not overlooked:--there was in them a happy union of utility, pleasure, and virtue. A spotless life and unblameable manners, a purity of descent by being born in wedlock through several generations, and a series of creditable relations, were indispensable qualifications of a candidate on the Olympic turf. It is true, there is at least as much attention paid to purity and faultlessness on the plains of Newmarket; but the application is to the blood and pedigree of the horse, not of his rider. Nay, it was, and is, notorious that the word 'jockey' has acquired the meaning of 'to trick,' 'to cheat,' as appears in all our dictionaries and in common parlance. What is the inference from this but that the winning of races is no absolute proof of the superiority of the horse--for whose improvement racing is said to be encouraged; but rather the result of a secret combination of expedients or arrangements--in a word, jockeying, that is, cheating, tricking. The only 'moral' character required in the jockey is the determination to do whatsoever may be agreed upon or determined by those who are willing and able to give 'a consideration' for the convenient accommodation. But it is, or was, the associations, the inevitable concomitants, of the turf and racing that stamp it, not only as something questionable, but as a bane and infamy to the nation; and if there is one spot more eminently distinguished for a general rendezvous of fraud and gambling, that place is Newmarket. The diversions of these plains have proved a decoy to many a noble and ingenuous mind, caught in the snares laid to entrap youth and inexperience. Newmarket was a wily labyrinth of loss and gain, a fruitful field for the display of gambling abilities, the school of the sharping crew, the academy of the Greeks, the unfathomable gulf that absorbed princely fortunes. The amusements of the turf were in all other places intermixed with a variety of social diversions, which were calculated to promote innocent mirth and gaiety. The breakfastings, the concerts, the plays, the assemblies, attracted the circle of female beauty, enlivened the scene, engaged the attention of gentlemen, and thus prevented much of the evil contagion and destruction of midnight play. But encouragement to the GAMBLER of high and low degree was the very charter of Newmarket. Every object that met the eye was encompassed with gambling--from the aristocratic Rouge et Noir, Roulette, and Hazard, down to Thimble-rig, Tossing, and Tommy Dodd. Every hour of the day and night was beset with gambling diversified; in short, gambling must occupy the whole man, or he was lost to the sport and spirit of the place. The inhumanity of the cock-pit, the iniquitous vortex of the Hazard table, employed each leisure moment from the race, and either swallowed up the emoluments of the victorious field, or sank the jockey still deeper in the gulf of ruin. The common people of England have been stigmatized (and perhaps too justly) for their love of bloody sports and cruel diversions; cock-fighting, bull-baiting, boxing, and the crowded attendance on executions, are but too many proofs of this sanguinary turn. But why the imputation should lie at the door of the vulgar alone may well be questioned; for while the star of nobility and dignified distinction was seen to glitter at a cock-match or on a boxing-stage, or near the 'Ring'--where its proprietor was liable to be elbowed by their highnesses of grease and soot, and to be hemmed in by knights of the post and canditates for Tyburn tree--when this motley group alike were fixed in eager attention, alike betted on and enjoyed each blood-drawing stroke of the artificial spur, or blow of the fist well laid in--what distinction was to be made between peer and plebeian, except in derogation of the former? The race-course at Newmarket always presented a rare assemblage of grooms, gamblers, and greatness. 'See, side by side, the jockey and Sir John Discuss the important point of six to one; For, O my Muse! the deep-felt bliss how dear--How great the pride to gain a jockey's ear!'(76) (76) Wharton's Newmarket. Newmarket fame was an object of ambition sought by the most distinguished personages. 'Go on, brave youths, till in some future age Whips shall become the senatorial badge; Till England see her thronging senators Meet all at Westminster in boots and spurs; See the whole House with mutual phrensy mad, Her patriots all in leathern breeches clad; Of bets for taxes learnedly debate, And guide with equal reins a steed or state.'(77) (77) Ibid. And then at the winning-post what motley confusion. --------------------'A thousand tongues Jabber harsh jargon from a thousand lungs. **** Dire was the din--as when in caverns pent, Hoarse Boreas storms and Eurus works for vent, The aeolian brethren heave the labouring earth, And roar with elemental strife for birth.'(78) (78) 'The Gamblers.' Horace had said long before--Tanto cum strepitu ludi spectantur, 'So great a noise attends the games! The frauds and stratagems of wily craft which once passed current at Newmarket, surpassed everything that can be imagined at the present day. The intruding light of the morning was execrated by the nightly gamblers. 'Grant us but to perish in the light,' was the prayer of the warlike Ajax:--'Grant us black night for ever,' exclaimed the gambler; and his wishes were consistent with the place and the foul deeds perpetrated therein.(79) (79) The principal gambling-room at Newmarket was called the 'Little Hell.' Sit mihi fas audita loqui--sit numine vestro, Pandere res alta terra et caligine mersas. The turf-events of every succeeding year verify the lament of the late Lord Derby:-- 'The secession from the turf of men who have station and character, and the accession of men who have neither, are signs visible to the dullest apprehension. The once national sport of horse-racing is being degraded to a trade in which it is difficult to perceive anything either sportive or national. The old pretence about the improvement of the breed of horses has become a delusion, too stale for jesting.' Nothing is more incontestable than the fact that the breed of English horses has not been really improved, certainly not by racing and its requirements. It has been truly observed that 'what is called the turf is merely a name for the worst kind of gambling. The men who engage in it are as far as possible from any ideal of sporting men. It is a grim joke, in fact, to speak of "sport" at all in their connection. The turf to them is but a wider and more vicious sort of tapis vert--the racing but the rolling of the balls--the horses but animated dice. It is difficult to name a single honest or manly instinct which is propagated by the turf as it is, or which does not become debased and vitiated by the association. From a public recreation the thing has got to be a public scandal. Every year witnesses a holocaust of great names sacrificed to the insatiable demon of horse-racing--ancient families ruined, old historic memories defiled at the shrine of this vulgarest and most vicious of popular passions.' Among those who have sought to reform the turf is Sir Joseph Hawley, who last year succeeded in procuring the abolition of two-year-old races before the 1st of May. He is now endeavouring, to go much further, and has given notice of a motion for the appointment of a committee of the Jockey Club to consider the question of the whole condition of the turf. There can be no doubt, that, if Sir Joseph Hawley's propositions, as announced, be adopted, even in a modified form, they would go to the very root of the evil, and purify the turf of the worst of the present scandals. It would require a volume, or perhaps many volumes, to treat of the subject of the present chapter--the Turf, Historical, Social, Moral; but I must now leave this topic, of such terrible national interest, to some other conscientious writer capable of 'doing justice' to the theme, in all its requirements. CHAPTER XIII. FORTUNE-TELLING BY CARDS (FOR LADIES). It must be admitted that this practice--however absurd in its object and application--does great credit to human ingenuity. Once admitting the possibility of such conjuring, it is impossible to deny the propriety of the reasonings deduced from the turning up, the collocation, or the juxta-position of the various cards, when the formalities of the peculiar shuffle and cut required have been duly complied with by the consulter. The cards are first shuffled ad libitum, then cut three different times, and laid on a table, face upwards, one by one, in the form of a circle, or more frequently nine in a row. If the conjurer is a man he chooses one of the kings as his representative; if a woman, she selects one of the queens. This is on the supposition that persons are consulting for themselves; otherwise it is the fortune-teller who selects the representative card. Then the queen of the chosen king, or the king of the chosen queen, stands for a husband or wife, mistress or lover, of the party whose fortune is to be told. The knave of the suit represents the most intimate person of their family. The ninth card every way, that is, counted from the representative, is of the greatest consequence, and that interval comprises the 'circle' of the inquirer, for good or for evil. Now, all the cards have had assigned to them arbitrary, but plausible, characteristics. Thus, the ace of clubs (that suit representing originally the 'fortunate husbandmen') promises great wealth, much prosperity in life, and tranquillity of mind--if it turns up within your circle, as before mentioned. King of clubs announces a man of dark complexion who is humane, upright, &c., in fact, just the man for a husband. Queen of clubs is equally propitious as the emblem of a dark lady who would prove a paragon wife. Knave of clubs, a jolly good friend in every way. Ten of clubs always flurries the heart of the inquirer--especially if 'hard up'--for it denotes riches speedily forthcoming from an unexpected quarter--which is usually the case in such circumstances; but then it also threatens the loss of some dear friend--which, however, cannot signify much if you get 'the money.' Seven of clubs promises the most brilliant fortune, and the most exquisite bliss this world can afford; but then you are ungallantly warned that you must 'beware of the opposite sex'--which seems a contradiction in terms--for how call 'the most exquisite bliss this world can afford' be secured without the aid of 'the opposite sex'? Five of clubs is the main point of maid-servants, young girls from the country, governesses, in short, of all the floating womanhood of the land--for 'it declares that you will shortly be married to a person who will--MEND your CIRCUMSTANCES.' The trey of clubs is scarcely less exhilarating, for it promises that you will be married three times, and each time to a wealthy person. On the whole the suit of clubs is very lucky, but, very appropriately, the deuce thereof portends some 'unfortunate opposition to your favourite inclination, which will disturb you.'(80) (80) According to other authorities, the ace of clubs means a letter; the nine, danger caused by drunkenness; the eight, danger from covetousness; the seven, a prison, and danger from the opposite sex; the six, competence by hard-working industry; the five, a happy but NOT wealthy marriage; the four, danger of misfortunes caused by inconstancy or capricious temper; the trey, quarrels. The suit of diamonds is by no means so satisfactory as the gem of a name would seem to indicate; but perhaps we must remember that this suit represented originally the COMMERCIAL CLASSES, and that probably this divination by cards was invented by some proud ARISTOCRAT in those times when tradesmen did not stand so high as they now do in morality, uprightness, &c. The ace of diamonds puts you on the qui vive for the postman; it means a LETTER. It is only to be hoped that it is not one of those nasty things, yellow outside and blue within--a dun from some importunate butcher, baker, grocer, or--tailor. The king of diamonds shows a revengeful, fiery, obstinate fellow of very fair complexion in your circle; the queen of diamonds is nothing but a gay coquette, of the same complexion as the king, and not 'over-virtuous'--a very odd phrase in use for the absence of virtue altogether; the knave of diamonds is a selfish, impracticable fellow; ten of diamonds is one of the few exceptions to the evil omens of this suit, it promises a country husband or a wife with great wealth and many children--the number of the latter being indicated by the next card to it; it also signifies a purse of gold--but where? Oh, where? Nine of diamonds indicates simply a vagabond, full of vexation and disappointment; eight of diamonds shows an enemy to marriage, who may, however, 'marry late,' and find himself in a terrible 'fix;' seven of diamonds is worse still, portending all the horrors of the divorce court and the bankruptcy court--conjugal profligacy and extravagance; six of diamonds means early marriage and premature widowhood, and a second marriage, which will probably be worse; five of diamonds is the next exception to the misery of this suit, it promises 'good children, who will KEEP YOU FROM GRIEF'--at best, however, only a makeshift; four of diamonds is as bad as seven of diamonds--portending the same results; the trey of diamonds threatens all manner of strife, law-suits, &c., promises a vixen for a wife, to your great domestic misery; the deuce of diamonds concludes the catalogue of wretchedness with the assurance that you will fall in love early, that your parents will not approve of your choice, and if you marry, notwithstanding, that they will hardly ever forgive you.(81) (81) Otherwise the ace of diamonds means a wedding ring, the king, a fiery but a placable person, of very fair complexion; the ten, money, success in honourable business; the eight, a happy prudent marriage, though late in life; the five, unexpected and most likely good news; the four, a faithless friend, a betrayed secret. The suit of hearts, as previously explained, represented originally the ecclesiastical order, the jolly monks, churchmen of all degrees; how far the indications tally must be left to the ingenious reader to determine. The ace of hearts means feasting and pleasure; but if attended by spades, it foretells quarrelling; if by hearts it shows affection and friendship; if by diamonds, you will hear of some absent friend; if by clubs, of merry-making: the king of hearts denotes a not VERY fair man, good-natured, but hot and hasty individual, and very amorous; the queen of hearts promises a lady of golden locks (not necessarily 'carrots'), faithful and affectionate; the knave of hearts is a particular friend, and great attention must be paid to the card that stands next to him, as from it alone you can judge whether the person it represents will favour your inclination or not, because he is always the dearest friend or nearest relation of the consulting party; the ten of hearts shows good nature and many children, and is a corrective of the bad tidings of the cards that stand next to it; and if its neighbouring cards are of good import, it ascertains and confirms their value: nine of hearts promises wealth, grandeur, and high esteem; if cards that are unfavourable stand near it, you may expect disappointments; and the reverse, if favourable cards follow; if these last be at a small distance, expect to retrieve your losses, whether of peace or goods: eight of hearts signifies drinking and feasting; seven of hearts shows a fickle and unfaithful person, vicious, spiteful, malicious; six of hearts promises a generous, open, credulous disposition, often a dupe; if this card comes before your king or queen (as the case may be) YOU will be the dupe; if after, you will get the upper hand: five of hearts portends a wavering, unsteady, unreliable individual of either sex: four of hearts indicates late marriage from 'delicacy in making a choice:' trey of hearts is rather a 'poser;' 'it shows that your own impudence will greatly contribute to your experiencing the ill-will of others:' deuce of hearts promises extraordinary success and good fortune, though, perhaps, you may have to wait long for 'the good time coming.'(82) (82) Or,--the ace of hearts denotes the house of the consulter; the queen, a lady not VERY fair; seven, many good friends; six, honourable courtship; five, a present; four, domestic troubles caused by jealousy. The suit of spades originally represented the NOBILITY, and the following are its significances in fortune-telling. The ace of spades wholly relates to love-affairs, without specifying whether lawful or unlawful--a pretty general occupation of the 'nobility,' of course; it also denotes death when the card is upside down: the king of spades shows a man ambitious and successful at court, or with some great man who will have it in his power to advance him--but, let him beware of the reverse! the queen of spades shows that a person will be corrupted by the rich of both sexes; if she is handsome great attempts will be made on her virtue: the knave of spades shows a fellow that requires much rousing, although 'quite willing to serve you' with his influence and patronage--like many a member in the case of his importunate constituents: the ten of spades is a card of caution, counteracting the good effect of the card near you: the nine of spades is positively the worst card in the whole pack; it portends dangerous sickness, total loss of fortune, cruel calamities, endless dissension in your family, and death at last--I hope you may never see it near you: the eight of spades indicates much opposition from your FRIENDS, or those you imagine to be such; if this card comes near you, leave your plan and adopt another: seven of spades shows the loss of a most valuable, influential friend, whose death will plunge you in very great distress and poverty: the six of spades announces a mediocrity of fortune, and great uncertainty in your undertakings: the five of spades is rather doubtful as to success or a rise in life; but it promises luck in the choice of your companion for life, although it shows that your own temper is rather sullen--and so to get a 'fond creature' to take care of you, with such a temper, is a mighty great blessing, and more than you deserve: the four of spades shows sickness speedily, and injury of fortune by friends: the trey of spades shows that you will be fortunate in marriage, but that your inconstant temper will make you unhappy: the deuce of spades is the UNDERTAKER, at last; it positively shows a COFFIN, but who it is for must depend entirely on the cards that are near it.(83) (83) Or,--the ace of spades denotes death, malice, a duel, a general misfortune; the king, a man of very dark complexion, ambitious, and unscrupulous; the queen, a very dark-complexioned woman of malicious disposition, or a widow; the knave, a lawyer, a person to be shunned; the ten, disgrace, crime, imprisonment, death on the scaffold; the eight, great danger from imprudence; the six, a child, to the unmarried a card of caution; the five, great danger from giving way to bad temper; the trey, a journey by land,--tears; the deuce, a removal. 'The nine of hearts is termed the wish card. After the general fortune has been told, a separate and different manipulation is performed, to learn if the pryer into futurity will obtain a particular wish; and from the position of the wish card in the pack the required answer is deduced. 'The foregoing is merely the alphabet of the art; the letters, as it were, of the sentences formed by the various combinations of the cards. A general idea only can be given here of the manner in which those prophetic sentences are formed. As before stated, if a married woman consults the cards, the king of her own suit, or complexion, represents her husband; but with single women, the lover, either in esse or posse, is represented by his own colour; and all cards, when representing persons, lose their own normal significations. There are exceptions, however, to these general rules. A man, no matter what his complexion, if he wear uniform, even if he be the negro cymbal-player in a regimental band, can be represented by the king of diamonds:--note, the dress of policemen and volunteers is not considered as uniform. On the other hand, a widow, even if she be an albiness, can be represented only by the queen of spades. 'The ace of hearts always denoting the house of the person consulting the decrees of fate, some general rules are applicable to it. Thus the ace of clubs signifying a letter, its position, either before or after the ace of hearts, shows whether the letter is to be sent to or from the house. The ace of diamonds when close to the ace of hearts foretells a wedding in the house; but the ace of spades betokens sickness and death. 'The knaves represent the thoughts of their respective kings and queens, and consequently the thoughts of the persons whom those kings and queens represent, in accordance with their complexions. For instance, a young lady of a rather but not decidedly dark complexion, represented by the queen of clubs, when consulting the cards, may be shocked to find her fair lover (the king of diamonds) flirting with a wealthy widow (the queen of spades, attended by the ten of diamonds), but she will be reassured by finding his thoughts (the knave of diamonds) in combination with a letter (ace of clubs), a wedding ring (ace of diamonds), and her house (the ace of hearts); clearly signifying that, though he is actually flirting with the rich widow, he is, nevertheless, thinking of sending a letter, with an offer of marriage, to the young lady herself. And look, where are her own thoughts, represented by the knave of clubs; they are far away with the old lover, that dark man (king of spades) who, as is plainly shown by his being attended by the nine of diamonds, is prospering at the Australian diggings or elsewhere. Let us shuffle the cards once more, and see if the dark man, at the distant diggings, ever thinks of his old flame, the club-complexioned young lady in England. No! he does not. Here are his thoughts (the knave of spades), directed to this fair, but rather gay and coquettish, woman (the queen of diamonds); they are separated but by a few hearts, one of them, the sixth (honourable courtship), showing the excellent understanding that exists between them. Count, now, from the six of hearts to the ninth card from it, and lo! it is a wedding ring (the ace of diamonds); they will be married before the expiration of a twelvemonth.' Such is the scheme of fortune-telling by cards, as propounded in the learned disquisitions of the adepts, and Betty, or Martha, or her mistress can consult them by themselves according to the established method--without exposing themselves to the extortionate cunning of the wandering gipsies or the permanent crone of the city or village. They may just as well believe what comes out according to their own manipulation as by that of the heartless cheats in question. Your ordinary fortune-tellers are not over-particular, being only anxious to tell you exactly what you want to know. So if a black court card gets in juxta-position with and looking towards a red court card, the fair consulter's representative, then it is evident that some 'dark gentleman' is 'after her;' and vice versa; and if a wife, suspecting her husband's fidelity, consults the cards, the probability is that her SUSPICIONS will receive 'confirmation strong' from the fact that 'some dark woman,' that is, a black queen, 'is after her husband;' or vice versa, if a husband consults the card-woman respecting the suspicions he may have reason to entertain with regard to his 'weaker rib' or his 'intended.' It need scarcely be observed that fortune-tellers in any place are 'posted up' in all information or gossip in the neighbourhood; and therefore they readily turn their knowledge to account in the answers they give to anxious inquirers. Apart from this, however, the interpretations are so elaborately comprehensive that 'something' MUST come true in the revelations; and we all know that in such matters that something coming to pass will far outweigh the non-fulfilment of other fatal ordinations. Of course no professional fortune-teller would inform an old man that some dark or fair man was 'after' his old woman; but nothing is more probable than the converse, and much family distraction has frequently resulted from such perverse revelation of 'the cards.' In like manner your clever fortune-teller will never promise half-a-dozen children to 'an old lady,' but she will very probably hold forth that pleasant prospect--if such it be--to a buxom lass of seventeen or eighteen--especially in those counties of England where the ladies are remarkable for such profuse bounty to their husbands. As a general proposition, it matters very little what may be the means of vaticination or prediction--whether cards, the tea-grounds in the cup, &c.,--all POSSIBLE events have a degree of probability of coming to pass, which may vary from 20 to 1 down to a perfect equality of chance; and the clever fortune-teller, who may be mindful of her reputation, will take care to regulate her promises or predictions according to that proposition. Many educated ladies give their attention to the cards, and some have acquired great proficiency in the art. On board a steamer sailing for New York, on one occasion a French lady among the saloon-passengers undertook to amuse the party by telling their fortunes. A Scotch young gentleman, who was going out to try and get a commission in the Federal army, had his fortune told. Among the announcements, as interpreted by the lady, was the rather unpleasant prospect that two constables would be 'after' him! We all laughed heartily at the odd things that came out for everybody, and then the thing was forgotten; the steamer reached her destination; and all the companions of the pleasant voyage separated and went their different ways. Some months after, I met the young gentleman above alluded to, and among the various adventures which he had had, he mentioned the following. He said that shortly after his arrival in New York he presented a ten-dollar note which he had received, at a drinking-house, that it was declared a forged note, and that he was given into custody; but that the magistrate, on being conclusively convinced of his respectability, dismissed the charge without even taking the trouble to establish the alleged fact that the note was a forgery. So far so good; but on the following morning, whilst at breakfast at his hotel, another police-officer pounced upon him, and led him once more on the same charge to another magistrate, who, however, dismissed the case like the other.(84) (84) It appears that this is allowable in New York. The explanation of the perverse prosecution was, that the young gentleman did not 'fee' the worthy policemen, according to custom in such cases. Thereupon I said--'Why, the French lady's card-prediction on board came to pass! Don't you remember what she said about two constables being "after you"?' 'Now I remember it,' he said; 'but I had positively forgotten all about it. Well, she was right there--but I am sorry to say that nothing else she PROMISED has come to pass.' Doubtless all other consulters of the cards and of astrologers can say the same, although all would not wisely conclude that a system must be erroneous which misleads human hope in the great majority of cases. In fact, like the predictions in our weather-almanacks, the fortune-teller's announcements are only right BY CHANCE, and wrong ON PRINCIPLE. FORTUNE-TELLING FORTY YEARS AGO, OR, THE STORY OF MARTHA CARNABY. A certain Martha Carnaby, a tidy but rather 'unsettled' servant girl, some forty years ago went to an old fortune-teller, to have her fortune told, and the doings on both sides came out as follows, before the magistrate at the Bow Street police-court. The fortune-teller was 'had up,' as usual, 'for obtaining money and other valuables' from the former. Miss Martha Carnaby said that this celebrated old fortune-teller had first gained her acquaintance by attending at her master's house, before the family had risen, and urging her to have her fortune told. At length, after much persuasion, she consented; but the fortune-teller told her that before the secrets of her future destiny were revealed, she must deposit in her hands some little token, TO BIND THE CHARM, which the old lady said she would invoke the same evening--'if I would call at her lodgings, and also cast my nativity by her cards, and tell me every particular of the future progress of my life. I accordingly gave her what money I had; but that, she told me, was not enough to buy the ingredients with which she was to compose the charm. I at length gave her four silver teaspoons and two tablespoons, which she put carefully in her pocket; and then asked me to let her look at my hand, which I showed her. She told me there were many lines in it which clearly indicated great wealth and happiness; and, after telling her my name was Martha Carnaby, she took her departure, and I agreed to meet her at her lodgings the same evening. Agreeably to her directions, I dressed myself in as fashionable a manner as I could, because I WAS TO SEE MY SWEETHEART THROUGH A MIRROR, AND HE WAS TO SEE ME.' The poor deluded creature then stated that she attended punctually at the hour appointed, at the old lady's sanctum, and seating herself upon an old chair, beheld with astonishment quite as much as she bargained for. 'I felt myself,' said poor Martha, 'on entering the room, all of a twitter. The old woman was seated in her chair of state, and, reaching down from the mantel-piece a pack of cards, began, after muttering a few words in a language I could not understand, to lay them very carefully in her lap; she then foretold that I should get married, but not to the person in our house, as I expected, but to another young man, whom, if I could afford a trifle, she would show me through her MATRIMONIAL MIRROR. To this I consented, and she desired me to shut my eyes and keep my face covered while she made the necessary preparations; and there she kept me, with my face hid in her lap, until I was nearly smothered; when suddenly she told me to turn round, and look through the mirror, which was seen through a hole in a curtain, and I saw a young man pass quickly before me, staring me in the face, at which I was much surprised, she assuring me that he would be my husband. It was then agreed that she was to call on me the next morning, and return the silver spoons; but, your Worship,' said the poor girl, 'she never came; and as I was afraid my mistress would soon want them, I asked the advice of a woman in our neighbourhood, as to what I had better do, and to whom I related all the circumstances I have told your Worship; when the woman asked me how I could have been such a fool as to be duped by that old cheat at the bar,--that she was a notorious old woman, that she had in her employ some young man, who was always hid in the room, to overhear the conversation, and to run from out of the hiding-place before the mirror; and that I ought to be thankful I came away as well as I did, as many young girls had been ruined through going to this old creature; that, from her acquaintance with so many servant girls, she always contrived to get from them such intelligence as enabled her to answer those questions that might be put to her, as to the business, name, place of abode, country, and other circumstances of the party applying, the answering of which always convinced the credulous creatures who went to her, of her great skill in the art of astrology; and when she was right in her guessing, she always took care to have it well published.' Of course, and again, as usual, the magistrate 'hoped it would be a lesson to Martha, and to all other foolish girls, never to hearken to those infernal, wicked old wretches, the fortune-tellers--many a girl having lost her character and virtue by listening to their nonsense;' but there have been hundreds and thousands of such Marthas since then, and no doubt there will be very many more in future--in spite of the ridiculous exposure of such dupes ever and anon, in courts of justice and in the columns of the daily papers. 'The art of cartomancy, or divination by playing-cards, dates from an early period of their obscure history. In the museum of Nantes there is a painting, said to be by Van Eyck, representing Philippe le Bon, Archduke of Austria, and subsequently King of Spain, consulting a fortune-teller by cards. This picture cannot be of a later date than the fifteenth century. Then the art was introduced into England is unknown; probably, however, the earliest printed notice of it in this country is the following curious story, extracted from Rowland's Judicial Astrology Condemned:--"Cuffe, an excellent Grecian, and secretary to the Earl of Essex, was told, twenty years before his death, that he should come to an untimely end, at which Cuffe laughed, and in a scornful manner entreated the soothsayer to show him in what manner he should come to his end, who condescended to him, and calling for cards, entreated Cuffe to draw out of the pack any three which pleased him. He did so, and drew three knaves, and laid them on the table by the wizard's direction, who then told him, if he desired to see the sum of his bad fortune, to take up those cards. Cuffe, as he was prescribed, took up the first card, and looking on it, he saw the portraiture of himself cap-a-pie, having men encompassing him with bills and halberds. Then he took up the second, and there he saw the judge that sat upon him; and taking up the last card, he saw Tyburn, the place of his execution, and the hangman, at which he laughed heartily. But many years after, being condemned, he remembered and declared this prediction." 'The earliest work on cartomancy was written or compiled by one Francesco Marcolini, and printed at Venice in 1540.'(85) (85) The Book of Days, Feb. 21. In this work there is a somewhat different account of cartomancy to that which I have expounded 'on the best authorities' and from practical experience with the adepts in the art; but, in a matter of such immense importance to ladies of all degrees, I have thought proper to give, in foot-notes, the differing interpretations of the writer in the Book of Days, who professes to speak with some authority, not however, I think, superior to mine, for I have investigated the subject to the utmost. CHAPTER XIV. AMUSING CARD TRICKS.(86) (86) These tricks appeared originally in Beeton's Christmas Annual, and are here reproduced with permission. Although my work is a history of gambling, in all its horrors, and with all its terrible moral warnings, I gladly conclude it 'happily,' after the manner of the most pleasing novels and romances,--namely, by a method of contriving innocent and interesting amusement with cards, without the 'chance' of encountering the risks, calamities, and disgrace of gambling. I was led to the investigation of this branch of my subject by the following incident. Being present at a party when a gentleman performed one of the tricks described, No. 7, the rest of the company and myself were all much surprised at the result, and urgently requested him to explain the method of his performance, which, however, he stoutly refused to do, averring that he would not take L1000 for it. This was so ridiculously provoking that I offered to bet him L5 that I would discover the method within 24 hours. To my astonishment he declined the bet, not, however, without a sort of compliment, admitting that I MIGHT do so. He was right; for, as Edgar Poe averred, no man can invent a puzzle which some other man cannot unravel. In effect, I called upon him the following day, and performed the trick not only according to his method, but also by another, equally successful. I have reason to believe that most of the tricks of my selection had not previously appeared in print; at any rate, I have given to all of them an exposition which may entitle them to some claim of originality. PRELIMINARY HINTS. I. Shuffling, in the simple and inoffensive sense of the expression, is an important point in all tricks with cards. For the most part, it is only a pretence or dexterous management--keeping a card or cards in your command whilst seeming to shuffle them into the pack. Every performer has his method of such shuffling. Some hold the pack perpendicularly with the left hand, then with the right take a portion of the pack--about one half--and make a show of shuffling the two parts together edgeways, but, in reality, replace them as they were. With rapidity of execution every eye is thus deceived. If a single card is to be held in command, place it at the bottom of the pack, which you hold in your left, and then, with your right thumb and middle finger, raise and throw successively portions of the pack, leaving the bottom card in contact with the fingers of the left hand. With dexterity, any portion of the pack may be shuffled, leaving the remainder just as it was, by separating it during the process by inserting one or more fingers of the left hand between it and the portions shuffled. II. Cutting--not in the sense of bolting at the sight of 'blue,' though that is of consequence to card-sharpers--is of importance in all card tricks. In many tricks cutting the cards is only a pretence, as it is necessary for the success of the trick to replace them as they were; in technical terms, we must 'blow up the cut.'(87) (87) This is the sauter la coupe referred to in the chapter on the Gaming Clubs, in the account of the trial of Lord de Ros. See 'Graham's Club.' There are several ways of performing this sleight-of-hand. The cards being cut, and forming two lots on the table, smartly snatch up the lot which should be placed on the other, with the left hand. This lot being taken up and the hand being in the position shown in the figure, snatch up in like manner the other lot, and, by a movement of the palm of the hand and the tips of the fingers, pass the second lot under the first. The deception of the trick depends upon its dexterity, and this can only be acquired by practice. But really it may be dispensed with; for it is a curious fact that, in every case when the cards are cut, you may actually replace them just as they were without being observed by the spectators--for the simple reason that the ruse is not suspected, especially if their attention is otherwise engaged with your pointed observations. The 'gift of the gab' is in this case, as in many others, a very great resource. A striking remark or bon mot will easily mystify the spectators, and attract their attention from what you are DOING. Hence all prestidigitators are always well stocked with anecdotes and funny observations; indeed, they talk incessantly: they speak well, too, and they take care to time the word accurately with the moment when their fingers act most energetically. III. To slip a card.--To slip a card is to pretend to take the bottom card of the pack, and in reality to take the card which precedes it. To perform this feat without detection is a very simple affair, but it requires practice. The pack of cards being held in the right hand, advance the left hand--palm upwards--just as if you were seizing the last card with the middle finger; but, having slightly moistened this finger with the lips, push back this card, and make it slip under the palm of the right hand, whilst you seize the preceding card with the thumb and forefinger. In this manner you may successively draw out several cards besides the last, and only draw the last as the sixth, seventh, &c., which will serve to effect several interesting tricks to be explained in the sequel. IV. To file the card.--To file the card is, when a card has been taken from the pack to pretend to place it about the middle of the pack, whilst, in reality, you place it at the bottom. The pack must be held in the left hand, between the thumb and forefinger, so that the three other fingers be free. One of the middle cards should project a little. Then take the card to be filed between the forefinger and the middle finger of the right hand; advance the right hand from the left, and whilst the three disengaged fingers of the left hand seize and place the card under the pack, the thumb and forefinger of the right seize the projecting card before mentioned, so that it seems to be that card which you have slipped into the middle of the pack. These movements are very easy, and, when rapidly performed, the illusion is complete. TRICKS. 1. To tell a card thought of by a party after three deals. Take twenty-one cards of a pack, and deal them out one by one in three lots, requesting the party to think of a card, and remember in which lot it is. Having dealt out the cards, ask the party in which lot the card is. Take up the lots successively, and place the lot containing the card in the MIDDLE. Deal out the cards again, and ask the party to state in which lot the card is; and proceed as before, placing the lot containing the card in the middle. Deal out the cards in like manner a third time, proceeding as before. Then deal them out as usual, and the eleventh card will be the one thought of, infallibly. This is the usual way of showing the card thought of; but, as the trick may be partly discovered by the counting, it is better to hold the cards in your hand, and take out the eleventh card, counting to yourself, of course, from the left hand, but pretending to be considering the guess. This is apparently a most mysterious trick, although a necessary consequence of the position of the lot containing the card in the three deals. 2. The four inseparable kings. Take four kings. Beneath the last place any two cards, which you take care to conceal. Then show the four kings and replace the six cards under the pack. Then take a king and place it in the top of the pack, place one of the TWO OTHER CARDS in the middle, and the other about the same place, and then, turning up the pack, show that one king is still at the bottom. Then let the cards be cut, and as three kings were left below, all must necessarily get together somewhere about the middle of the pack. Of course in placing the two other cards you pretend to be placing two kings. 3. The barmaid and the three victimizers. For this amusing trick you arrange the cards thus: Holding the pack in your hands, find all the knaves, place one of them next to your left hand, and the other three on the table. Then find a queen, which also place on the table. Then say:-- 'Three scamps went into a tavern, and ordered drink. Here they are--the three knaves. "Who's to pay? I can't," said the first. "I won't," said the second. "I wish she may get it," said the third. "I'll manage it," said the first, the greatest rogue of the three. "I say, my pretty girl, haven't you some very old wine in your cellar?" Here's the barmaid thus addressed by the rogue in question (showing the queen), and she replied:--"Oh yes, sir, prime old wine." "Let's have a bottle." (Off went the barmaid. Put the queen in your pocket.) "Now for it, my lads," said the knave in question; "'mizzle' is the word. Let's be off in opposite directions, and meet to-night; you know where." Hereupon they decamped, taking opposite directions, which I will indicate by placing one on the top of the pack, one at the bottom, and the other in the middle. 'When the poor barmaid returned (taking out the queen from your pocket) with the wine, great was her astonishment to find the room empty. "Lor!" she exclaimed, "why, I do declare--did you ever!--Oh! but I'm not agoing to be sarved so. I'll catch the rogues, all of them--that I will." And off she went after them, as shown by placing her ON, or at any rate, AFTER the first. 'Now, to catch the three seemed impossible; but the ladies have always smiled at impossibilities, and wonders never cease; for, if you have the goodness to cut these cards, you will find that she HAS caught the three rogues.' When the cards are cut, proceed in the USUAL WAY after cutting--NOT as required in the last trick; and taking up the cards, you will find the queen and three knaves together, which you take out and exhibit to the astonished audience. Of course, one of these knaves is not one of the three first exhibited, but the one which you slipped on your left hand at first. There is no chance of detection, however; simply for the reason before given--nobody suspects the trick. 4. How to name every card in a pack successively turned up by a second party, and win every trick at a hand of Whist. This is, perhaps, the most astonishing of all tricks with cards. Although it may be true that whatever puzzle one man invents, some other man may unravel, as before observed, I am decidedly of opinion that this trick defies detection. At the first blush it seems very difficult to learn; but it is simplicity itself in explanation. Begin by laying out the cards in four rows according to the suits, all of a suit in a row side by side. The cards must now be arranged for the trick. Take up the six in the top or bottom row, then the two in the next row, the ten in the third, and the nine in the fourth, placing them one upon the other in the left hand. Then begin again with the row from which you took the six, and take up the three. From the next row take the king. These numbers will be easily remembered with a little practice, amounting altogether to 30, made up thus--6 and 2 are 8, 8 and 10 are 18, 18 and 9 are 27, 27 and 3 are 30--KING. By repeating this addition a few times, it will be fixed in the memory. Proceed by next beginning with the row next to the one from which you took the last card or the king, and take the eight; from the next row take the four; from the next the ace; from the next the knave. These cards make up 13. Therefore say, 8 and 4 are 12 and 1 are 13--knave. From the next row to that whence you took the knave, take the seven; from the next row take the five; from the next the queen. These cards make up 12. Thus, 7 and 5 are 12--queen. It thus appears that you have taken up thirteen cards consisting of the four suits, successively taken and being arranged as follows:--6, 2, 10, 9, 3, king; 8, 4, 1, knave; 7, 5, queen. Proceed in like manner with the remainder of the cards, beginning with the row next to that from which you took the queen, and take the six, then from the next row the two, and so on as before, making up another batch of 13 cards. Repeat the process for a third batch, and finish with the remainder for the fourth--always remembering to take the card from the next row in succession continually; in other words, only one card must be taken from each row at a time. When the cards are thus arranged, request a party to cut them. This is only pretence; for you must take care dexterously to replace the cut just as it was before. Let them be cut again, and replace them as before. Your ruse will not be detected, simply because nobody suspects the possibility of the thing. Now take up the pack, and from the BOTTOM take the first four cards; handing the remainder to a party, sitting before you, saying--'I shall now call every card in succession from the top of the pack in your hand.' To do this, two things must be remembered; and there is no difficulty in it. First, the numbers 6, 2, 10, 9, 3, king, &c., before given; and next the SUIT of those cards. Now you know the NUMBERS by heart, and the SUIT is shown by the four cards which you hold in your hand, fan-like, in the usual way. If the first of the four cards be a club, the first card you call will be the six of clubs; if the next be a heart, the next card called will be the two of hearts, and so on throughout the thirteen made up from every row, as before given, and the suits of each card will be indicated successively by the suit of each of your four indicator cards, thus, as the case may be, clubs, hearts, diamonds, spades; clubs, hearts, diamonds, spades, and so on. After a little private practice, you will readily and rapidly call, as the case may be, from the four cards in your hand:--the six of clubs, two of hearts, ten of diamonds, nine of spades, three of clubs, king of hearts, eight of diamonds, four of spades, ace of clubs, knave of hearts, seven of diamonds, five of spades, queen of clubs--and so on to the last card in the pack. In the midst of the astonishment produced by this seemingly prodigious display of memory, say--'Now, if you like, we will have a hand at Whist, and I undertake to win every trick if I be allowed to deal.' Let the Whist party be formed, and get the cards cut as usual--only taking care to REPLACE them, as before enjoined, precisely as they were. Deal the cards, and the result will be that your thirteen cards will be ALL TRUMPS. Let the game proceed until your opponents 'give it up' in utter bewilderment. This splendid trick seems difficult in description, but it is one of the easiest; and even were it ten times more difficult than it is, the reader will perhaps admit that it is worth mastering. Once committed to memory the figures are never forgotten, and a few repetitions, with the cards before you, will suffice to enable you to retain them. 5. Two persons having each drawn a card and replaced them in the pack, to guess these cards. Make a set of all the clubs and spades, and another set of hearts and diamonds. Shuffle well each set, and even let them be shuffled by the spectators. Then request a person to draw a card from one of the sets, and another person to draw one from the second set. You now take a set in each hand, presenting them to the two persons, requesting them to replace the drawn cards. You must pretend to present to each person the set from which he drew his card, but in reality you present the red set to the person who drew the black card, and the black set to the person who drew the red card. Each person having replaced his card, you get each set shuffled. Then you take them in hand, and by running them over you easily find the red card amongst the black, and the black card amongst the red. Of course you will have prepared the sets beforehand, and take care to alter the arrangement as soon as possible after the trick. But you can prepare the pack in the presence of others without their detecting it. Distribute the cards by dealing according to the two colours; take them up, and having placed the red set a little projecting over the black, set them down, and, pretending to cut them, separate the sets. 6. Twenty cards being arranged upon a table, a person thinks of two, and you undertake to guess them. Lay out twenty cards of any kind, two by two, | c | i | c | o | s | | d | e | d | i | t | | t | u | m | u | s | | n | e | m | o | n | and request a party to think of two in a line; that is, one of the ten sets formed by the twenty cards. This done you take up the sets in the order in which they lie, and place them in rows according to the letters of the words. You may use a diagram like the preceding, but as the words are easily retained it had better be dispensed with, distributing the cards on the table just as though upon the diagram, which will make the trick more puzzling and extraordinary. Proceed as follows:--Place the cards two by two on similar letters: thus, place the two cards of the first set on the two d's in dedit; the two cards of the second set on the two i's of cicos and dedit; the two of the third set on the two c's, and so on with the ten sets. All the letters of the words being thus covered, ask the party who has thought of the cards to tell you in which lines these cards are. If both are in the first line (cicos), they must be those on the two c's; if they are both in the second line, they cover the d's in dedit; both in the third line, they cover the u's in tumus; both in the fourth, they cover the n's in nemon. If one be in the first line and the other in the second, they cover the i's in cicos and dedit, and thus of the rest--the two cards thought of NECESSARILY covering two SIMILAR LETTERS, whilst each of the letters occurs only TWICE in the diagram. 7. To tell a card thought of without even looking at the cards. Take any number of cards,--say twenty. Pretend to shuffle them with the faces towards you, and REMEMBER THE FIRST CARD as you close the pack--suppose the ten of diamonds. Tell the party that the only condition you require is to be told the ORDER in which the card is dealt out by you; in other words, he must tell you whether in dealing it comes out first, second, third, &c. Remembering your first card, you may then turn your back to him, and deal out the cards one by one, and one upon the top of the other, requesting him to think of a card and its order as before said. Then take up the cards, and shuffle them repeatedly, by throwing a portion of them from the bottom to the top, taking care not to mix the cards or let any drop, and then let the party cut them as often as he pleases. Then, take the cards in hand. Pretend to examine them mysteriously, but in reality only look for YOUR card--the first dealt out--the ten of diamonds for instance. Now, suppose he tells you that the card he thought of came out FIFTH. Then, for a certainty, it is the fourth card on the RIGHT of the ten of diamonds, in spite of all YOUR shuffling, and all regular cutting, for such shuffling and regular cutting cannot alter the order or sequence of the cards. Always remember to count from your own card inclusive to the number of the card thought of towards your right hand. But should your card happen to be so near the right hand or the top as not to allow sufficient counting, then count as far as it admits to the RIGHT and then continue at the LEFT. Thus, suppose there are only two cards above the ten of diamonds, then count two more on the left, making the fifth. If the card you remember, or your first card, is first, then count the requisite number on the left, always beginning with YOUR card, however. The REASON of this trick is simply that by merely cutting the cards, and shuffling them in the way indicated, you do not alter the SEQUENCE of the cards. With regard to this sort of SHUFFLING, I may say that it is simply CUTTING the cards--always preserving their sequence--a most important fact for card-players, since it may lead to a pretty accurate conjecture of all the hands after a deal, from the study of the one in hand, with reference to the tricks turned down after the previous deal, as already suggested. Hence, in shuffling for whist or other games, the cards should not be shuffled in this way, but more thoroughly mixed by the edgewise shuffling of certain players. This is the trick I alluded to at the commencement of the chapter, the mode of performing which I succeeded in discovering. Of course ANY NUMBER of persons may think of cards, remembering their order, and the operator will tell them, in like manner. 8. A person having thought of one of fifteen cards presented to him, to guess the card thought of. Form three ranks of five cards each, and request a party to think of one of these cards, and tell you in which rank it is. Take up the cards of the three ranks, taking care to place the cards of the ranks in which is the card thought of between those of the two other ranks. Make three more ranks as before. Ask the party again in which rank the card is, and take them up, placing the rank in which the card is between the two others. Operate in like manner a third time, and the card thought of will infallibly be the THIRD of the rank named by the party. Observe, however, you must not form each rank with five consecutive cards; but you must place the cards one by one, placing one successively in each rank; thus, one at the top on the left of the first rank, one below that first for the second rank, one below the second for the third rank, then one in the first, one in the second, one in the third, and so on. This trick, which is very easy, always produces a great effect. It only requires a little attention, and it can never fail unless you make a mistake in arranging the cards, which, however, is too simple to admit of error. 9. Two persons having each drawn a card from a pack, and having replaced them, to tell these cards after the pack has been shuffled and cut by the spectators as often as they like. The cards may be easily divided into two numerical parts, even and odd: by taking a king for four points, a queen for three, a knave for two, and the other cards for their especial points, we may make up two sets of sixteen cards each, the even composing one, and the odd the other. These two sets being before the performer, he takes one, shuffles it well, and lets a party take a card. He then takes the other, shuffles it, and lets another party take a card. Then, whilst each party is looking at his card, which HE IS REQUESTED TO DO, the performer dexterously changes the place of the two sets, and he requests the parties to replace the cards in the set whence they took them. It follows that the party who took a card from the EVEN set places it in the ODD set, and he who took it from the ODD set places it in the even set. Consequently, all the shuffling and cutting in the world will be useless, for the performer has only to spread out the cards of each set to point out the cards drawn. 10. Singular arrangement of sixteen cards. Take the four kings, the four queens, the four knaves, and the four tens of a pack, and ask if there be any one in the company who can form a square with them in such a manner that, taken in any direction, from right to left, from the top to the bottom, by the diagonal--anyhow, in fact--there will always be in each line a king, queen, knave, and a ten. Everybody will think the thing easy, but it is certain that no one will succeed in doing it. When they 'give it up,' take the sixteen cards and arrange them as shown, when the king, queen, knave, and ten will stand as required. 11. The seven trick. Make up the four sevens of a pack, and take seven other cards, no matter which, for another lot, and, presenting both lots, you say:--Here are two lots totally dissimilar; nevertheless, there is one of seven, and I declare it will be the first touched by any party present. Of course, when touched, you at once prove your words by exhibiting either the sevens or the seven cards--taking care to mix the cards into the pack immediately to prevent detection. 12. Infallible method for guessing any number that a party has thought of. Take the first ten cards of a pack of 52 cards. Set out these ten cards as shown below, so that the point A should correspond to the ace, and to 1--the point F to the card representing the 6--and E to the 10. 2 3 4 B C D 1 A--------E 5 10 K--------F 6 I H G 9 8 7 Thus prepared, you request a party to think of a card, and then you tell him to touch any number he pleases, requesting him to name it aloud. Then, adding the whole number of the cards to the number touched, you tell him to count backwards to himself, beginning with the card touched, and giving to that card the number of the one thought of. By counting in this way, the party will at length count the entire number on the card thought of, which you will thus be able to designate with certainty. Example:--Suppose the card thought of is G, marking 7; again, supposing the one touched to be D, equal to 4; you add to this number the entire number of cards, which is, in this case, 10, which will make 14. Then, making the party count this sum, from the number touched, D to C, B, A, and so on, backwards, so that in commencing to count the number thought of, 7 on D, the party will continue, saying, 8 on C, 9 on B, 10 on A, 11 on K, 12 on I, 13 on H, and end with counting 14 on G; and you will thus discover that the number thought of is 7, which corresponds to G. Of course the party counts TO himself, and only speaks to designate the point on which he stops, namely, G in this example. This trick may be performed with any number of cards--as few as six, or as many as fifteen. Then you must always add to the number the total of the cards used. The trick will be much more interesting and striking if you turn the cards face downwards, only trusting to your memory to retain the order of the numbers. Of course, the letters are only used to facilitate the explanation. The cards really form a sort of circle, beginning at 1 or the ace on the left, and then continuing with the 2, the 3, the 4, the 5, and so on, to the 10 below the ace; and, by necessity, the party must end his counting with the very card he thought of, beginning from the one he happens to point out. 13. The card that cannot be found. Take any number of cards and spread them out fan-like in your hand, faces fronting the spectators. Ask one of them to select a card. You tell him to take it, and then to place it at the bottom of the pack. You hold up the pack, so that the spectators may see that the card is really at the bottom. Suppose this card is the king of hearts. Then, pretending to take that card, you take the card preceding it, and place it at a point corresponding to A in the following figure. A C B D You then take the card drawn, namely, the king of hearts, and place it at the point corresponding to B in the above figure. Finally, you take any two other cards, and place them at C and D. Of course, the cards are placed face downwards. After this location of the cards, you tell the party who has chosen the card that you will change the position of the cards, by pushing alternately that at the point A to B, and that at D to C, and vice versa; and you defy him to follow you in these gyrations of the card, and to find it. Of course, seeing no difficulty in the thing, and believing with everybody that his card is placed at the point A, he will undertake to follow and find his card. Then performing what you undertake to do, you rapidly change the places of the cards, and yet slowly enough to enable the party to keep in view the card which he thinks his own, and so that you may not lose sight of the one you placed at B. Having thus arranged the cards for a few moments, you ask the party to perform his promise by pointing out his card. Feeling sure that he never lost sight of it, he instantly turns one of the cards and is astonished to find that it is not his own. Then you say:--'I told you you would not be able to follow your card in its ramble. But I have done what you couldn't do: here is your card!' The astonishment of the spectators is increased when you actually show the card; for, having made them observe in the first instance, that you did not even look at the drawn card, they are utterly at a loss to discover the means you employed to find out and produce the card in question. 14. Cards being drawn from a pack, to get them guessed by a person blindfolded. At all these performances there are always amongst the spectators persons in league with the prestidigitator. In the present case a woman is the assistant, with whom he has entered into an arrangement by which each card is represented by a letter of the alphabet; and the following are the cards selected for the trick with their representative letters. The performer takes a handkerchief and blindfolds the lady in question, and places her in the centre of the circle of spectators. Then spreading out the cards, he requests each of the spectators to draw a card. He requests the first to give him the card he has drawn; he looks at it, and placing it on the table face downwards, he asks the lady to name the card, which she does instantly and without hesitation. Of course this appears wonderful to the spectators, and their astonishment goes on increasing whilst the lady names every card in succession to the last. It is, however, a very simple affair. Each card represents a letter of the alphabet, as we see by the figure, and all the performer has to do is to begin every question with the letter corresponding to the card. Suppose the party has drawn the king of hearts. Its letter is A. The performer exclaims--'Ah! I'm sure you know this!' The A at once suggests the card in question. Suppose it is the ace of clubs. He says--'Jump at conclusions if you like, but be sure in hitting this card on the nail.' J begins the phrase, and represents the card in question. Suppose it is the ten of spades, he cries out--'Zounds! if you mistake this you are not so clever a medium as I took you for.' The ace of diamonds--'Quite easy, my dear sir,' or 'my dear ma'am,' as the case may be. Q represents the ace of diamonds. The queen of diamonds--'Oh, the beauty!' The ace of hearts--'Dear me! what is this?' The ace of spades--'You are always right, name it.' The nine of diamonds--'So! so! well, I'm sure she knows it.' Doubtless these specimens will suffice to suggest phrases for every other card. Such phrases may be written out and got by heart--only twenty-three being required; but this seems useless, for it does not require much tact at improvisation to hit upon a phrase commencing with any letter. However, it will be better to take every precaution rather than run the risk of stopping in the performance, whose success mainly depends upon the apparently inspired rapidity of the answers. The performer might conceal in the hollow of his hand a small table exactly like the figure, to facilitate his questions. As for the medium, he, or she, must rely entirely on memory. Of course the spectators may be allowed to see that the medium is completely blindfolded. This modern trick has always puzzled the keenest spectators 15. The mystery of double sight. All the cards of a pack, or indeed any common object touched by a spectator, may be named by an assistant in the following way--whilst in another apartment, or blindfolded. Take 32 cards and arrange them in four lines, one under the other. You arrange with your assistant to name the first line after the days of the week; the second will represent the weeks, the third the months, the fourth the years. The assistant is enjoined to count the days aloud, and the first card by the left. The following is the entire scheme:-- Days 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8* Weeks 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 Months 1 2 3** 4 5 6 7 8 Years 1 2 3 4 5 6 7*** 8 The cards being thus arranged, the party who has to guess them retires from the room. When he is recalled, whether blindfolded or not, he pretends to count to himself for a considerable time, so as to allow his associate time to say to him, without affectation or exciting suspicion of collusion--'I give you,' or 'I give him SO MUCH TIME to guess what is required; 'for it is in this phrase that the whole secret of the trick is contained, as I shall proceed to demonstrate. Suppose the card touched be one of those marked with the asterisks * ** ***; if it be the first, the associate says,; I give him eight days to guess it.' Then the medium, beginning with the upper line, that of the days, will at once be able to say that the card touched is the eighth of the first horizontal line, or the first of the eighth vertical line. If it be the card holding the place of the number marked with two asterisks ** the associate says 'three months,' and 'seven years' for the one marked with three asterisks ***. Thus, whatever card is touched, it will be easy to indicate it, by beginning with the line of days at the top, counting one from the left of the associate and medium. Such is the simple process; and the following is the conventional catechism adopted by all theoperators in double sight, with a few variations adapted to circumstances. With this collection of words and phrases, every existing object can be guessed, provided care be taken to classify them according to the following indications. To operate, two persons must establish a perfect understanding between them. One undertakes the questions, the other the answers, the latter having his eyes perfectly blindfolded. Both of them must thoroughly know the following numbers with their correspondences:-- 1. Now. 9. Quick. 2. Answer or reply. 10. Say. 3. Name. 20. Tell me. 4. What is the object, or thing. 30. I request you. 5. Try. 40. Will you. 6. Again. 50. Will you (to) me. 7. Instantly. 60. Will you (to) us. 8. Which? Example:--Add the question of the simple number to the question of the decade or ten. Thus, in pronouncing the words 'Say now,' 11--for say is 10, and now is 1, total 11. This, therefore, forms question 11. Again--'Tell me which number,' 28--for 'tell me' is 20, and 'which' is 8, total 28. Thirdly:--'I request you instantly,' 37; for 'I request you' is 30, and 'instantly' is 7, total 37. All the expressions or words that follow are totally independent of the answer, and are only adapted to embellish or mystify the question as far as the audience is concerned. For instance: Question 7. Instantly, what I have in my hand? Answer, A watch. Question 9. Quick, the hour? Answer, nine o'clock. Question 30, I request you (2) reply--the minutes. Answer, 32 minutes, that is 30 and 2, equal to 32. It would be useless to give the entire correspondence invented for this apparently mysterious revelation, as a few specimens will suffice to show the principle. Say what I hold? A handkerchief. Say now what I hold? A snuff-box. Say, reply, what I hold? A pair of spectacles. Say and name what I hold? A box. Say and try to say what I hold? A hat. Say quickly what I hold? An umbrella. Tell me, reply, what I hold? A knife. Tell me what I hold? A purse. Tell me now what I hold? A pipe. Tell me and try to say what I hold? A needle. Tell me quickly what I hold? A cane. I request you to say what I hold? A portfolio. I request you to say now what I hold? Paper. I request you to say, reply, what I hold? A book. I request you to say quickly what I hold? A coin. Will you say, reply, what I hold?--A cigar. Will you say, name what I hold?--A cane. Will you say, again, what I hold?--A newspaper. Now, what I hold?--A bottle. Reply, what I hold?--A jug. Name what I hold?--A glass. Again, what contains this vessel?--Wine. Instantly, what this vessel contains?--Beer. Now the form?--Triangular. Reply, the form?--Round. Name the form?--Square. The form?--Oval. Try to indicate the form?--Pointed. Again, indicate the form?--Flat. Now, the colour?--White. Reply, the colour?--Blue. Name the colour?--Red. The colour of this object?--Black. Try to tell the colour?--Green. Again, the colour?--Yellow. Now, the metal?--Gold. Reply, the metal?--Silver. The metal of the thing?--Copper. Again, the metal?--Iron. Instantly, the metal?--Lead. Ah! the figure or hour?--1. Well?--2. 'Tis good?--3. 'Tis well?--4. Good?--5. But?--6. Let's see?--7. That's it?--8. &c. Now name the suit of this card?--Clubs. Reply, the suit of this card?--Hearts. Name the suit of this card?--Spades. The suit of this card?--Diamonds. It is obvious, from the preceding specimen, that a conventional catechism involving every object can be contrived by two persons, and adapted to every circumstance. The striking performances of the most notorious mesmeric 'patients' in this line prove the possibility of the achievement. The 'agent' who receives the questions in writing or in a whisper thus communicates the answer to the patient, who is laboriously trained in the entire encyclopaedia of 'common things' and things generally known; but it MAY happen that the question proposed by the spectator has been omitted in the scheme. On one occasion, when the famous Prudence was the 'patient,' and was telling the taste of all manner of liquids from a glass of water, I proposed 'Blood' to the 'agent.' He shook his head, said he would try; but it was useless. She said she 'couldn't do it,' and the agent frankly admitted that it was a failure. Now, if the mesmeric consciousness were really, as pretended, the result of mental intercommunication between the agent and patient, it is obvious that the well-known taste of blood could be communicated as well as any other taste. This experiment suffices to prove that the revelations are communicated in the matter-of-fact way which I have sufficiently described. Should it happen that a spectator has discovered the method, the performers easily turn the tables against him. They have always ready a conventional list of common things; and the agent undertakes that his mesmeric patient will indicate them without hearing a word from him, even in another apartment. The agent then merely touches the object, and the patient begins with the first name in his list. The patient takes care to give the agent sufficient time, lest he should name the object next to be touched before the agent applies his finger, and thus, as it were, call for it rather than name it when touched, as required by the case. 1. Guessing. Five persons having each thought of a different card, to guess five cards. Take twenty-five cards, show five of them to a party, requesting him to think of one, then place them one upon the other. Proceed in like manner with five more to a second party, and so on, five parties in all, placing the fives on the top of each other. Then, beginning with the top cards, make five lots, placing one card successively in each lot; and ask the five parties, one after the other, in which lot their card is. As the first five cards are the first of each lot, it is evident that the card thought of by the first party is the first of the lot he points to; that of the second, is the second of the lot he points to; that of the third, the third of the third lot; that of the fourth, the fourth of the fourth lot; that of the fifth, the fifth of the fifth lot. Of course five persons are not necessary. If there be but one person, the card must be the first of the lot he points to. It would be more artistic, perhaps, if you dispense with seeing the cards, making the lots up with your eyes turned away from the table. Then request the parties to observe in which lot their respective card is, and, taking the lots successively in hand, present to each the card thought of without looking at it yourself. 17. The Arithmetical Puzzle. This card trick, to which I have alluded in a previous page, cannot fail to produce astonishment; and it is one of the most difficult to unravel. Hand a pack of cards to a party, requesting him to make up parcels of cards, in the following manner. He is to count the number of pips on the first card that turns up, say a five, and then add as many cards as are required to make up the number 12; in the case here supposed, having a five before him, he will place seven cards upon it, turning down the parcel. All the court cards count as 10 pips; consequently, only two cards will be placed on such to make up 12. The ace counts as only one pip. He will then turn up another, count the pips upon it, adding cards as before to make up the number 12; and so on, until no more such parcels can be made, the remainder, if any, to be set aside, all being turned down. During this operation, the performer of the trick may be out of the room, at any rate, at such a distance that it will be impossible for him to see the first cards of the parcels which have been turned down; and yet he is able to announce the number of pips made up by all the first cards laid down, provided he is only informed of the number of parcels made up and the number of the remainder, if any. The secret is very simple. It consists merely in multiplying the number of parcels over four by 13 (or rather vice versa), and adding the remaining cards, if any, to the product. Thus, there have just been made up seven packets, with five cards over. Deducting 4 from 7, 3 remain; and I say to myself 13 times 3 (or rather 3 times 13) are 39, and adding to this the five cards over, I at once declare the number of pips made up by the first cards turned down to be 44. There is another way of performing this striking trick. Direct six parcels of cards to be made up in the manner aforesaid, and then, on being informed of the number of cards remaining over, add that number to 26, and the sum will be the number of pips made up by the first cards of the six parcels. Such are the methods prescribed for performing this trick; but I have discovered another, which although, perhaps, a little more complicated, has the desirable advantage of explaining the seeming mystery. Find the number of cards in the parcels, by subtracting the remainder, if any, from 52. Subtract the number of pip cards therefrom, deduct this last from the number made up of the number of parcels multiplied by 12, and the remainder will be the number of pips on the first cards. To demonstrate this take the case just given. There are seven parcels and five cards over. First, this proves that there are 47 cards in the seven parcels made up of pips and cards. Secondly, subtract the number of pip cards--seven from the number of cards in the parcels; then, 7 from 47, 40 remain (cards). Thirdly, now, as the seven parcels are made up both of the pip cards and cards, it is evident that we have only to find the number of cards got at as above, to get the number of pips required. Thus, there being seven packets, 7 times 12 make 84; take 40, as above found (the number of cards), and the remainder is 44, the number of pips as found by the first method explained,--the process being as follows:-- 52 - 5 = 47 - 7 = 40. Then, 7 X 12 = 84 - 40 = 44. In general, however, the first method, being the easiest of performance, should be adopted. The second is in many respects very objectionable. 18. To get a card into a pack firmly held by a party. This trick strikingly shows how easily we may all be deceived by appearances. Select the five or seven of any suit, say the seven of hearts, and handing the remainder of the pack to a party, show him the card, with your thumb on the seventh pip, so as to conceal it, saying:--'Now, hold the pack as firmly as you can, and keep your eye upon it to see that there is no trickery, and yet I undertake to get into it this six of hearts.' This injunction rivets his attention, and doubtless, like other wise people destined to be deceived, he feels quite sure that nobody can 'take him in.' In this satisfactory condition for the operation on both sides, you flourish the card so as just to reach the level of the top of your hat (if you wear an Alpine scolloped, so much the better), and then, bringing down the card, rapidly strike it on the pack twice, uttering the words one, two, at each stroke; but, on the third raising of the card, leave it on the top of your hat, striking the pack with your hand--with the word three. Then request the party to look for the six of hearts in the pack, and he will surely find it, to his amazement. This trick may be performed in a drawing-room, if the operator be seated, dropping the card behind his back, especially in an easy-chair. 
466	----	THE GAMING TABLE: ITS VOTARIES AND VICTIMS, In all Times and Countries, especially in England and in France. IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. I. By Andrew Steinmetz, Esq., Of The Middle Temple, Barrister-At-Law; First-Class Extra Certificate School Of Musketry, Hythe; Late Officer Instructor Musketry, The Queens Own Light Infantry Militia. Author Of 'The History Of The Jesuits,' 'Japan And Her People,' 'The Romance Of Duelling,' &C., &C. 'The sharp, the blackleg, and the knowing one, Livery or lace, the self-same circle, run; The same the passion, end and means the same--Dick and his Lordship differ but in name.' TO HIS GRACE The Duke of Wellington, K.G. THIS WORK IS DEDICATED, WITH PERMISSION, BY HIS GRACE'S MOST DEVOTED SERVANT THE AUTHOR. PREFACE. To the readers of the present generation much of this book will, doubtless, seem incredible. Still it is a book of facts--a section of our social history, which is, I think, worth writing, and deserving of meditation. Forty or fifty years ago--that is, within the memory of many a living man--gambling was 'the rage' in England, especially in the metropolis. Streets now meaningless and dull--such as Osendon Street, and streets and squares now inhabited by the most respectable in the land--for instance, St James's Square, THEN opened doors to countless votaries of the fickle and capricious goddess of Fortune; in the rooms of which many a nobleman, many a gentleman, many an officer of the Army and Navy, clergymen, tradesmen, clerks, and apprentices, were 'cleaned out'--ruined, and driven to self-murder, or to crimes that led to the gallows. 'I have myself,' says a writer of the time, 'seen hanging in chains a man whom a short time before I saw at a Hazard table!' History, as it is commonly written, does not sufficiently take cognizance of the social pursuits and practices that sap the vitality of a nation; and yet these are the leading influences in its destiny--making it what it is and will be, at least through many generations, by example and the inexorable laws that preside over what is called 'hereditary transmission.' Have not the gambling propensities of our forefathers influenced the present generation?.... No doubt gambling, in the sense treated of in this book, has ceased in England. If there be here and there a Roulette or Rouge et Noir table in operation, its existence is now known only to a few 'sworn-brethren;' if gambling at cards 'prevails' in certain quarters, it is 'kept quiet.' The vice is not barefaced. It slinks and skulks away into corners and holes, like a poisoned rat. Therefore, public morality has triumphed, or, to use the card-phrase, 'trumped' over this dreadful abuse; and the law has done its duty, or has reason to expect congratulation for its success, in 'putting down' gaming houses. But we gamble still. The gambling on the Turf (now the most uncertain of all 'games of chance') was, lately, something that rang through and startled the entire nation. We gamble in the funds. We gamble in endless companies (limited)--all resulting from the same passion of our nature, which led to the gambling of former times with cards, with dice, at Piquet, Basset, Faro, Hazard, E O, _Roulette_, and _Rouge et Noir_. At a recent memorable trial, the Lord Chief Justice of England exclaimed--'There can be no doubt--any one who looks around him cannot fail to perceive--that a spirit of speculation and gambling has taken hold of the minds of large classes of the population. Men who were wont to be satisfied with moderate gain and safe investments seem now to be animated by a spirit of greed after gain, which makes them ready to embark their fortunes, however hardly gained, in the vain hope of realizing immense returns by premiums upon shares, and of making more than safe and reasonable gains. We see that continually.' In fact, we may not be a jot better morally than our forefathers. But that is no reason why we should not frown over the story of their horrid sins, and, 'having a good conscience,' think what sad dogs they were in their generation--knowing, as we do, that none of us at the present day lose _FIFTY OR A HUNDRED THOUSAND POUNDS_ at play, at a sitting, in one single night--as was certainly no very uncommon 'event' in those palmy days of gaming; and that we could not--as was done in 1820--produce a list of _FIVE HUNDRED_ names (in London alone) of noblemen, gentlemen, officers of the Army and Navy, and clergymen, who were veteran or indefatigable gamesters, besides 'clerks, grocers, horse-dealers, linen-drapers, silk-mercers, masons, builders, timber-merchants, booksellers, &c., &c., and men of the very lowest walks of life,' who frequented the numerous gaming houses throughout the metropolis--to their ruin and that of their families more or less (as deploringly lamented by Captain Gronow), and not a few of them, no doubt, finding themselves in that position in which they could exclaim, at _OUR_ remonstrance, as feelingly as did King Richard-- 'Slave! I have set my life upon a _CAST_, And I will stand the _HAZARD OF THE DIE!_' Nor is gaming as yet extinct among us. Every now and then a batch of youngsters is brought before the magistrates charged with vulgar 'tossing' in the streets; and every now and then we hear of some victim of genteel gambling, as recently--in the month of February, 1868--when 'a young member of the aristocracy lost L10,000 at Whist.' Nay, at the commencement of the present year there appeared in a daily paper the following startling announcement to the editor:-- 'Sir,--Allow me, through the columns of your paper, to call the attention of the parents and friends of the young officers in the Channel-fleet to the great extent gambling is carried on at Lisbon. Since the fleet has been there another gambling house has been opened, and is filled every evening with young officers, many of whom are under 18 years of age. On the 1st of January it is computed that upwards of L800 was lost by officers of the fleet in the gambling houses, and if the fleet is to stay there three months there will soon be a great number of the officers involved in debt. I will relate one incident that came under my personal notice. A young midshipman, who had lately joined the Channel fleet from the Bristol, drew a half-year's pay in December, besides his quarterly allowance, and I met him on shore the next evening without money enough to pay a boat to go off to his ship, having lost all at a gambling house. Hoping that this may be of some use in stopping the gambling among the younger officers, I remain, yours respectfully, AN OFFICER.'(1) (1) Standard, Jan. 12, 1870. In conclusion, I have contemplated the passion of gaming in all its bearings, as will be evident from the range of subjects indicated by the table of contents and index. I have ransacked (and sacked) hundreds of volumes for entertaining, amusing, curious, or instructive matter. Without deprecating criticism on my labours, perhaps I may state that these researches have probably terminated my career as an author. Immediately after the completion of this work I was afflicted with a degree of blindness rendering it impossible for me to read any print whatever, and compelling me to write only by dictation. ANDREW STEINMETZ. CONTENTS OF VOL. I. CHAP. I THE UNIVERSAL PASSION OF GAMING; OR, GAMING ALL THE WORLD OVER II GAMBLING AMONG THE ANCIENT HINDOOS--A HINDOO LEGEND AND ITS MODERN PARALLEL III GAMBLING AMONG THE ANCIENT EGYPTIANS, PERSIANS AND GREEKS IV GAMING AMONG THE ANCIENT ROMAN EMPERORS V GAMBLING IN FRANCE IN ALL TIMES VI THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF MODERN GAMING IN ENGLAND VII GAMBLING IN BRIGHTON IN 1817 VIII GAMBLING AT THE GERMAN BATHING-PLACES IX GAMBLING IN THE UNITED STATES X LADY GAMESTRESSES XI GAMBLING POETS, SAVANTS, PHILOSOPHERS, WITS, AND STATESMEN XII REMARKABLE GAMESTERS XIII THE LOTTERIES AND THEIR BEWILDERMENTS XIV THE LAWS AGAINST GAMING IN VARIOUS COUNTRIES THE GAMING TABLE. CHAPTER I. THE UNIVERSAL PASSION OF GAMING; OR, GAMING ALL THE WORLD OVER. A very apt allegory has been imagined as the origin of Gaming. It is said that the Goddess of Fortune, once sporting near the shady pool of Olympus, was met by the gay and captivating God of War, who soon allured her to his arms. They were united; but the matrimony was not holy, and the result of the union was a misfeatured child named Gaming. From the moment of her birth this wayward thing could only be pleased by cards, dice, or counters. She was not without fascinations, and many were her admirers. As she grew up she was courted by all the gay and extravagant of both sexes, for she was of neither sex, and yet combining the attractions of each. At length, however, being mostly beset by men of the sword, she formed an unnatural union with one of them, and gave birth to twins--one called DUELLING, and the other a grim and hideous monster named SUICIDE. These became their mother's darlings, nursed by her with constant care and tenderness, and her perpetual companions. The Goddess Fortune ever had an eye on her promising daughter--Gaming; and endowed her with splendid residences, in the most conspicuous streets, near the palaces of kings. They were magnificently designed and elegantly furnished. Lamps, always burning at the portals, were a sign and a perpetual invitation unto all to enter; and, like the gates of the Inferno, they were ever open to daily and nightly visitants; but, unlike the latter, they permitted _EXIT_ to all who entered--some exulting with golden spoil,--others with their hands in empty pockets,--some led by her half-witted son Duelling,--others escorted by her malignant monster Suicide, and his mate, the demon Despair. 'Religion, morals, virtue, all give way, And conscience dies, the prostitute of play. Eternity ne'er steals one thought between, Till suicide completes the fatal scene.' Such is the _ALLEGORY_;(2) and it may serve well enough to represent the thing in accordance with the usages of civilized or modern life; but Gaming is a _UNIVERSAL_ thing--the characteristic of the human biped all the world over. (2) It appeared originally, I think, in the Harleian Miscellany. I have taken the liberty to re-touch it here and there, with the view to improvement. The determination of events by 'lot' was a practice frequently resorted to by the Israelites; as, by lot it was determined which of the goats should be offered by Aaron; by lot the land of Canaan was divided; by lot Saul was marked out for the Hebrew kingdom; by lot Jonah was discovered to be the cause of the storm. It was considered an appeal to Heaven to determine the points, and was thought not to depend on blind chance, or that imaginary being called Fortune, who, '----With malicious joy, Promotes, degrades, delights in strife, And makes a _LOTTERY_ of life.' The Hindoo Code--a promulgation of very high antiquity--denounces gambling, which proves that there were desperate gamesters among the Hindoos in the earliest times. Men gamed, too, it would appear, after the example set them by the gods, who had gamesters among them. The priests of Egypt assured Herodotus that one of their kings visited alive the lower regions called infernal, and that he there joined a gaming party, at which he both lost and won.(3) Plutarch tells a pretty Egyptian story to the effect, that Mercury having fallen in love with Rhea, or the Earth, and wishing to do her a favour, gambled with the Moon, and won from her every seventieth part of the time she illumined the horizon--all which parts he united together, making up _FIVE DAYS_, and added them to the Earth's year, which had previously consisted of only 360 days.(4) (3) Herod. 1. ii. (4) Plutarch, _De Isid. et Osirid._ But not only did the gods play among themselves on Olympus, but they gambled with mortals. According to Plutarch, the priest of the temple of Hercules amused himself with playing at dice with the god, the stake or conditions being that if he won he should obtain some signal favour, but if he lost he would procure a beautiful courtesan for Hercules.(5) (5) _In Vita Romuli_. By the numerous nations of the East dice, and that pugnacious little bird the cock, have been and are the chief instruments employed to produce a sensation--to agitate their minds and to ruin their fortunes. The Chinese have in all times, we suppose, had cards--hence the absurdity of the notion that they were 'invented' for the amusement of Charles VI. of France, in his 'lucid intervals,' as is constantly asserted in every collection of historic facts. The Chinese invented cards, as they invented almost everything else that administers to our social and domestic comfort.(6) (6) Observations on Cards, by Mr Gough, in Archaeologia, vol. viii. 1787. The Asiatic gambler is desperate. When all other property is played away, he scruples not to stake his wife, his child, on the cast of a die or on the courage of the martial bird before mentioned. Nay more, if still unsuccessful, the last venture he makes is that of his limbs--his personal liberty--his life--which he hazards on the caprice of chance, and agrees to be at the mercy, or to become the slave, of his fortunate antagonist. The Malayan, however, does not always tamely submit to this last stroke of fortune. When reduced to a state of desperation by repeated ill-luck, he loosens a certain lock of hair on his head, which, when flowing down, is a sign of war and destruction. He swallows opium or some intoxicating liquor, till he works himself up into a fit of frenzy, and begins to bite and kill everything that comes in his way; whereupon, as the aforesaid lock of hair is seen flowing, it is lawful to fire at and destroy him as quickly as possible--he being considered no better than a mad dog. A very rational conclusion. Of course the Chinese are most eager gamesters, or they would not have been capable of inventing those dear, precious killers of time--cards, the EVENING solace of so many a household in the most respectable and 'proper' walks of life. Indeed, they play night and day--until they have lost all they are worth, and then they usually go--and hang themselves. If we turn our course northward, and penetrate the regions of ice perpetual, we find that the driven snow cannot effectually quench the flames of gambling. They glow amid the regions of the frozen pole. The Greenlanders gamble with a board, which has a finger-piece upon it, turning round on an axle; and the person to whom the finger points on the stopping of the board, which is whirled round, 'sweeps' all the 'stakes' that have been deposited. If we descend thence into the Western hemisphere, we find that the passion for gambling forms a distinguishing feature in the character of all the rude natives of the American continent. Just as in the East, these savages will lose their aims (on which subsistence depends), their apparel, and at length their personal liberty, on games of chance. There is one thing, however, which must be recorded to their credit--and to our shame. When they have lost their 'all,' they do not follow the example of our refined gamesters. They neither murmur nor repine. Not a fretful word escapes them. They bear the frowns of fortune with a philosophic composure.(7) (7) Carver, _Travels_. If we cross the Atlantic and land on the African shore, we find that the 'everlasting Negro' is a gambler--using shells as dice--and following the practice of his 'betters' in every way. He stakes not only his 'fortune,' but also his children and liberty, which he cares very little about, everywhere, until we incite him to do so--as, of course, we ought to do, for every motive 'human and divine.' There is no doubt, then, that this propensity is part and parcel of 'the unsophisticated savage.' Let us turn to the eminently civilized races of antiquity--the men whose example we have more or less followed in every possible matter, sociality, politics, religion--they were all gamblers, more or less. Take the grand prototypes of Britons, the Romans of old. That gamesters they were! And how gambling recruited the ranks of the desperadoes who gave them insurrectionary trouble! Catiline's 'army of scoundrels,' for instance. 'Every man dishonoured by dissipation,' says Sallust, 'who by his follies or losses at the gaming table had consumed the inheritance of his fathers, and all those who were sufferers by such misery, were the friends of this perverse man.' Horace, Juvenal, Persius, Cicero, and other writers, attest the fact of Roman gambling most eloquently, most indignantly. The Romans had 'lotteries,' or games of chance, and some of their prizes were of great value, as a good estate and slaves, or rich vases; others of little value, as vases of common earth, but of this more in the sequel. Among the Gothic kings who, in the fulness of time and accomplishments, 'succeeded' to that empire, we read of a Theodoric, 'a wise and valiant prince,' who was 'great lover of dice;' his solicitude in play was only for victory; and his companions knew how to seize the moment of his success, as consummate courtiers, to put forward their petitions and to make their requests. 'When I have a petition to prefer,' says one of them, 'I am easily beaten in the game that I may win my cause.'(8) What a clever contrivance! But scarcely equal to that of the _GREAT_ (in politeness) Lord Chesterfield, who, to gain a vote for a parliamentary friend, actually submitted to be _BLED!_ It appears that the voter was deemed very difficult, but Chesterfield found out that the man was a doctor, who was a perfect Sangrado, recommending bleeding for every ailment. He went to him, as in consultation, agreed with the man's arguments, and at once bared his arm for the operation. On the point of departure his lordship 'edged' in the question about the vote for his friend, which was, of course, gushingly promised and given. (8) Sed ego aliquid obsecraturus facile vincor; et mihi tabula perit ut causa salvetur.--Sidonius Apollinaris, _Epist_. Although there may not be much Gothic blood among us, it is quite certain that there is plenty of German mixture in our nation--taking the term in its very wide and comprehensive ethnology. Now, Tacitus describes the ancient stout and valiant Germans as 'making gaming with a die a very serious occupation of their sober hours.' Like the 'everlasting Negro,' they, too, made their last throw for personal liberty, the loser going into voluntary slavery, and the winner selling such slaves as soon as possible to strangers, in order not to have to blush for such a victory! If the 'nigger' could blush, he might certainly do so for the white man in such a conjuncture. At Naples and other places in Italy, at least in former times, the boatmen used thus to stake their liberty for a certain number of years. According to Hyde,(9) the Indians stake their fingers and cut them off themselves to pay the debt of honour. Englishmen have cut off their ears, both as a 'security' for a gambling loan, and as a stake; others have staked their lives by hanging, in like manner! Instances will be given in the sequel. (9) De Ludis Orient. But leaving these savages and the semi-savages of the very olden time, let us turn to those nearer to our times, with just as much religious truth and principle among them as among ourselves. The warmth with which 'dice-playing' is condemned in the writings of the _Fathers_, the venerable expounders of Christianity, as well as by 'edicts' and 'canons' of the Church, is unquestionably a sufficient proof of its general and excessive prevalence throughout the nations of Europe. When cards were introduced, in the fourteenth century, they only added fuel to the infernal flame of gambling; and it soon became as necessary to restrain their use as it had been that of dice. The two held a joint empire of ruin and desolation over their devoted victims. A king of France set the ruinous example--Henry IV., the roue, the libertine, the duellist, the gambler,--and yet (historically) the _Bon Henri_, the 'good king,' who wished to order things so that every Frenchman might have a _pot-au-feu_, or dish of flesh savoury, every Sunday for dinner. The money that Henry IV. lost at play would have covered great public expenses. There can be no doubt that the spirit of gaming went on acquiring new strength and development throughout every subsequent reign in France; and we shall see that under the Empire the thing was a great national institution, and made to put a great deal of money as 'revenue' into the hands of Fouche. But the Spaniards have always been, of all nations, the most addicted to gambling. A traveller says:--'I have wandered through all parts of Spain, and though in many places I have scarcely been able to procure a glass of wine, or a bit of bread, or any of the first conveniences of life, yet I never went through a village so mean and out of the way, in which I could not have purchased a pack of cards.' This was in the middle of the seventeenth century, but I have no doubt it is true at the present moment. If we can believe Voltaire, the Spaniards were formerly very generous in their gaming. 'The grandees of Spain,' he says, 'had a generous ostentation; this was to divide the money won at play among all the bystanders, of whatever condition. Montrefor relates that when the Duke of Lerma, the Spanish minister, entertained Gaston, brother of Louis XIII., with all his retinue in the Netherlands, he displayed a magnificence of an extraordinary kind. The prime minister, with whom Gaston spent several days, used to put two thousand louis d'ors on a large gaming-table after dinner. With this money Gaston's attendants and even the prince himself sat down to play. It is probable, however, that Voltaire extended a single instance or two into a general habit or custom. That writer always preferred to deal with the splendid and the marvellous rather than with plain matter of fact. There can be little doubt that the Spaniards pursued gaming in the vulgar fashion, just as other people. At any rate the following anecdote gives us no very favourable idea of Spanish generosity to strangers in the matter of gambling in modern times; and the worst of it is the suitableness of its application to more capitals than one among the kingdoms of Europe. 'After the bull-feast I was invited to pass the evening at the hotel of a lady, who had a public card-assembly.... This vile method of subsisting on the folly of mankind is confined in Spain to the nobility. None but women of quality are permitted to hold banks, and there are many whose faro-banks bring them in a clear income of a thousand guineas a year. The lady to whom I was introduced is an old countess, who has lived nearly thirty years on the profits of the card-tables in her house. They are frequented every day, and though both natives and foreigners are duped of large sums by her, and her cabinet-junto, yet it is the greatest house of resort in all Madrid. She goes to court, visits people of the first fashion, and is received with as much respect and veneration as if she exercised the most sacred functions of a divine profession. Many widows of great men keep gaming-houses and live splendidly on the vices of mankind. If you be not disposed to play, be either a sharper or a dupe, you cannot be admitted a second time to their assemblies. I was no sooner presented to the lady than she offered me cards; and on my excusing myself, because I really could not play, she made a very wry face, turned from me, and said to another lady in my hearing, that she wondered how any foreigner could have the impertinence to come to her house for no other purpose than to make an apology for not playing. My Spanish conductor, unfortunately for himself, had not the same apology. He played and lost his money--two circumstances which constantly follow in these houses. While my friend was thus playing _THE FOOL_, I attentively watched the countenance and motions of the lady of the house. Her anxiety, address, and assiduity were equal to that of some skilful shopkeeper, who has a certain attraction to engage all to buy, and diligence to take care that none shall escape the net. I found out all her privy-counsellors, by her arrangement of her parties at the different tables; and whenever she showed an extraordinary eagerness to fix one particular person with a stranger, the game was always decided the same way, and her good friend was sure to win the money. 'In short, it is hardly possible to see good company at Madrid unless you resolve to leave a purse of gold at the card-assemblies of their nobility.'(10) (10) 'Observations in a Tour through Spain.' We are assured that this state of things is by no means 'obsolete' in Spain, even at the present time. At the time in question, however, the beginning of the present century, there was no European nation among which gaming did not constitute one of its polite and fashionable amusements--with the exception of the _Turks_, who, to the shame of Christians, strictly obeyed the precepts of Mahomet, and scrupulously avoided the 'gambling itch' of our nature. In England gambling prevailed during the reign of Henry VIII.; indeed, it seems that the king was himself a gamester of the most unscrupulous sort; and there is ample evidence that the practice flourished during the reign of Elizabeth, James I., and subsequently, especially in the times of Charles II. Writing on the day when James II. was proclaimed king, Evelyn says, 'I can never forget the inexpressible luxury and profaneness, gaming and all dissoluteness, and as it were total forgetfulness of God (it being Sunday evening) which this day se'nnight I was witness of, the king sitting and toying with his concubines, Portsmouth, Cleaveland, and Mazarine, &c., a French boy singing love-songs, in that glorious gallery, whilst about twenty of the great courtiers and other dissolute persons were at Basset round a large table; a bank of at least L2000 in gold before them, upon which two gentlemen who were with me made reflections with astonishment. Six days after all was in the dust!' The following curious observations on the gaming in vogue during the year 1668 are from the Harleian Miscellany: 'One propounded this question, "Whether men in ships at sea were to be accounted amongst the living or the dead--because there were but few inches betwixt them and drowning?" The same query may be made of gamesters, though their estates be never so considerable--whether they are to be esteemed rich or poor, since there are but a few casts at dice betwixt a person of fortune (in that circumstance) and a beggar. 'Betwixt twelve and one of the clock a good dinner is prepared by way of ordinary, and some gentlemen of civility and condition oftentimes eat there, and play a while for recreation after dinner, both moderately and most commonly without deserving reproof. Towards night, when ravenous beasts usually seek their prey, there come in shoals of hectors, trepanners, gilts, pads, biters, prigs, divers, lifters, kidnappers, vouchers, mill kens, piemen, decoys, shop-lifters, foilers, bulkers, droppers, gamblers, donnakers, crossbiters, &c., under the general appellation of "rooks;" and in this particular it serves as a nursery for Tyburn, for every year some of this gang march thither. 'Would you imagine it to be true--that a grave gentleman, well stricken in years, insomuch as he cannot see the pips of the dice, is so infatuated with this witchery as to play here with others' eyes,--of whom this quibble was raised, "Mr Such a one plays at dice by the ear." Another gentleman, stark blind, I have seen play at Hazard, and surely that must be by the ear too. 'Late at night, when the company grows thin, and your eyes dim with watching, false dice are often put upon the ignorant, or they are otherwise cozened, with topping or slurring, &;c.; and, if you be not vigilant, the box-keeper shall score you up double or treble boxes, and, though you have lost your money, dun you as severely for it as if it were the justest debt in the world. 'There are yet some genteeler and more subtle rooks, whom you shall not distinguish by their outward demeanour from persons of condition; and who will sit by a whole evening, and observe who wins; and then, if the winner be "bubbleable," they will insinuate themselves into his acquaintance, and civilly invite him to drink a glass of wine,--wheedle him into play, and win all his money, either by false dice, as high fulhams,(11) low fulhams, or by palming, topping, &c. Note by the way, that when they have you at the tavern and think you a sure "bubble," they will many times purposely lose some small sum to you the first time, to engage you more freely to _BLEED_ (as they call it) at the second meeting, to which they will be sure to invite you. (11) It appears that false dice were originally made at _Fulham;_ hence so called, high and low fulhams; the high ones were the numbers 4, 5, 6. 'A gentleman whom ill-fortune had hurried into passion, took a box and dice to a side-table, and then fell to throwing by himself; at length he swears with an emphasis, "D--e, now I throw for nothin;, I can win a thousand pounds; but when I lay for money I lose my all." 'If the house find you free to box, and a constant caster, you shall be treated below with suppers at night, and caudle in the morning, and have the honour to be styled, "a lover of the house," whilst your money lasts, which certainly will not be long. 'Most gamesters begin at small games, and by degrees, if their money or estates hold out, they rise to great sums; some have played first all their money, then their rings, coach and horses, even their wearing clothes and _perukes;_ and then, such a farm; and at last, perhaps a lordship. 'You may read in our histories, how Sir Miles Partridge played at dice with King Henry the Eighth, for Jesus Bells (so called), which were the greatest in England, and hung in a tower of St Paul's church, and won them; whereby he brought them to ring in his pocket; but the ropes afterwards catched about his neck; for, in Edward the Sixth's days, he was hanged for some criminal offences.(12) (12) The clochier in Paul's Churchyard--a bell-house, four square, builded of stone, with four bells; these were called _Jesus_ Bells. The same had a great spire of timber, covered with lead, with the image of St Paul on the top, but was pulled down by Sir Miles Partridge, Kt, in the reign of Henry VIII. The common speech then was that he did set L100 upon a cast at dice against it, and so won the said clochier and bells of the king. And then causing the bells to be broken as they hung, the rest was pulled down, and broken also. This man was afterwards executed on Tower Hill, for matters concerning the Duke of Somerset, in the year 1551, the 5th of Edward VI.--Stowe, B. iii. 148. 'Sir Arthur Smithhouse is yet fresh in memory. He had a fair estate, which in a few years he so lost at play, that he died in great want and penury. Since that Mr Ba--, who was a clerk in the Six-Clerks Office, and well cliented, fell to play, and won by extraordinary fortune two thousand pieces in ready gold; was not content with that, played on, lost all he had won, and almost all his own estate; sold his place in the office, and at last marched off to a foreign plantation, to begin a new world with the sweat of his brow; for that is commonly the destiny of a decayed gamester--either to go to some foreign plantation, or to be preferred to the dignity of a _box-keeper_. 'It is not denied but most gamesters have, at one time or other, a considerable run of winning, but such is the infatuation of play, I could never hear of a man that gave over a winner--I mean, to give over so as never to play again. I am sure it is _rara avis_, for if you once "break bulk," as they phrase it, you are in again for all. Sir Humphry Foster had lost the greatest part of his estate, and then playing, as it is said, _FOR A DEAD HORSE_, did, by happy fortune, recover it again; then gave over, and wisely too.'(13) (13) Harleian Misc. ii. 108. The sequel will show the increase of gambling in our country during the subsequent reigns, up to a recent period. Thus, then, the passion of gaming is, and has ever been, universal. It is said that two Frenchmen could not exist even in a desert without _QUARRELLING;_ and it is quite certain that no two human beings can be anywhere without ere long offering to 'bet' upon something. Indolence and want of employment--'vacuity,' as Dr Johnson would call it--is the cause of the passion. It arises from a want of habitual employment in some material and regular line of conduct. Your very innocent card-parties at home--merely to kill _TIME_ (what a murder!) explains all the apparent mystery! Something must be substituted to call forth the natural activity of the mind; and this is in no way more effectually accomplished, in all indolent pursuits, than by those _EMOTIONS AND AGITATIONS_ which gambling produces. Such is the source of the thing in our _NATURE;_ but then comes the furious hankering after wealth--the desire to have it without _WORKING_ for it--which is the wish of so many of us; and _THIS_ is the source of that hideous gambling which has produced the contemptible characters and criminal acts which are the burthen of this volume. We love play because it satisfies our avarice,--that is to say, our desire of having more; it flatters our vanity by the idea of preference that fortune gives us, and of the attention that others pay to our success; it satisfies our curiosity, giving us a spectacle; in short, it gives us the different pleasures of surprise. Certain it is that the passion for gambling easily gets deeply rooted, and that it cannot be easily eradicated. The most exquisite melody, if compared with the music of dice, is then but discord; and the finest prospect in nature only a miserable blank when put in competition with the attractions of the 'honours' at a rubber of Whist. Wealth is the general centre of inclination. Whatever is the ultimate design, the immediate care is to be rich. No desire can be formed which riches do not assist to gratify. They may be considered as the elementary principles of pleasure, which may be combined with endless diversity. There are nearer ways to profit than up the steeps of labour. The prospect of gaining speedily what is ardently desired, has so far prevailed upon the passions of mankind, that the peace of life is destroyed by a general and incessant struggle for riches. It is observed of gold by an old epigrammatist, that to have is to be in fear; and to want it is to be in sorrow. There is no condition which is not disquieted either with the care of gaining or keeping money. No nation has exceeded ours in the pursuit of gaming. In former times--and yet not more than 30 or 40 years ago--the passion for play was predominant among the highest classes. Genius and abilities of the highest order became its votaries; and the very framers of the laws against gambling were the first to fall under the temptation of their breach! The spirit of gambling pervaded every inferior order of society. The gentleman was a slave to its indulgence; the merchant and the mechanic were the dupes of its imaginary prospects; it engrossed the citizen and occupied the rustic. Town and country became a prey to its despotism. There was scarcely an obscure village to be found wherein this bewitching basilisk did not exercise its powers of fascination and destruction. Gaming in England became rather a science than an amusement of social intercourse. The 'doctrine of chances' was studied with an assiduity that would have done honour to better subjects; and calculations were made on arithmetical and geometrical principles, to determine the degrees of probability attendant on games of mixed skill and chance, or even on the fortuitous throws of dice. Of course, in spite of all calculations, there were miserable failures--frightful losses. The polite gamester, like the savage, did not scruple to hazard the dearest interests of his family, or to bring his wife and children to poverty, misery, and ruin. He could not give these over in liquidation of a gambling debt; indeed, nobody would, probably, have them at a gift; and yet there were instances in which the honour of a wife was the stake of the infernal game!.... Well might the Emperor Justinian exclaim,--'Can we call _PLAY_ that which causes crime?'(14) (14) Quis enim ludos appellet eos, ex quibus crimina oriuntur?--_De Concept. Digest_. II. lib. iv. Sec. 9. CHAPTER II. GAMBLING AMONG THE ANCIENT HINDOOS.--A HINDOO LEGEND AND ITS MODERN PARALLEL. The recent great contribution to the history of India, published by Mr Wheeler,(15) gives a complete insight into this interesting topic; and this passage of the ancient Sanskrit epic forms one of the most wonderful and thrilling scenes in that most acceptable publication. (15) The History of India from the Earliest Ages. By J. Talboys Wheeler. Vol. I.--The Vedic Period and the Maha Bharata. As Mr Wheeler observes, the specialties of Hindoo gambling are worthy of some attention. The passion for play, which has ever been the vice of warriors in times of peace, becomes a madness amidst the lassitude of a tropical climate; and more than one Hindoo legend has been preserved of Rajas playing together for days, until the wretched loser has been deprived of everything he possessed and reduced to the condition of an exile or a slave. But gambling amongst the Hindoos does not appear to have been altogether dependent upon chance. The ancient Hindoo dice, known by the name of coupun, are almost precisely similar to the modern dice, being thrown out of a box; but the practice of loading is plainly alluded to, and some skill seems to have been occasionally exercised in the rattling of the dice-box. In the more modern game, known by the name of pasha, the dice are not cubic, but oblong; and they are thrown from the hand either direct upon the ground, or against a post or board, which will break the fall, and render the result more a matter of chance. The great gambling match of the Hindoo epic was the result of a conspiracy to ruin Yudhishthira, a successful warrior, the representative of a mighty family--the Pandavas, who were incessantly pursued by the envy of the Kauravas, their rivals. The fortunes of the Pandavas were at the height of human prosperity; and at this point the universal conception of an avenging Nemesis that humbles the proud and casts down the mighty, finds full expression in the Hindoo epic. The grandeur of the Pandavas excited the jealousy of Duryodhana, and revived the old feud between the Kauravas and the former. Duryodhana plotted with his brother Duhsasana and his uncle Sakuni, how they might dispossess the Pandavas of their newly-acquired territory; and at length they determined to invite their kinsmen to a gambling match, and seek by underhand means to deprive Yudhishthira of his Raj, or kingdom.(16) (16) The old Sanskrit words _Raj_, 'kingdom,' and Raja, 'king,' are evidently the origin of the Latin _reg-num, reg-o, rex, regula_, 'rule,' &c, reproduced in the words of that ancient language, and continued in the derivative vernaculars of modern names--_re, rey, roy, roi, regal, royal, rule_, &c. &c. It appears from the poem that Yudhishthira was invited to a game at coupun; and the legend of the great gambling match, which took place at Hastinapur, is related as follows: 'And it came to pass that Duryodhana was very jealous of the _Rajasuya_ or triumph that his cousin Yudhishthira had performed, and he desired in his heart to destroy the Pandavas, and gain possession of their Raj. Now Sakuni was the brother of Gandhari, who was the mother of the Kauravas; and he was very skilful in throwing dice, and in playing with dice that were loaded; insomuch that whenever he played he always won the game. So Duryodhana plotted with his uncle, that Yudhishthira should be invited to a match at gambling, and that Sakuni should challenge him to a game, and win all his wealth and lands. 'After this the wicked Duryodhana proposed to his father the Maharaja, that they should have a great gambling match at Hastinapur, and that Yudhishthira and his brethren should be invited to the festival. And the Maharaja was glad in his heart that his sons should be friendly with the sons of his deceased brother, Pandu; and he sent his younger brother, Vidura, to the city of Indra-prastha to invite the Pandavas to the game. And Vidura went his way to the city of the Pandavas, and was received by them with every sign of attention and respect. And Yudhishthira inquired whether his kinsfolk and friends at Hastinapur were all well in health, and Vidura replied, "They are all well." Then Vidura said to the Pandavas:--"Your uncle, the Maharaja, is about to give a great feast, and he has sent me to invite you and your mother, and your joint wife, to come to his city, and there will be a great match at dice-playing." When Yudhishthira heard these words he was troubled in mind, for he knew that gaming was a frequent cause of strife, and that he was in no way skilful in throwing the dice; and he likewise knew that Sakuni was dwelling at Hastinapur, and that he was a famous gambler. But Yudhishthira remembered that the invitation of the Maharaja was equal to the command of a father, and that no true Kshatriya could refuse a challenge either to war or play. So Yudhishthira accepted the invitation, and gave commandment that on the appointed day his brethren, and their mother, and their joint wife should accompany him to the city of Hastinapur. 'When the day arrived for the departure of the Pandavas they took their mother Kunti, and their joint wife Draupadi, and journeyed from Indra-prastha to the city of Hastinapur. And when they entered the city they first paid a visit of respect to the Maharaja, and they found him sitting amongst his Chieftains; and the ancient Bhishma, and the preceptor Drona, and Karna, who was the friend of Duryodhana, and many others, were sitting there also. 'And when the Pandavas had done reverence to the Maharaja, and respectfully saluted all present, they paid a visit to their aunt Gandhari, and did her reverence likewise. 'And after they had done this, their mother and joint wife entered the presence of Gandhari, and respectfully saluted her; and the wives of the Kauravas came in and were made known to Kunti and Draupadi. And the wives of the Kauravas were much surprised when they beheld the beauty and fine raiment of Draupadi; and they were very jealous of their kinswoman. And when all their visits had been paid, the Pandavas retired with their wife and mother to the quarters which had been prepared for them, and when it was evening they received the visits of all their friends who were dwelling at Hastinapur. 'Now, on the morrow the gambling match was to be played; so when the morning had come, the Pandavas bathed and dressed, and left Draupadi in the lodging which had been prepared for her, and went their way to the palace. And the Pandavas again paid their respects to their uncle the Maharaja, and were then conducted to the pavilion where the play was to be; and Duryodhana went with them, together with all his brethren, and all the chieftains of the royal house. And when the assembly had all taken their seats, Sakuni said to Yudhishthira:--"The ground here has all been prepared, and the dice are all ready: Come now, I pray you, and play a game." But Yudhishthira was disinclined, and replied:--"I will not play excepting upon fair terms; but if you will pledge yourself to throw without artifice or deceit, I will accept your challenge." Sakuni said,--"If you are so fearful of losing, you had better not play at all." At these words Yudhishthira was wroth, and replied:--"I have no fear either in play or war; but let me know with whom I am to play, and who is to pay me if I win." So Duryodhana came forward and said:--"I am the man with whom you are to play, and I shall lay any stakes against your stakes; but my uncle Sakuni will throw the dice for me." Then Yudhishthira said,--"What manner of game is this, where one man throws and another lays the stakes?" Nevertheless he accepted the challenge, and he and Sakuni began to play. 'At this point in the narrative it may be desirable to pause, and endeavour to obtain a picture of the scene. The so-called pavilion was probably a temporary booth constructed of bamboos and interlaced with basket-work; and very likely it was decorated with flowers and leaves after the Hindoo fashion, and hung with fruits, such as cocoa-nuts, mangoes, plantains, and maize. The Chieftains present seem to have sat upon the ground, and watched the game. The stakes may have been pieces of gold or silver, or cattle, or lands; although, according to the legendary account which follows, they included articles of a far more extravagant and imaginative character. With these passing remarks, the tradition of the memorable game may be resumed as follows:-- 'So Yudhishthira and Sakuni sat down to play, and whatever Yudhishthira laid as stakes, Duryodhana laid something of equal value; but Yudhishthira lost every game. He first lost a very beautiful pearl; next a thousand bags, each containing a thousand pieces of gold; next a piece of gold so pure that it was as soft as wax; next a chariot set with jewels and hung all round with golden bells; next a thousand war elephants with golden howdahs set with diamonds; next a lakh of slaves all dressed in good garments; next a lakh of beautiful slave girls, adorned from head to foot with golden ornaments; next all the remainder of his goods; next all his cattle; and then the whole of his Raj, excepting only the lands which had been granted to the Brahmans.(17) (17)'A lakh is a hundred thousand, and a crore is a hundred lakhs, or ten millions. The Hindoo term might therefore have been converted into English numerals, only that it does not seem certain that the bards meant precisely a hundred thousand slaves, but only a very large number. The exceptional clause in favour of the Brahmans is very significant. When the little settlement at Indra-prastha had been swelled by the imagination of the later bards into an extensive Raj, the thought may have entered the minds of the Brahmanical compilers that in losing the Raj, the Brahmans might have lost those free lands, known as inams or jagheers, which are frequently granted by pious Rajas for the subsistence of Brahmans. Hence the insertion of the clause.' 'Now when Yudhishthira had lost his Raj, the Chieftains present in the pavilion were of opinion that he should cease to play, but he would not listen to their words, but persisted in the game. And he staked all the jewels belonging to his brothers, and he lost them; and he staked his two younger brothers, one after the other, and he lost them; and he then staked Arjuna, and Bhima, and finally himself; and he lost every game. Then Sakuni said to him:--"You have done a bad act, Yudhishthira, in gaming away yourself and becoming a slave. But now, stake your wife, Draupadi, and if you win the game you will again be free." And Yudhishthira answered and said:--"I will stake Draupadi!" And all assembled were greatly troubled and thought evil of Yudhishthira; and his uncle Vidura put his hand to his head and fainted away, whilst Bhishma and Drona turned deadly pale, and many of the company were very sorrowful; but Duryodhana and his brother Duhsasana, and some others of the Kauravas, were glad in their hearts, and plainly manifested their joy. Then Sakuni threw the dice, and won Draupadi for Duryodhana. 'Then all in that assembly were in great consternation, and the Chieftains gazed upon one another without speaking a word. And Duryodhana said to his uncle Vidura:--"Go now and bring Draupadi hither, and bid her sweep the rooms." But Vidura cried out against him with a loud voice, and said:--"What wickedness is this? Will you order a woman who is of noble birth, and the wife of your own kinsman, to become a household slave? How can you vex your brethren thus? But Draupadi has not become your slave; for Yudhishthira lost himself before he staked his wife, and having first become a slave, he could no longer have power to stake Draupadi." Vidura then turned to the assembly and said:--"Take no heed to the words of Duryodhana, for he has lost his senses this day." Duryodhana then said:--"A curse be upon this Vidura, who will do nothing that I desire him." 'After this Duryodhana called one of his servants, and desired him to go to the lodgings of the Pandavas, and bring Draupadi into the pavilion. And the man departed out, and went to the lodgings of the Pandavas, and entered the presence of Draupadi, and said to her:--"Raja Yudhishthira has played you away, and you have become the slave of Raja Duryodhana: So come now and do your duty like his other slave girls." And Draupadi was astonished at these words, and exceedingly wroth, and she replied:--"Whose slave was I that I could be gambled away? And who is such a senseless fool as to gamble away his own wife?" The servant said:--"Raja Yudhishthira has lost himself, and his four brothers, and you also, to Raja Duryodhana, and you cannot make any objection: Arise, therefore, and go to the house of the Raja!" 'Then Draupadi cried out:--"Go you now and inquire whether Raja Yudhishthira lost me first or himself first; for if he played away himself first, he could not stake me." So the man returned to the assembly, and put the question to Yudhishthira; but Yudhishthira hung down his head with shame, and answered not a word. 'Then Duryodhana was filled with wrath, and he cried out to his servant:--"What waste of words is this? Go you and bring Draupadi hither, that if she has aught to say, she may say it in the presence of us all." And the man essayed to go, but he beheld the wrathful countenance of Bhima and he was sore afraid, and he refused to go, and remained where he was. Then Duryodhana sent his brother Duhsasana; and Duhsasana went his way to the lodgings of Draupadi and said:--"Raja Yudhishthira has lost you in play to Raja Duryodhana, and he has sent for you: So arise now, and wait upon him according to his commands; and if you have anything to say, you can say it in the presence of the assembly." Draupadi replied:--"The death of the Kauravas is not far distant, since they can do such deeds as these." And she rose up in great trepidation and set out, but when she came near to the palace of the Maharaja, she turned aside from the pavilion where the Chieftains were assembled, and ran away with all speed towards the apartments of the women. And Duhsasana hastened after her, and seized her by her hair, which was very dark and long, and dragged her by main force into the pavilion before all the Chieftains. 'And she cried out:--"Take your hands from off me!" But Duhsasana heeded not her words, and said:--"You are now a slave girl, and slave girls cannot complain of being touched by the hands of men." 'When the Chieftains thus beheld Draupadi, they hung down their heads from shame; and Draupadi called upon the elders amongst them, such as Bhishma and Drona, to acquaint her whether or no Raja Yudhishthira had gamed away himself before he had staked her; but they likewise held down their heads and answered not a word. 'Then she cast her eye upon the Pandavas, and her glance was like the stabbing of a thousand daggers, but they moved not hand or foot to help her; for when Bhima would have stepped forward to deliver her from the hands of Duhsasana, Yudhishthira commanded him to forbear, and both he and the younger Pandavas were obliged to obey the command of their elder brother. 'And when Duhsasana saw that Draupadi looked towards the Pandavas, he took her by the hand, and drew her another way, saying:--"Why, O slave, are you turning your eyes about you?" And when Karna and Sakuni heard Duhsasana calling her a slave, they cried out:--"Well said! well said!" 'Then Draupadi wept very bitterly, and appealed to all the assembly, saying:--"All of you have wives and children of your own, and will you permit me to be treated thus? I ask you one question, and I pray you to answer it." Duhsasana then broke in and spoke foul language to her, and used her rudely, so that her veil came off in his hands. And Bhima could restrain his wrath no longer, and spoke vehemently to Yudhishthira; and Arjuna reproved him for his anger against his elder brother, but Bhima answered:--"I will thrust my hands into the fire before these wretches shall treat my wife in this manner before my eyes." 'Then Duryodhana said to Draupadi:--"Come now, I pray you, and sit upon my thigh!" And Bhima gnashed his teeth, and cried out with a loud voice:--"Hear my vow this day! If for this deed I do not break the thigh of Duryodhana, and drink the blood of Duhsasana, I am not the son of Kunti!" 'Meanwhile the Chieftain Vidura had left the assembly, and told the blind Maharaja Dhritarashtra all that had taken place that day; and the Maharaja ordered his servants to lead him into the pavilion where all the Chieftains were gathered together. And all present were silent when they saw the Maharaja, and the Maharaja said to Draupadi:--"O daughter, my sons have done evil to you this day: But go now, you and your husbands, to your own Raj, and remember not what has occurred, and let the memory of this day be blotted out for ever." So the Pandavas made haste with their wife Draupadi, and departed out of the city of Hastinapur. 'Then Duryodhana was exceedingly wroth, and he said to his father, "O Maharaja, is it not a saying that when your enemy hath fallen down, he should be annihilated without a war? And now that we had thrown the Pandavas to the earth, and had taken possession of all their wealth, you have restored them all their strength, and permitted them to depart with anger in their hearts; and now they will prepare to make war that they may revenge themselves upon us for all that has been done, and they will return within a short while and slay us all: Give us leave then, I pray you, to play another game with these Pandavas, and let the side which loses go into exile for twelve years; for thus and thus only can a war be prevented between ourselves and the Pandavas." And the Maharaja granted the request of his son, and messengers were sent to bring back the brethren; and the Pandavas obeyed the commands of their uncle, and returned to his presence; and it was agreed upon that Yudhishthira should play one game more with Sakuni, and that if Yudhishthira won the Kauravas were to go into exile, and that if Sakuni won, the Pandavas were to go into exile; and the exile was to be for twelve years, and one year more; and during that thirteenth year those who were in exile were to dwell in any city they pleased, but to keep themselves so concealed that the others should never discover them; and if the others did discover them before the thirteenth year was over, then those who were in exile were to continue so for another thirteen years. So they sat down again to play, and Sakuni had a set of cheating dice as before, and with them he won the game. 'When Duhsasana saw that Sakuni had won the game, he danced about for joy; and he cried out:--"Now is established the Raj of Duryodhana." But Bhima said, "Be not elated with joy, but remember my words: The day will come when I will drink your blood, or I am not the son of Kunti." And the Pandavas, seeing that they had lost, threw off their garments and put on deer-skins, and prepared to depart into the forest with their wife and mother, and their priest Dhaumya; but Vidura said to Yudhishthira:--"Your mother is old and unfitted to travel, so leave her under my care;" and the Pandavas did so. And the brethren went out from the assembly hanging down their heads with shame, and covering their faces with their garments; but Bhima threw out his long arms and looked at the Kauravas furiously, and Draupadi spread her long black hair over her face and wept bitterly. And Draupadi vowed a vow, saying:-- '"My hair shall remain dishevelled from this day, until Bhima shall have slain Duhsasana and drank his blood; and then he shall tie up my hair again whilst his hands are dripping with the blood of Duhsasana."' Such was the great gambling match at Hastinapur in the heroic age of India. It appears there can be little doubt of the truth of the incident, although the verisimilitude would have been more complete without the perpetual winning of the cheat Sakuni--which would be calculated to arouse the suspicion of Yudhishthira, and which could scarcely be indulged in by a professional cheat, mindful of the suspicion it would excite. Throughout the narrative, however, there is a truthfulness to human nature, and a truthfulness to that particular phase of human nature which is pre-eminently manifested by a high-minded race in its primitive stage of civilization. To our modern minds the main interest of the story begins from the moment that Draupadi was lost; but it must be remembered that among that ancient people, where women were chiefly prized on sensual grounds, such stakes were evidently recognized. The conduct of Draupadi herself on the occasion shows that she was by no means unfamiliar with the idea: she protested--not on the ground of sentiment or matrimonial obligation--but solely on what may be called a technical point of law, namely, 'Had Yudhishthira become a slave before he staked his wife upon the last game?' For, of course, having ceased to be a freeman, he had no right to stake her liberty. The concluding scene of the drama forms an impressive figure in the mind of the Hindoo. The terrible figure of Draupadi, as she dishevels her long black hair, is the very impersonation of revenge; and a Hindoo audience never fails to shudder at her fearful vow--that the straggling tresses shall never again be tied up until the day when Bhima shall have fulfilled his vow, and shall then bind them up whilst his fingers are still dripping with the blood of Duhsasana. The avenging battle subsequently ensued. Bhima struck down Duhsasana with a terrible blow of his mace, saying,--'This day I fulfil my vow against the man who insulted Draupadi!' Then setting his foot on the breast of Duhsasana, he drew his sword, and cut off the head of his enemy; and holding his two hands to catch the blood, he drank it off, crying out, 'Ho! ho! Never did I taste anything in this world so sweet as this blood.' This staking of wives by gamblers is a curious subject. The practice may be said to have been universal, having furnished cases among civilized as well as barbarous nations. Of course the Negroes of Africa stake their wives and children; according to Schouten, a Chinese staked his wife and children, and lost them; Paschasius Justus states that a Venetian staked his wife; and not a hundred years ago certain debauchees at Paris played at dice for the possession of a celebrated courtesan. But this is an old thing. Hegesilochus, and other rulers of Rhodes, were accustomed to play at dice for the honour of the most distinguished ladies of that island--the agreement being that the party who lost had to bring to the arms of the winner the lady designated by lot to that indignity.(18) (18) Athen. lib. XI. cap. xii. There are traditions of such stakes having been laid and lost by husbands in _England;_ and a remarkable case of the kind will be found related in Ainsworth's 'Old Saint Paul's,' as having occurred during the Plague of London, in the year 1665. There can be little doubt that it is founded on fact; and the conduct of the English wife, curiously enough, bears a striking resemblance to that of Draupadi in the Indian narrative. A Captain Disbrowe of the king's body-guard lost a large sum of money to a notorious debauchee, a gambler and bully, named Sir Paul Parravicin. The latter had made an offensive allusion to the wife of Captain Disbrowe, after winning his money; and then, picking up the dice-box, and spreading a large heap of gold on the table, he said to the officer who anxiously watched his movements:--'I mentioned your wife, Captain Disbrowe, not with any intention of giving you offence, but to show you that, although you have lost your money, you have still a valuable stake left.' 'I do not understand you, Sir Paul,' returned Disbrowe, with a look of indignant surprise. 'To be plain, then,' replied Parravicin, 'I have won from you two hundred pounds--all you possess. You are a ruined man, and as such, will run any hazard to retrieve your losses. I give you a last chance. I will stake all my winnings--nay, double the amount--against your wife. You have a key of the house you inhabit, by which you admit yourself at all hours; so at least I am informed. If I win, that key shall be mine. I will take my chance of the rest. Do you understand me now?' 'I do,' replied the young man, with concentrated fury. 'I understand that you are a villain. You have robbed me of my money, and would rob me of my honour.' 'These are harsh words, sir,' replied the knight calmly; 'but let them pass. We will play first, and fight afterwards. But you refuse my challenge?' 'It is false!' replied Disbrowe, fiercely, 'I accept it.' And producing a key, he threw it on the table. 'My life is, in truth, set on the die,' he added, with a desperate look; 'for if I lose, I will not survive my shame.' 'You will not forget our terms,' observed Parravicin. 'I am to be your representative to-night. You can return home to-morrow.' 'Throw, sir,--throw,' cried the young man, fiercely. 'Pardon me,' replied the knight; 'the first cast is with you. A single main decides it.' 'Be it so,' returned Disbrowe, seizing the bow. And as he shook the dice with a frenzied air, the bystanders drew near the table to watch the result. 'Twelve!' cried Disbrowe, as he removed the box. 'My honour is saved! My fortune retrieved--Huzza!' 'Not so fast,' returned Parravicin, shaking the box in his turn. 'You were a little hasty,' he added, uncovering the dice. 'I am twelve too. We must throw again.' 'This is to decide,' cried the young officer, rattling the dice,--'Six!' Parravicin smiled, took the box, and threw _TEN_. 'Perdition!' ejaculated Disbrowe, striking his brow with his clenched hand. 'What devil tempted me to my undoing?... My wife trusted to this profligate!... Horror! It must not be!' 'It is too late to retract,' replied Parravicin, taking up the key, and turning with a triumphant look to his friends. Disbrowe noticed the smile, and, stung beyond endurance, drew his sword, and called to the knight to defend himself. In an instant passes were exchanged. But the conflict was brief. Fortune, as before, declared herself in favour of Parravicin. He disarmed his assailant, who rushed out of the room, uttering the wildest ejaculations of rage and despair. * * * * * * The winner of the key proceeded at once to use. He gained admittance to the captain's house, and found his way to the chamber of his wife, who was then in bed. At first mistaken for her husband Parravicin heard words of tender reproach for his lateness; and then, declaring himself, he belied her husband, stating that he was false to her, and had surrendered her to him. At this announcement Mrs Disbrowe uttered a loud scream, and fell back in the bed. Parravicin waited for a moment; but not hearing her move, brought the lamp to see what was the matter. She had fainted, and was lying across the pillow, with her night-dress partly open, so as to expose her neck and shoulders. The knight was at first ravished with her beauty; but his countenance suddenly fell, and an expression of horror and alarm took possession of it. He appeared rooted to the spot, and instead of attempting to render her any assistance, remained with his gaze fixed upon her neck. Rousing himself at length, he rushed out of the room, hurried down-stairs, and without pausing for a moment, threw open the street door. As he issued from it his throat was forcibly griped, and the point of a sword was placed at his breast. It was the desperate husband, who was waiting to avenge his wife's honour. 'You are in my power, villain,' cried Disbrowe, 'and shall not escape my vengeance.' 'You are already avenged,' replied Parravicin, shaking off his assailant--'_YOUR WIFE HAS THE PLAGUE_.' The profligate had been scared away by the sight of the 'plague spot' on the neck of the unfortunate lady. The husband entered and found his way to his wife's chamber. Instantaneous explanations ensued. 'He told me you were false--that you loved another--and had abandoned me,' exclaimed the frantic wife. 'He lied!' shouted Disbrowe, in a voice of uncontrollable fury. 'It is true that, in a moment of frenzy, I was tempted to set you--yes, _YOU_, Margaret--against all I had lost at play, and was compelled to yield up the key of my house to the winner. But I have never been faithless to you--never.' 'Faithless or not,' replied his wife bitterly, 'it is plain you value me less than play, or you would not have acted thus.' 'Reproach me not, Margaret,' replied Disbrowe. 'I would give worlds to undo what I have done.' 'Who shall guard me against the recurrence of such conduct?' said Mrs Disbrowe, coldly. 'But you have not yet informed me how I was saved!' Disbrowe averted his head. 'What mean you?' she cried, seizing his arm. 'What has happened? Do not keep me in suspense? Were you my preserver?' 'Your preserver was the plague,' rejoined Disbrowe, mournfully. The unfortunate lady then, for the first time, perceived that she was attacked by the pestilence, and a long and dreadful pause ensued, broken only by exclamations of anguish from both. 'Disbrowe!' cried Margaret at length, raising herself in bed, 'you have deeply, irrecoverably injured me. But promise me one thing.' 'I swear to do whatever you may desire,' he replied. 'I know not, after what I have heard, whether you have courage for the deed,' she continued. 'But I would have you kill this man.' 'I will do it,' replied Disbrowe. 'Nothing but his blood can wipe out the wrong he has done me,' she rejoined. 'Challenge him to a duel--a mortal duel. If he survives, by my soul, I will give myself to him.' 'Margaret!' exclaimed Disbrowe. 'I swear it,' she rejoined,' and you know my passionate nature too well to doubt I will keep my word.' 'But you have the plague!' 'What does that matter? I may recover.' 'Not so,' muttered Disbrowe. 'If I fall, I will take care you do not recover.... I will fight him to-morrow,' he added aloud. About noon on the following day Disbrowe proceeded to the Smyrna Coffee-house, where, as he expected, he found Parravicin and his companions. The knight instantly advanced towards him, and laying aside for the moment his reckless air, inquired, with a look of commiseration, after his wife. 'She is better,' replied Disbrowe, fiercely. 'I am come to settle accounts with you.' 'I thought they were settled long ago,' returned Parravicin, instantly resuming his wonted manner. 'But I am glad to find you consider the debt unpaid.' Disbrowe lifted the cane he held in his hand, and struck the knight with it forcibly on the shoulder. 'Be that my answer,' he said. 'I will have your life first, and your wife afterwards,' replied Parravicin fiercely. 'You shall have her if you slay me, but not otherwise,' retorted Disbrowe. 'It must be a mortal duel.' 'It must,' replied Parravicin. 'I will not spare you this time. I shall instantly proceed to the west side of Hyde Park, beneath the trees. I shall expect you there. On my return I shall call on your wife.' 'I pray you do so, sir,' replied Disbrowe, disdainfully. Both then quitted the Coffee-house, Parravicin attended by his companions, and Disbrowe accompanied by a military friend, whom he accidentally encountered. Each party taking a coach, they soon reached the ground, a retired spot completely screened from observation by trees. The preliminaries were soon arranged, for neither would admit of delay. The conflict then commenced with great fury on both sides; but Parravicin, in spite of his passion, observed far more caution than his antagonist; and taking advantage of an unguarded movement, occasioned by the other's impetuosity, passed his sword through his body. Disbrowe fell. 'You are again successful,' he groaned, 'but save my wife--save her!' 'What mean you?' cried Parravicin, leaning over him, as he wiped his sword. But Disbrowe could make no answer. His utterance was choked by a sudden effusion of blood on the lungs, and he instantly expired. Leaving the body in care of the second, Parravicin and his friends returned to the coach, his friends congratulating him on the issue of the conflict; but the knight looked grave, and pondered upon the words of the dying man. After a time, however, he recovered his spirits, and dined with his friends at the Smyrna; but they observed that he drank more deeply than usual. His excesses did not, however, prevent him from playing with his usual skill, and he won a large sum from one of his companions at Hazard. Flushed with success, and heated with wine, he walked up to Disbrowe's residence about an hour after midnight. As he approached the house, he observed a strangely-shaped cart at the door, and, halting for a moment, saw a body, wrapped in a shroud, brought out. Could it be Mrs Disbrowe? Rushing forward to one of the assistants in black cloaks, he asked whom he was about to inter. 'It is a Mrs Disbrowe,' replied the coffin-maker. 'She died of grief, because her husband was killed this morning in a duel; but as she had the plague, it must be put down to that. We are not particular in such matters, and shall bury her and her husband together; and as there is no money left to pay for coffins, they must go to the grave without them.' And as the body of his victim also was brought forth, Parravicin fell against the wall in a state of stupefaction. At this moment, Solomon Eagle, the weird plague-prophet, with his burning brazier on his head, suddenly turned the corner of the street, and, stationing himself before the dead-cart, cried in a voice of thunder--'Woe to the libertine! Woe to the homicide! for he shall perish in everlasting fire! Woe! woe!' Such is this English legend, as related by Ainsworth, but which I have condensed into its main elements. I think it bids fair to equal in interest that of the Hindoo epic; and if it be not true in every particular, so much the better for the sake of human nature. CHAPTER III. GAMBLING AMONG THE ANCIENT EGYPTIANS, PERSIANS, AND GREEKS. Concerning the ancient Egyptians we have no particular facts to detail in the matter of gambling; but it is sufficient to determine the existence of any special vice in a nation to find that there are severe laws prohibiting and punishing its practice. Now, this testimony not only exists, but the penalty is of the utmost severity, from which may be inferred both the horror conceived of the practice by the rulers of the Egyptians, and the strong propensity which required that severity to suppress or hold it in check. In Egypt, 'every man was easily admitted to the accusation of a gamester or dice-player; and if the person was convicted, he was sent to work in the quarries.'(19) Gambling was, therefore, prevalent in Egypt in the earliest times. (19) Taylor, _Ductor Dubitantium_, B. iv. c. 1. That gaming with dice was a usual and fashionable species of diversion at the Persian court in the times of the younger Cyrus (about 400 years before the Christian era), to go no higher, is evident from the anecdote related by some historians of those days concerning Queen Parysatis, the mother of Cyrus, who used all her art and skill in gambling to satiate her revenge, and to accomplish her bloodthirsty projects against the murderers of her favourite son. She played for the life or death of an unfortunate slave, who had only executed the commands of his master. The anecdote is as follows, as related by Plutarch, in the Life of Artaxerxes. 'There only remained for the final execution of Queen Parysatis's projects, and fully to satiate her vengeance, the punishment of the king's slave Mesabetes, who by his master's order had cut off the head and hand of the young Cyrus, who was beloved by Parysatis (their common mother) above Artaxerses, his elder brother and the reigning monarch. But as there was nothing to take hold of in his conduct, the queen laid this snare for him. She was a woman of good address, had abundance of wit, and _EXCELLED AT PLAYING A CERTAIN GAME WITH DICE_. She had been apparently reconciled to the king after the death of Cyrus, and was present at all his parties of pleasure and gambling. One day, seeing the king totally unemployed, she proposed playing with him for a thousand _darics_ (about L500), to which he readily consented. She suffered him to win, and paid down the money. But, affecting regret and vexation, she pressed him to begin again, and to play with her--_FOR A SLAVE_. The king, who suspected nothing, complied, and the stipulation was that the winner was to choose the slave. 'The queen was now all attention to the game, and made use of her utmost skill and address, which as easily procured her victory, as her studied neglect before had caused her defeat. She won--and chose Mesabetes--the slayer of her son--who, being delivered into her hands, was put to the most cruel tortures and to death by her command. 'When the king would have interfered, she only replied with a smile of contempt--"Surely you must be a great loser, to be so much out of temper for giving up a decrepit old slave, when I, who lost a thousand good _darics_, and paid them down on the spot, do not say a word, and am satisfied."' Thus early were dice made subservient to the purposes of cruelty and murder. The modern Persians, being Mohammedans, are restrained from the open practice of gambling. Yet evasions are contrived in favour of games in the tables, which, as they are only liable to chance on the 'throw of the dice,' but totally dependent on the 'skill' in 'the management of the game,' cannot (they argue) be meant to be prohibited by their prophet any more than chess, which is universally allowed to his followers; and, moreover, to evade the difficulty of being forbidden to play for money, they make an alms of their winnings, distributing them to the poor. This may be done by the more scrupulous; but no doubt there are numbers whose consciences do not prevent the disposal of their gambling profits nearer home. All excess of gaming, however, is absolutely prohibited in Persia; and any place wherein it is much exercised is called 'a habitation of corrupted carcases or carrion house.'(20) (20) Hyde, _De Ludis Oriental_. In ancient Greece gambling prevailed to a vast extent. Of this there can be no doubt whatever; and it is equally certain that it had an influence, together with other modes of dissipation and corruption, towards subjugating its civil liberties to the power of Macedon. So shamelessly were the Athenians addicted to this vice, that they forgot all public spirit in their continued habits of gaming, and entered into convivial associations, or formed 'clubs,' for the purposes of dicing, at the very time when Philip of Macedon was making one grand 'throw' for their liberties at the Battle of Chaeronea. This politic monarch well knew the power of depravity in enervating and enslaving the human mind; he therefore encouraged profusion, dissipation, and gambling, as being sure of meeting with little opposition from those who possessed such characters, in his projects of ambition--as Demosthenes declared in one of his orations.(21) Indeed, gambling had arrived at such a height in Greece, that Aristotle scruples not to rank gamblers 'with thieves and plunderers, who for the sake of gain do not scruple to despoil their best friends;'(22) and his pupil Alexander set a fine upon some of his courtiers because he did not perceive they made a sport or pastime of dice, but seemed to be employed as in a most serious business.(23) (21) First Olynthia. See also Athenaeus, lib. vi. 260. (22) Ethic. Ad Nicomachum, lib. iv. (23) Plutarch, _in Reg. et Imp. Apothegm_ The Greeks gambled not only with dice, and at their equivalent for _Cross and Pile_, but also at cock-fighting, as will appear in the sequel. From a remark made by the Athenian orator Callistratus, it is evident that desperate gambling was in vogue; he says that the games in which the losers go on doubling their stakes resemble ever-recurring wars, which terminate only with the extinction of the combatants.(24) (24) Xenophon, _Hist. Graec_. lib. VI. c. iii. CHAPTER IV. GAMING AMONG THE ANCIENT ROMAN EMPERORS. In spite of the laws enacted against gaming, the court of the Emperor Augustus was greatly addicted to that vice, and gave it additional stimulus among the nation. Although, however, he was passionately fond of gambling, and made light of the imputation on his character,(25) it appears that in frequenting the gambling table he had other motives besides mere cupidity. Writing to his daughter he said, 'I send you a sum with which I should have gratified my companions, if they had wished to play at dice or _odds and evens_.' On another occasion he wrote to Tiberius:--'If I had exacted my winnings during the festival of Minerva; if I had not lavished my money on all sides; instead of losing twenty thousand sestercii (about L1000), I should have gained one hundred and fifty thousand (L7500). I prefer it thus, however; for my bounty should win me immense glory.'(26) (25) Aleae rumorem nullo modo expavit. Suet. in Vita Augusti. (26) Sed hoc malo: benignitas enim mea me ad coelestem gloriam efferet. _Ubi supra_. This gambling propensity subjected Augustus to the lash of popular epigrams; among the rest, the following: Postquam bis classe victus naves perdidit, Aliquando ut vincat, ludit assidud aleam. 'He lost at sea; was beaten twice, And tries to win at least with dice.' But although a satirist by profession, the sleek courtier Horace spared the emperor's vice, contenting himself with only declaring that play was forbidden.(27) The two following verses of his, usually applied to the effects of gaming, really refer only to _RAILLERY._ (27) Carm. lib. III. Od. xxiv. Ludus enim genuit trepidum certamen et iram; Ira truces inimicitias et funebre bellum.(28) (28) Epist. lib. I. xix. He, however, has recorded the curious fact of an old Roman gambler, who was always attended by a slave, to pick up his dice for him and put them in the box.(29) Doubtless, Horace would have lashed the vice of gambling had it not been the 'habitual sin' of his courtly patrons. (29) Lib. II. Sat. vii. v. 15. It seems that Augustus not only gambled to excess, but that he gloried in the character of a gamester. Of himself he says, 'Between meals we played like old crones both yesterday and today.'(30) (30) Inter coenam lusimus (gr gerontikws) et heri et hodie. When he had no regular players near him, he would play with children at dice, at nuts, or bones. It has been suggested that this emperor gave in to the indulgence of gambling in order to stifle his remorse. If his object in encouraging this vice was to make people forget his proscriptions and to create a diversion in his favour, the artifice may be considered equal to any of the political ruses of this astute ruler, whose false virtues were for a long time vaunted only through ignorance, or in order to flatter his imitators. The passion of gambling was transmitted, with the empire, to the family of the Caesars. At the gaming table Caligula stooped even to falsehood and perjury. It was whilst gambling that he conceived his most diabolical projects; when the game was against him he would quit the table abruptly, and then, monster as he was, satiated with rapine, would roam about his palace venting his displeasure. One day, in such a humour, he caught a glimpse of two Roman knights; he had them arrested and confiscated their property. Then returning to the gaming table, he exultingly exclaimed that he had never made a better throw!(31) On another occasion, after having condemned to death several Gauls of great opulence, he immediately went back to his gambling companions and said:--'I pity you when I see you lose a few sestertii, whilst, with a stroke of the pen, I have just won six hundred millions.'(32) (31) Exultans rediit, gloriansque se nunquam prosperiore alea usum. Suet. in _Vita Calig_. (32) Thirty millions of pounds sterling. The sestertius was worth 1_s_. 3 3/4_d_. The Emperor Claudius played like an imbecile, and Nero like a madman. The former would send for the persons whom he had executed the day before, to play with him; and the latter, lavishing the treasures of the public exchequer, would stake four hundred thousand sestertii (L20,000) on a single throw of the dice. Claudius played at dice on his journeys, having the interior of his carriage so arranged as to prevent the motion from interfering with the game. From that period the title of courtier and gambler became synonymous. Gaming was the means of securing preferment; it was by gambling that Vitellius opened to himself so grand a career; gaming made him indispensable to Claudius.(33) (33) Claudio per aleae studium familiaris. Suet.in Vita Vitelli. Seneca, in his Play on the death of Claudius, represents him as in the lower regions condemned to pick up dice for ever, putting them into a box without a bottom!(34) (34) Nam quotiens missurus erat resonante fritillo, Utraque subducto fugiebat tessera fundo. _Lusus de Morte Claud. Caesar_. Caligula was reproached for having played at dice on the day of his sister's funeral; and Domitian was blamed for gaming from morning to night, and without excepting the festivals of the Roman calendar; but it seems ridiculous to note such improprieties in comparison with their habitual and atrocious crimes. The terrible and inexorable satirist Juvenal was the contemporary of Domitian and ten other emperors; and the following is his description of the vice in the gaming days of Rome: 'When was the madness of games of chance more furious? Now-a-days, not content with carrying his purse to the gaming table, the gamester conveys his iron chest to the play-room. It is there that, as soon as the gaming instruments are distributed, you witness the most terrible contests. Is it not mere madness to lose one hundred thousand sestertii and refuse a garment to a slave perishing with cold?'(35) (35) Sat. I. 87. It seems that the Romans played for ready money, and had not invented that multitude of signs by the aid of which, without being retarded by the weight of gold and silver, modern gamblers can ruin themselves secretly and without display. The rage for gambling spread over the Roman provinces, and among barbarous nations who had never been so much addicted to the vice as after they had the misfortune to mingle with the Romans. The evil continued to increase, stimulated by imperial example. The day on which Didius Julianus was proclaimed Emperor, he walked over the dead and bloody body of Pertinax, and began to play at dice in the next room.(36) (36) Dion Cass. _Hist. Rom_. l. lxxiii. At the end of the fourth century, the following state of things at Rome is described by Gibbon, quoting from Ammianus Marcellinus: 'Another method of introduction into the houses and society of the "great," is derived from the profession of gaming; or, as it is more politely styled, of play. The confederates are united by a strict and indissoluble bond of friendship, or rather of conspiracy; a superior degree of skill in the "tessarian" art, is a sure road to wealth and reputation. A master of that sublime science who, in a supper or assembly, is placed below a magistrate, displays in his countenance the surprise and indignation which Cato might be supposed to feel when he was refused the praetorship by the votes of a capricious people.'(37) (37) Amm. Marcellin. lib. XIV. c. vi. Finally, at the epoch when Constantine abandoned Rome never to return, every inhabitant of that city, down to the populace, was addicted to gambling. CHAPTER V. GAMBLING IN FRANCE IN ALL TIMES. CHARLES VI. and CHARLES VII.--The early French annals record the deeds of haughty and idle lords, whose chief occupations were tormenting their vassals, drinking, fighting, and gaming; for most of them were desperate gamblers, setting at defiance all the laws enacted against the practice, and outraging all the decencies of society. The brother of Saint Louis played at dice in spite of the repeated prohibitions of that virtuous prince. Even the great Duguesclin gamed away all his property in prison.(38) The Duc de Touraine, brother of Charles VI., 'set to work eagerly to win the king's money,' says Froissart; and transported with joy one day at having won five thousand livres, his first cry was--_Monseigneur, faites-moi payer_, 'Please to pay, Sire.' (38) Hist. de Dugueselin, par Menard. Gaming went on in the camp, and even in the presence of the enemy. Generals, after having ruined their own fortunes, compromised the safety of the country. Among the rest, Philibert de Chalon, Prince d'Orange, who was in command at the siege of Florence, under the Emperor Charles the Fifth, gambled away the money which had been confided to him for the pay of the soldiers, and was compelled, after a struggle of eleven months, to capitulate with those whom he might have forced to surrender.(39) (39) Paul. Jov. _Hist_. lib. xxix. In the reign of Charles VI. we read of an Hotel de Nesle which was famous for terrible gaming catastrophes. More than one of its frequenters lost their lives there, and some their honour, dearer than life. This hotel was not accessible to everybody, like more modern gaming _salons_, called _Gesvres_ and _Soissons;_ its gate was open only to the nobility, or the most opulent gentlemen of the day. There exists an old poem which describes the doings at this celebrated Hotel de Nesle.(40) The author, after describing the convulsions of the players and recording their blasphemies, says:-- (40) The title of this curious old poem is as follows:--'C'est le dit du Gieu des Dez fait par Eustace, et la maniere et contenance des Joueurs qui etoient a Neele, ou etoient Messeigneurs de Berry, de Bourgogne, et plusieurs autres.' Que maints Gentils-hommes tres haulx Y ont perdu armes et chevaux, Argent, honour, et Seignourie, Dont c'etoit horrible folie. 'How many very eminent gentlemen have there lost their arms and horses, their money and lordship--a horrible folly.' In another part of the poem he says:-- Li jeune enfant deviennent Rufien, Joueurs de Dez, gourmands et plains d'yvresse, Hautains de cuer, et ne leur chant en rien D'onneur, &c. 'There young men become ruffians, dice-players, gluttons, and drunkards, haughty of heart, and bereft of honour.' Still it seems that gaming had not then confounded all conditions, as at a later period. It is evident, from the history and memoirs of the times, that the people were more given to games of skill and exercise than games of chance. Before the introduction of the arquebus and gunpowder, they applied themselves to the practice of archery, and in all times they played at quoits, ninepins, bowls, and other similar games of skill.(41) (41) Sauval, _Antiquites de Paris_, ii. The invention of cards brought about some change in the mode of amusement. The various games of this kind, however, cost more time than money; but still the thing attracted the attention of the magistrates and the clergy. An Augustinian friar, in the reign of Charles VII., effected a wonderful reformation in the matter by his preaching. At his voice the people lit fires in several quarters of the city, and eagerly flung into them their cards and billiard-balls.(42) (42) Pasquier, _Recherche des Recherches_. With the exception of a few transient follies, nothing like a rage for gambling can be detected at that period among the lower ranks and the middle classes. The vice, however, continued to prevail without abatement in the palaces of kings and the mansions of the great. It is impossible not to remark, in the history of nations, that delicacy and good faith decline in proportion to the spread of gambling. However select may be the society of gamesters, it is seldom that it is exempt from all baseness. We have seen a proof of the practice of cheating among the Hindoos. It existed also among the Romans, as proved by the 'cogged' or loaded dice dug up at Herculaneum. The fact is that cheating is a natural, if not a necessary, incident of gambling. It may be inferred from a passage in the old French poet before quoted, that cheats, during the reign of Charles VI., were punished with 'bonnetting,'(43) but no instance of the kind is on record; on the contrary, it is certain that many of the French kings patronized and applauded well-known cheats at the gaming table. (43) Se votre ami qui bien vous sert En jouant vous changeoit les Dez, Auroit-il pas _Chapeau de vert_. LOUIS XI.--Brantome says that Louis XI., who seems not to have had a special secretary, being one day desirous of getting something written, perceived an ecclesiastic who had an inkstand hanging at his side; and the latter having opened it at the king's request, a set of dice fell out. 'What kind of _SUGAR-PLUMS_ are these?' asked his Majesty. 'Sire,' replied the priest, 'they are a remedy for the Plague.' 'Well said,' exclaimed the king, 'you are a fine _Paillard_ (a word he often used); '_YOU ARE THE MAN FOR ME_,' and took him into his service; for this king was fond of bon-mots and sharp wits, and did not even object to thieves, provided they were original and provocative of humour, as the following very funny anecdote will show. 'A certain French baron who had lost everything at play, even to his clothes, happening to be in the king's chamber, quietly laid hands on a small clock, ornamented with massive gold, and concealed it in his sleeve. Very soon after, whilst he was among the troop of lords and gentlemen, the clock began to strike the hour. We can well imagine the consternation of the baron at this contretemps. Of course he blushed red-hot, and tightened his arm to try and stifle the implacable sound of detection manifest--the _flagrans delictum_--still the clock went on striking the long hour, so that at each stroke the bystanders looked at each other from head to foot in utter bewilderment. 'The king, who, as it chanced, had detected the theft, burst out laughing, not only at the astonishment of the gentlemen present, who were at a loss to account for the sound, but also at the originality of the stunning event. At length Monsieur le Baron, by his own blushes half-convicted of larceny, fell on his knees before the king, humbly saying:--"Sire, the pricks of gaming are so powerful that they have driven me to commit a dishonest action, for which I beg your mercy." And as he was going on in this strain, the king cut short his words, exclaiming:--"The _PASTIME_ which you have contrived for us so far surpasses the injury you have done me that the clock is yours: I give it you with all my heart."'(44) (44) Duverdier, _Diverses Lecons_. HENRY III.--In the latter part of the sixteenth century Paris was inundated with brigands of every description. A band of Italian gamesters, having been informed by their correspondents that Henry III. had established card-rooms and dice-rooms in the Louvre, got admission at court, and won thirty thousand crowns from the king.(45) (45) Journal de Henri III. If all the kings of France had imitated the disinterestedness of Henry III., the vice of gaming would not have made such progress as became everywhere evident. Brantome gives a very high idea of this king's generosity, whilst he lashes his contemporaries. Henry III. played at tennis and was very fond of the game--not, however, through cupidity or avarice, for he distributed all his winnings among his companions. When he lost he paid the wager, nay, he even paid the losses of all engaged in the game. The bets were not higher than two, three, or four hundred crowns--never, as subsequently, four thousand, six thousand, or twelve thousand--when, however, payment was not as readily made, but rather frequently compounded for.(46) (46) Henry III. was also passionately fond of the childish toy _Bilboquet_, or 'Cup and Ball,' which he used to play even whilst walking in the street. Journal de Henri III., i. There was, indeed, at that time a French captain named La Roue, who played high stakes, up to six thousand crowns, which was then deemed exorbitant. This intrepid gamester proposed a bet of twenty thousand crowns against one of Andrew Doria's war-galleys. Doria took the bet, but he immediately declared it off, in apprehension of the ridiculous position in which he would be placed if he lost, saying,--'I don't wish that this young adventurer, who has nothing worth naming to lose, should win my galley to go and triumph in France over my fortune and my honour.' Soon, however, high stakes became in vogue, and to such an extent that the natural son of the Duc de Bellegarde was enabled to pay, out of his winnings, the large sum of fifty thousand crowns to get himself legitimated. Curiously enough, it is said that the greater part of this sum had been won in England.(47) (47) Amelot de la Houss. _Mem. Hist_. iii. HENRY IV.--Henry IV. early evinced his passion for gaming. When very young and stinted in fortune, he contrived the means of satisfying this growing propensity. When in want of money he used to send a promissory note, written and signed by himself, to his friends, requesting them to return the note or cash it--an expedient which could not but succeed, as every man was only too glad to have the prince's note of hand.(48) (48) Mem. de Nevers. ii. There can be no doubt that the example of Henry IV. was, in the matter of gaming, as in other vices, most pernicious. 'Henry IV.,' says Perefixe, 'was not a skilful player, but greedy of gain, timid in high stakes, and ill-tempered when he lost.' He adds rather naively, 'This great king was not without spots any more than the sun.'(49) (49) Hist. de Henri le Grand. Under him gambling became the rage. Many distinguished families were utterly ruined by it. The Duc de Biron lost in a single year more than five hundred thousand crowns (about L250,000). 'My son Constant,' says D'Aubigne, 'lost twenty times more than he was worth; so that, finding himself without resources, he abjured his religion.' It was at the court of Henry IV. that was invented the method of speedy ruin by means of written vouchers for loss and gain--which simplified the thing in all subsequent times. It was then also that certain Italian masters of the gaming art displayed their talents, their suppleness, and dexterity. One of them, named Pimentello, having, in the presence of the Duc de Sully, appealed to the honour which he enjoyed in having often played with Henry IV., the duke exclaimed,--'By heavens! So you are the Italian blood-sucker who is every day winning the king's money! You have fallen into the wrong box, for I neither like nor wish to have anything to do with such fellows.' Pimentello got warm. 'Go about your business,' said Sully, giving him a shove; 'your infernal gibberish will not alter my resolve. Go!'(50) (50) Mem. de Sully. The French nation, for a long time agitated by civil war, settled down at last in peace and abundance--the fruits of which prosperity are often poisoned. They were so by the gambling propensity of the people at large, now first manifested. The warrior, the lawyer, the artisan, in a word, almost all professions and trades, were carried away by the fury of gaming. Magistrates sold for a price the permission to gamble--in the face of the enacted laws against the practice. We can scarcely form an idea of the extent of the gaming at this period. Bassompierre declares, in his Memoirs, that he won more than five hundred thousand livres (L25,000) in the course of a year. 'I won them,' he says, 'although I was led away by a thousand follies of youth; and my friend Pimentello won more than two hundred thousand crowns (L100,000). Evidently this Pimentello might well be called a _blood-sucker_ by Sully.(51) He is even said to have got all the dice-sellers in Paris to substitute loaded dice instead of fair ones, in order to aid his operations. (51) In the original, however, the word is piffre, (vulgo) 'greedy-guts.' Nothing more forcibly shows the danger of consorting with such bad characters than the calumny circulated respecting the connection between Henry IV. and this infamous Italian:--it was said that Henry was well aware of Pimentello's manoeuvres, and that he encouraged them with the view of impoverishing his courtiers, hoping thereby to render them more submissive! Nero himself would have blushed at such a connivance. Doubtless the calumny was as false as it was stupid. The winnings of the courtier Bassompierre were enormous. He won at the Duc d'Epernon's sufficient to pay his debts, to dress magnificently, to purchase all sorts of extravagant finery, a sword ornamented with diamonds--'and after all these expenses,' he says, 'I had still five or six thousand crowns (two to three thousand pounds) left, _TO KILL TIME WITH_, pour tuer le temps.' On another occasion, and at a more advanced age, he won one hundred thousand crowns (L50,000) at a single sitting, from M. De Guise, Joinville, and the Marechal d'Ancre. In reading his Memoirs we are apt to get indignant at the fellow's successes; but at last we are tempted to laugh at his misery. He died so poor that he did not leave enough to pay the twentieth part of his debts! Such, doubtless, is the end of most gamblers. But to return to Henry IV., the great gambling exemplar of the nation. The account given of him at the gaming table is most afflicting, when we remember his royal greatness, his sublime qualities. His only object was to _WIN_, and those who played with him were thus always placed in a dreadful dilemma--either to lose their money or offend the king by beating him! The Duke of Savoy once played with him, and in order to suit his humour, dissimulated his game--thus sacrificing or giving up forty thousand pistoles (about L28,000). When the king lost he was most exacting for his 'revanche,' or revenge, as it is termed at play. After winning considerably from the king, on one occasion, Bassompierre, under the pretext of his official engagements, furtively decamped: the king immediately sent after him; he was stopped, brought back, and allowed to depart only after giving the 'revanche' to his Majesty. This 'good Henri,' who was incapable of the least dissimulation either in good or in evil, often betrayed a degree of cupidity which made his minister, Sully, ashamed of him;--in order to pay his gaming debts, the king one day deducted seventy-two thousand livres from the proceeds of a confiscation on which he had no claim whatever. On another occasion he was wonderfully struck with some gold-pieces which Bassompierre brought to Fontainebleau, called _Portugalloises_. He could not rest without having them. Play was necessary to win them, but the king was also anxious to be in time for a hunt. In order to conciliate the two passions, he ordered a gaming party at the Palace, left a representative of his game during his absence, and returned sooner than usual, to try and win the so much coveted _Portugalloises_. Even love--if that name can be applied to the grovelling passion of Henry IV., intensely violent as it was--could not, with its sensuous enticements, drag the king from the gaming table or stifle his despicable covetousness. On one occasion, whilst at play, it was whispered to him that a certain princess whom he loved was likely to fall into other arms:--'Take care of my money,' said he to Bassompierre, 'and keep up the game whilst I am absent on particular business.' During this reign gamesters were in high favour, as may well be imagined. One of them received an honour never conceded even to princes and dukes. 'The latter,' says Amelot de la Houssaie, 'did not enter the court-yard of the royal mansions in a carriage before the year 1607, and they are indebted for the privilege to the first Duc d'Epernon, the favourite of the late king, Henry III., who being wont to go every day to play with the queen, Marie de Medicis, took it into his head to have his carriage driven into the court-yard of the Louvre, and had himself carried bodily by his footmen into the very chamber of the queen--under the pretext of being dreadfully tormented with the gout, so as not to be able to stand on his legs.'(52) (52) Mem. Hist. iii. It is said, however, that Henry IV. was finally cured of gambling. _Credat Judaeus!_ But the anecdote is as follows. The king lost an immense sum at play, and requested Sully to let him have the money to pay it. The latter demurred, so that the king had to send to him several times. At last, however, Sully took him the money, and spread it out before him on the table, exclaiming--'There's the sum.' Henry fixed his eyes on the vast amount. It is said to have been enough to purchase Amiens from the Spaniards, who then held it. The king thereupon exclaimed:--'I am corrected. I will never again lose my money at gaming.' During this reign Paris swarmed with gamesters. Then for the first time were established _Academies de Jeu_, 'Gaming Academies,' for thus were termed the gaming houses to which all classes of society beneath the nobility and gentility, down to the lowest, rushed in crowds and incessantly. Not a day passed without the ruin of somebody. The son of a merchant, who possessed twenty thousand crowns, lost sixty thousand. It seemed, says a contemporary, that a thousand pistoles at that time were valued less than a _sou_ in the time of Francis I. The result of this state of things was incalculable social affliction. Usury and law-suits completed the ruin of gamblers. The profits of the keepers of gaming houses must have been enormous, to judge from the rents they paid. A house in the Faubourg Saint-Germain was secured at the rental of about L70 for a fortnight, for the purpose of gambling during the time of the fair. Small rooms and even closets were hired at the rate of many pistoles or half-sovereigns per hour; to get paid, however, generally entailed a fight or a law-suit. All this took place in the very teeth of the most stringent laws enacted against gaming and gamesters. The fact was, that among the magistrates some closed their eyes, and others held out their hands to receive the bribe of their connivance. LOUIS XIII.--At the commencement of the reign of Louis XIII. the laws against gaming were revived, and severer penalties were enacted. Forty-seven gaming houses at Paris, which had been licensed, and from which several magistrates drew a perquisite of a pistole or half a sovereign a day, were shut up and suppressed. These stringent measures checked the gambling of the 'people,' but not that of 'the great,' who went on merrily as before. Of course they 'kept the thing quiet'--gambled in secret--but more desperately than ever. The Marechal d'Ancre commonly staked twenty thousand pistoles (L10,000). Louis XIII. was not a gambler, and so, during this reign, the court did not set so bad an example. The king was averse to all games of chance. He only liked chess, but perhaps rather too much, to judge from the fact that, in order to enable him to play chess on his journeys, a chessboard was fitted in his carriage, the pieces being furnished with pins at the bottom so as not to be deranged or knocked down by the motion. The reader will remember that, as already stated, a similar gaming accommodation was provided for the Roman Emperor Claudius. The cup and ball of Henry III. and the chessboard of Louis XIII. are merely ridiculous. We must excuse well-intentioned monarchs when they only indulge themselves with frivolous and childish trifles. It is something to be thankful for if we have not to apply to them the adage--Quic-quid delirant reges plectuntur Achivi--'When kings go mad their people get their blows.' LOUIS XIV.--The reign of Louis XIV. was a great development in every point of view, gaming included. The revolutions effected in the government and in public morals by Cardinal Richelieu, who played a game still more serious than those we are considering, had very considerably checked the latter; but these resumed their vigour, with interest, under another Cardinal, profoundly imbued with the Italian spirit--the celebrated Mazarin. This minister, independently of his particular taste that way, knew how to ally gaming with his political designs. By means of gaming he contrived to protract the minority of the king under whom he governed the nation. 'Mazarin,' says St Pierre, 'introduced gaming at the court of Louis XIV. in the year 1648. He induced the king and the queen regent to play; and preference was given to games of chance. The year 1648 was the era of card-playing at court. Cardinal Mazarin played deep and with finesse, and easily drew in the king and queen to countenance this new entertainment, so that every one who had any expectation at court learned to play at cards. Soon after the humour changed, and games of chance came into vogue--to the ruin of many considerable families: this was likewise very destructive to health, for besides the various violent passions it excited, whole nights were spent at this execrable amusement. The worst of all was that card-playing, which the court had taken from the army, soon spread from the court into the city, and from the city pervaded the country towns. 'Before this there was something done for improving conversation; every one was ambitious of qualifying himself for it by reading ancient and modern books; memory and reflection were much more exercised. But on the introduction of gaming men likewise left of tennis, billiards, and other games of skill, and consequently became weaker and more sickly, more ignorant, less polished, and more dissipated. 'The women, who till then had commanded respect, accustomed men to treat them familiarly, by spending the whole night with them at play. They were often under the necessity of borrowing either to play, or to pay their losings; and how very ductile and complying they were to those of whom they had to borrow was well known.' From that time gamesters swarmed all over France; they multiplied rapidly in every profession, even among the magistracy. The Cardinal de Retz tells us, in his Memoirs, that in 1650 the oldest magistrate in the parliament of Bordeaus, and one who passed for the wisest, was not ashamed to stake all his property one night at play, and that too, he adds, without risking his reputation--so general was the fury of gambling. It became very soon mixed up with the most momentous circumstances of life and affairs of the gravest importance. The States-general, or parliamentary assemblies, consisted altogether of gamblers. 'It is a game,' says Madame de Sevigne, 'it is an entertainment, a liberty-hall day and night, attracting all the world. I never before beheld the States-general of Bretagne. The States-general are decidedly a very fine thing.' The same delightful correspondent relates that one of her amusements when she went to the court was to admire Dangeau at the card-table; and the following is the account of a gaming party at which she was present:-- '29th July, 1676. 'I went on Saturday with Villars to Versailles. I need not tell you of the queen's toilette, the mass, the dinner--you know it all; but at three o'clock the king rose from table, and he, the queen, Monsieur, Madame, Mademoiselle, all the princes and princesses, Madame de Montespan, all her suite, all the courtiers, all the ladies, in short, what we call the court of France, were assembled in that beautiful apartment which you know. It is divinely furnished, everything is magnificent; one does not know what it is to be too hot; we walk about here and there, and are not incommoded anywhere:--at last a table of reversi(53) gives a form to the crowd, and a place to every one. _THE KING IS NEXT TO MADAME DE MONTESPAN_, who deals; the Duke of Orleans, the queen, and Madame de Soubise; Dangeau and Co.; Langee and Co.; a thousand louis are poured out on the cloth--there are no other counters. I saw Dangeau play!--what fools we all are compared to him--he minds nothing but his business, and wins when every one else loses: he neglects nothing, takes advantage of everything, is never absent; in a word, his skill defies fortune, and accordingly 200,000 francs in ten days, 100,000 crowns in a fortnight, all go to his receipt book. (53) A kind of game long since out of fashion, and now almost forgotten; it seems to have been a compound of Loo and Commerce--the _Quinola_ or _Pam_ was the knave of hearts. 'He was so good as to say I was a partner in his play, by which I got a very convenient and agreeable place. I saluted the king in the way you taught me, which he returned as if I had been young and handsome--I received a thousand compliments--you know what it is to have a word from everybody! This agreeable confusion without confusion lasts from three o'clock till six. If a courtier arrives, the king retires for a moment to read his letters, and returns immediately. There is always some music going on, which has a very good effect; the king listens to the music and chats to the ladies about him. At last, at six o'clock, they stop playing--they have no trouble in settling their reckonings--there are no counters--the lowest pools are five, six, seven hundred louis, the great ones a thousand, or twelve hundred; they put in five each at first, that makes one hundred, and the dealer puts in ten more--then they give four louis each to whoever has Quinola--some pass, others play, but when you play without winning the pool, you must put in sixteen to teach you how to play rashly: they talk all together, and for ever, and of everything. "How many hearts?" "Two!" "I have three!" "I have one!" "I have four!" "He has only three!" and Dangeau, delighted with all this prattle, turns up the trump, makes his calculations, sees whom he has against him, in short--in short, I was glad to see such an excess of skill. He it is who really knows "le dessous des cartes." 'At ten o'clock they get into their carriages: _THE KING, MADAME DE MONTESPAN_, the Duke of Orleans, and Madame de Thianges, and the good Hendicourt on the dickey, that is as if one were in the upper gallery. You know how these calashes are made. 'The queen was in another with the princesses; and then everybody else, grouped as they liked. Then they go on the water in gondolas, with music; they return at ten; the play is ready, it is over; twelve strikes, supper is brought in, and so passes Saturday.' This lively picture of such frightful gambling, of the adulterous triumph of Madame de Montespan, and of the humiliating part to which the queen was condemned, will induce our readers to concur with Madame de Sevigne, who, amused as she had been by the scene she has described, calls it nevertheless, with her usual pure taste and good judgment, _l'iniqua corte_, 'the iniquitous court.' Indeed, Madame de Sevigne had ample reason to denounce this source of her domestic misery. Writing to her son and daughter, she says:--'You lose all you play for. You have paid five or six thousand francs for your amusement, and to be abused by fortune.' If she had at first been fascinated by the spectacle which she so glowingly describes, the interest of her children soon opened her eyes to the yawning gulf at the brink of the flowery surface. Sometimes she explains herself plainly:--'You believe that everybody plays as honestly as yourself? Call to mind what took place lately at the Hotel de la Vieuville. Do you remember that _ROBBERY?_' The favour of that court, so much coveted, seemed to her to be purchased at too high a price if it was to be gained by ruinous complaisances. She trembled every time her son left her to go to Versailles. She says:--'He tells me he is going to play with his young master;(54) I shudder at the thought. Four hundred pistoles are very easily lost: _ce n'est rien pour Admete et c'est beaucoup pour lui_.(55) If Dangeau is in the game he will win all the pools: he is an eagle. Then will come to pass, my daughter, all that God may vouchsafe--_il en arivera, ma fille, tout ce qu'il plaira a Dieu_.' (54) The Dauphin. (55) 'It is nothing for Admetus, but 'tis much for him.' And again, 'The game of _Hoca_ is prohibited at Paris _UNDER THE PENALTY OF DEATH_, and yet it is played at court. Five thousand pistoles before dinner is nothing. That game is a regular cut-throat.' Hoca was prodigiously unfavourable to the players; the latter had only twenty-eight chances against thirty. In the seventeenth century this game caused such disorder at Rome that the Pope prohibited it and expelled the bankers. The Italians whom Mazarin brought into France obtained from the king permission to set up _Hoca_ tables in Paris. The parliament launched two edicts against them, and threatened to punish them severely. The king's edicts were equally severe. Every of offender was to be fined 1000 livres, and the person in whose house Faro, Basset, or any such game was suffered, incurred the penalty of 6000 livres for each offence. The persons who played were to be imprisoned. Gaming was forbidden the French cavalry under the penalty of death, and every commanding officer who should presume to set up a Hazard table was to be cashiered, and all concerned to be rigorously imprisoned. These penalties might show great horror of gaming, but they were too severe to be steadily inflicted, and therefore failed to repress the crime against which they were directed. The severer the law the less the likelihood of its application, and consequently its power of repression. Madame de Sevigne had beheld the gamesters only in the presence of their master the king, or in the circles which were regulated with inviolable propriety; but what would she have said if she could have seen the gamblers at the secret suppers and in the country-houses of the Superintendent Fouquet, where twenty 'qualified' players, such as the Marshals de Richelieu, de Clairembaut, &c., assembled together, with a dash of bad company, to play for lands, houses, jewels, even for point-lace and neckties? There she would have seen something more than gold staked, since the players debased themselves so low as to circumvent certain opulent dupes, who were the first invited. To leave one hundred pistoles, ostensibly for 'the cards,' but really as the perquisite of the master of the lordly house; to recoup him when he lost; and, when they had to deal with some unimportant but wealthy individual, to undo him completely, compelling him to sign his ruin on the gaming table--such was the conduct which rendered a man _recherche_, and secured the title of a fine player! It was precisely thus that the famous (or infamous) Gourville, successively valet-de-chambre to the Duc de la Rochefoucault, hanged in effigy at Paris, king's envoy in Germany, and afterwards proposed to replace Colbert--it was thus precisely, I say, that Gourville secured favour, 'consideration,' fortune; for he declares, in his Memoirs, that his gains in a few years amounted to more than a million. And fortune seems to have cherished and blessed him throughout his detestable career. After having made his fortune, he retired to write the scandalous Memoirs from which I have been quoting, and died out of debt!(56) (56) Mem. de Gourville, i. France became too narrow a theatre for the chevaliers d'industrie and all who were a prey to the fury of gambling. The Count de Grammont, a very suspicious player, turned his talents to account in England, Italy, and Spain. This same Count de Grammont figured well at court on one occasion when Louis XIV. seemed inclined to cheat or otherwise play unfairly. Playing at backgammon, and having a doubtful throw, a dispute arose, and the surrounding courtiers remained silent. The Count de Grammont happening to come in, the king desired him to decide it. He instantly answered--'Sire, your Majesty is in the wrong.' 'How,' said the king, 'can you decide before you know the question?' 'Because,' replied the count, 'had there been any doubt, all these gentlemen would have given it in favour of your Majesty.' The plain inference is that this (at the time) great world's idol and Voltaire's god, was 'up to a little cheating.' It was, however, as much to the king's credit that he submitted to the decision, as it was to that of the courtier who gave him such a lesson. The magnanimity of Louis XIV. was still more strikingly shown on another gambling occasion. Very high play was going on at the cardinal's, and the Chevalier de Rohan lost a vast sum to the king. The agreement was to pay only in _louis d'ors;_ and the chevalier, after counting out seven or eight hundred, proposed to continue the payment in Spanish pistoles. 'You promised me _louis d'ors_, and not pistoles,' said the king. 'Since your Majesty refuses them,' replied the chevalier, 'I don't want them either;' and thereupon he flung them out of the window. The king got angry, and complained to Mazarin, who replied:--'The Chevalier de Rohan has played the king, and you the Chevalier de Rohan.' The king acquiesced.(57) (57) Mem. et Reflex., &e., par M. L. M. L. F. (the Marquis de la Fare). As before stated, the court of the Roman Emperor Augustus, in spite of the many laws enacted against gambling, diffused the frenzy through Rome; in like manner the court of Louis XIV., almost in the same circumstances, infected Paris and the entire kingdom with the vice. There is this difference between the French monarch and the Roman emperor, that the latter did not teach his successors to play against the people, whereas Louis, after having denounced gaming, and become almost disgusted with it, finished with established lotteries. High play was always the etiquette at court, but the sittings became less frequent and were abridged. 'The king,' says Madame de Sevigne, 'has not given over playing, but the sittings are not so long.' LOUIS XV.--At the death of Louis XIV. three-fourths of the nation thought of nothing but gambling. Gambling, indeed, became itself an object of speculation, in consequence of the establishment and development of lotteries--the first having been designed to celebrate the restoration of peace and the marriage of Louis XIV. The nation seemed all mad with the excitement of play. During the minority of Louis XV. a foreign gamester, the celebrated Scotchman, John Law, having become Controller-General of France, undertook to restore the finances of the nation by making every man a player or gamester. He propounded a _SYSTEM;_ he established a bank, which nearly upset the state; and seduced even those who had escaped the epidemic of games of chance. He was finally expelled like a foul fog; but they ought to have hanged him as a deliberate corrupter. And yet this is the man of whom Voltaire wrote as follows: 'We are far from evincing the gratitude which is due to John Law.(58) Voltaire's praise was always as suspicious as his blame. Just let us consider the tendency of John Law's 'system.' However general may be the fury of gambling, _EVERYBODY_ does not gamble; certain professions impose a certain restraint, and their members would blush to resort to games the turpitude of which would subject them to unanimous condemnation. But only change the _NAMES_ of these games--only change their _FORM_, and let the bait be presented under the sanction of the legislature: then, although the _THING_ be not less vicious, nor less repugnant to true principle, then we witness the gambling ardour of savages, such as we have described it, manifesting itself with more risk, and communicated to the entire nation--the ministers of the altar, the magistracy, the members of every profession, fathers, mothers of families, without distinction of rank, means, or duties.... Let this short generalization be well pondered, and the conclusion must be reached that this Scotch adventurer, John Law, was guilty of the crime of treason against humanity. (57) Nous sommes loin de la reconnoissance qui est due a Jean Law. Mel. de Litt., d'Hist., &c. ii. John Law, whom the French called _Jean Lass_, opened a gulf into which half the nation eagerly poured its money. Fortunes were made in a few days--in a few _HOURS_. Many were enriched by merely lending their signatures. A sudden and horrible revolution amazed the entire people--like the bursting of a bomb-shell or an incendiary explosion. Six hundred thousand of the best families, who had taken _PAPER_ on the faith of the government, lost, together with their fortunes, their offices and appointments, and were almost annihilated. Some of the stock-jobbers escaped; others were compelled to disgorge their gains--although they stoutly and, it must be admitted, consistently appealed to the sanction of the court. Oddly enough, whilst the government made all France play at this John Law game--the most seductive and voracious that ever existed--some thirty or forty persons were imprisoned for having broken the laws enacted against games of chance! It may be somewhat consolatory to know that the author of so much calamity did not long enjoy his share of the infernal success--the partition of a people's ruin. After extorting so many millions, this famous gambler was reduced to the necessity of selling his last diamond in order to raise money to gamble on. This great catastrophe, the commotion of which was felt even in Holland and in England, was the last sigh of true honour among the French. Probity received a blow. Public morality was abashed. More gaming houses than ever were opened, and then it was that they received the name of _Enfers_, or 'Hells,' by which they were designated in England. 'The greater number of those who go to the watering-places,' writes a contemporary, 'under the pretext of health, only go after gamesters. In the States-general it is less the interest of the people than the attraction of terrible gambling, that brings together a portion of the nobility. The nature of the play may be inferred from the name of the place at which it takes place in one of the provinces--namely, _Enfer_. This salon, so appropriately called, was in the Hotel of the king's commissioners in Bretagne. I have been told that a gentleman, to the great disgust of the noblemen present, and even of the bankers, actually offered to stake his sword. 'This name of _Enfers_ has been given to several gaming houses, some them situated in the interior of Paris, others in the environs. 'People no longer blush, as did Caligula, at gambling on their return from the funeral of their relatives or friends. A gamester, returning from the burial of his brother, where he had exhibited the signs of profound grief, played and won a considerable sum of money. "How do you feel now?" he was asked. "A little better," he replied, "this consoles me." 'All is excitement whilst I write. Without mentioning the base deeds that have been committed, I have counted four suicides and a great crime. 'Besides the licensed gaming houses, new ones are furtively established in the privileged mansions of the ambassadors and representatives of foreign courts. Certain chevaliers d'industrie recently proposed to a gentleman of quality, who had just been appointed plenipotentiary, to hire an hotel for him, and to pay the expenses, on condition that he would give up to them an apartment and permit them to have valets wearing his livery! This base proposal was rejected with contempt, because the Baron de ---- is one of the most honourable and enlightened men of the age. 'The most difficult bargains are often amicably settled by a game. I have seen persons gaming whilst taking a walk and whilst travelling in their carriages. People game at the doors of the theatres; of course they gamble for the price of the ticket. In every possible manner, and in every situation, the true gamester strives to turn every instant to profit. 'If I relate what I have seen in the matter of play during sleep, it will be difficult to understand me. A gamester, exhausted by fatigue, could not give up playing because he was a loser; so he requested his adversary to play for him with his left hand, whilst he dozed off and slept! Strange to say, the left hand of his adversary incessantly won, whilst he snored to the sound of the dice! 'I have just read in a newspaper,(59) that two Englishmen, who left their country to fight a duel in a foreign land, nevertheless played at the highest stakes on the voyage; and having arrived on the field, one of them laid a wager that he would kill his adversary. It is stated that the spectators of the affair looked upon it as a gaming transaction. (59) Journal de Politique, Dec. 15, 1776. 'In speaking of this affair I was told of a German, who, being compelled to fight a duel on account of a quarrel at the gaming table, allowed his adversary to fire at him. He was missed. He said to his opponent, "I never miss. I bet you a hundred ducats that I break your right or left arm, just as you please." The bet was taken, and he won. 'I have found cards and dice in many places where people were in want of bread. I have seen the merchant and the artisan staking gold by handfuls. A small farmer has just gamed away his harvest, valued at 3000 francs.'(60) (60) Dusaulx, _De la Passion du Jeu_, 1779. Gaming houses in Paris were first licensed in 1775, by the lieutenant of police, Sartines, who, to diminish the odium of such establishments, decreed that the profit resulting from them should be applied to the foundation of hospitals. Their number soon amounted to twelve; and women were allowed to resort to them two days in the week. Besides the licensed establishments, several illegal ones were tolerated, and especially styled _enfers_, or 'hells.' Gaming having been found prolific in misfortunes and crimes, was prohibited in 1778; but it was still practised at the court and in the hotels of ambassadors, where police-officers could not enter. By degrees the public establishments resumed their wonted activity, and extended their pernicious effects. The numerous suicides and bankruptcies which they occasioned attracted the attention of the _Parlement_, who drew up regulations for their observance, and threatened those who violated them with the pillory and whipping. The licensed houses, as well as those recognized, however, still continued their former practices, and breaches of the regulations were merely visited with trivial punishment. At length, the passion for play prevailing in the societies established in the Palais Royal, under the title of _clubs_ or _salons_, a police ordinance was issued in 1785, prohibiting them from gaming. In 1786, fresh disorder having arisen in the unlicensed establishments, additional prohibiting measures were enforced. During the Revolution the gaming-houses were frequently prosecuted, and licenses withheld; but notwithstanding the rigour of the laws and the vigilance of the police, they still contrived to exist. LOUIS XVI. TILL THE PRESENT TIME.--In the general corruption of morals, which rose to its height during the reign of Louis XVI., gambling kept pace with, if it did not outstrip, every other licentiousness of that dismal epoch.(61) Indeed, the universal excitement of the nation naturally tended to develope every desperate passion of our nature; and that the revolutionary troubles and agitation of the empire helped to increase the gambling propensity of the French, is evident from the magnitude of the results on record. (61) It will be seen in the sequel that gambling was vastly increased in England by the French 'emigres' who sought refuge among us, bringing with them all their vices, unchastened by misfortune. Fouche, the minister of police, derived an income of L128,000 a year for licensing or 'privileging' gaming houses, to which cards of address were regularly furnished. Besides what the 'farmers' of the gaming houses paid to Fouche, they were compelled to hire and pay 120,000 persons, employed in those houses as _croupiers_ or attendants at the gaming table, from half-a-crown to half-a-guinea a day; and all these 120,000 persons were _SPIES OF FOUCHE!_ A very clever idea no doubt it was, thus to draw a revenue from the proceeds of a vice, and use the institution for the purposes of government; but, perhaps, as Rousseau remarks, 'it is a great error in domestic as well as civil economy to wish to combat one vice by another, or to form between them a sort of equilibrium, as if that which saps the foundations of order can ever serve to establish it.'(62) A minister of the Emperor Theodosius II., in the year 431, the virtuous Florentius, in order to teach his master that it was wrong to make the vices contribute to the State, because such a procedure authorizes them, gave to the public treasury one of his lands the revenue of which equalled the product of the annual tax levied on prostitution.(63) (62) Nouv. Heloise, t. iv. (63) Novel. Theodos. 18. After the restoration of the Bourbons, it became quite evident that play in the Empire had been quite as Napoleonic in its vigour and dimensions as any other 'idea' of the epoch. The following detail of the public gaming tables of Paris was published in a number of the _Bibliotheque Historique_, 1818, under the title of 'Budget of Public Games.' STATE OF THE ANNUAL EXPENSES OF THE GAMES OF PARIS. These 20 Tables are divided into nine houses, four of which are situated in the Palais Royal. To serve the seven tables of _Trente-et-un_, there are:--francs 28 Dealers, at 550 fr. a month, making . . . . 15,400 28 Croupiers, at 380. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10,640 42 Assistants, at 200. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8,400 SERVICE FOR THE NINE ROULETTES AND ONE PASSE-DIX. 80 Dealers, at 275 fr. a month . . . . . . . . 22,000 60 Assistants, at 150. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9,000 SERVICE OF THE CRAPS, BIRIBI, AND HAZARD, 12 Dealers, at 300 fr. a month. . . . . . . . . 3,600 12 Inspectors, at 120 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .1,440 10 Aids, at 100. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .1,000 6 Chefs de Partie at the principal houses, at 700 fr. a month . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4,200 3 Chefs de Partie for the Roulettes, at 500 fr. a month. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .1,500 20 Secret Inspectors, at 200 fr. a month. . . . . .4,000 1 Inspector-General, at . . . . . . . . . . . . . .1,000 130 Waiters, at 75 fr. a month. . . . . . . . . . .9,750 Cards a month . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .1,500 Beer and refreshments, a month. . . . . . . . . . .3,000 Lights. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .5,500 Refreshment for the grand saloon, including two dinners every week, per month . . . . . . . . . 12,000 Total expense of each month . . . .113,930 --------- Multiplied by twelve, is. . . . . . . . . . . .1,367,160 Rent of 10 Houses, per annum. . . . . . . . . . .130,000 Expense of Offices. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50,000 --------- Total per annum. . . . . . . . . 1,547,160 If the `privilege' or license is . . . . . . . 6,000,000 If a bonus of a million is given for six years, the sixth part, or one year, will be . . . . . . . 166,666 --------- Total expenditure . . . . . . . .7,713,826 The profits are estimated at, per month,. . . . .800,000 --------- Which yield, per annum, . . . . . . . . . . . .9,600,000 Deducting the expenditure . . . . . . . . . . .7,713,826 --------- The annual profits are. . . . . . . . . . . fr.1,886,174 --------- Thus giving the annual profit at L7860 sterling. We omit the profits resulting from the watering-places, amounting to fr. 200,000. One of the new conditions imposed on the Paris gaming houses is the exclusion of females. Thus, at Paris, the Palais Royal, Frascati, and numerous other places, presented gaming houses, whither millions of wretches crowded in search of fortune, but, for the most part, to find only ruin or even death by suicide or duelling, so often resulting from quarrels at the gaming table. This state of things was, however, altered in the year 1836, at the proposition of M. B. Delessert, and all the gaming houses were ordered to be closed from the 1st of January, 1838, so that the present gambling in France is on the same footing as gambling in England,--utterly prohibited, but carried on in secret. CHAPTER VI. THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF MODERN GAMING IN ENGLAND. It seems that the rise of modern gaming in England may be dated from the year 1777 or 1778. Before this time gaming appears never to have assumed an alarming aspect. The methodical system of partnership, enabling men to embark large capital in gambling establishments, was unknown; though from that period this system became the special characteristic of the pursuit among all classes of the community. The development of the evil was a subject of great concern to thoughtful men, and one of these, in the year 1784, put forth a pamphlet, which seems to give 'the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure.'(64) (64) The pamphlet (in the Library of the British Museum) is entitled:--'Hints for a Reform, particularly of the Gaming Clubs. By a Member of Parliament. 1784.' 'About thirty years ago,' says this writer, 'there was but one club in the metropolis. It was regulated and respectable. There were few of the members who betted high. Such stakes at present would be reckoned very low indeed. There were then assemblies once a week in most of the great houses. An agreeable society met at seven o'clock; they played for crowns or half-crowns; and reached their own houses about eleven. 'There was but one lady who gamed deeply, and she was viewed in the light of a phenomenon. Were she now to be asked her real opinion of those friends who were her former _PLAY_-fellows, there can be no doubt but that they rank very low in her esteem. 'In the present era of vice and dissipation, how many females attend the card-tables! What is the consequence? The effects are too clearly to be traced to the frequent _DIVORCES_ which have lately disgraced our country, and they are too visible in the shameful conduct of many ladies of fashion, since gambling became their chief amusement. 'There is now no society. The routs begin at midnight. They are painful and troublesome to the lady who receives company, and they are absolutely a nuisance to those who are honoured with a card of invitation. It is in vain to attempt conversation. The social pleasures are entirely banished, and those who have any relish for them, or who are fond of early hours, are necessarily excluded. Such are the companies of modern times, and modern people of fashion. Those who are not invited fly to the _Gaming Clubs_-- "To kill their idle hours and cure _ennui!_" 'To give an account of the present encumbered situation of many families, whose property was once large and ample, would fill a volume. Whence spring the difficulties which every succeeding day increases? From the _GAMBLING CLUBS_. Why are they continually hunted by their creditors? The reply is--the _GAMBLING CLUBS_. Why are they obliged continually to rack their invention in order to save appearances? The answer still is--the _GAMBLING CLUBS!_ 'The father frequently ruins his children; and sons, and even grandsons, long before the succession opens to them, are involved so deeply that during their future lives their circumstances are rendered narrow; and they have rank or family honours, without being able to support them. 'How many infamous villains have amassed immense estates, by taking advantage of unfortunate young men, who have been first seduced and then ruined by the Gambling Clubs! 'It is well known that the old members of those gambling societies exert every nerve to enlist young men of fortune; and if we take a view of the principal estates on this island, we shall find many infamous _CHRISTIAN_ brokers who are now living luxuriously and in splendour on the wrecks of such unhappy victims. 'At present, when a boy has learned a little from his father's example, he is sent to school, to be _INITIATED_. In the course of a few years he acquires a profound knowledge of the science of gambling, and before he leaves the University he is perfectly fitted for a member of the _GAMING CLUBS_, into which he is elected before he takes his seat in either House of Parliament. There is no necessity for his being of age, as the sooner he is ballotted for, the more advantageous his admission will prove to the _OLD_ members. 'Scarcely is the hopeful youth enrolled among these _HONOURABLE_ associates, than he is introduced to Jews, to annuity-brokers, and to the long train of money-lenders. They take care to answer his pecuniary calls, and the greater part of the night and morning is consumed at the _CLUB_. To his creditors and tradesmen, instead of paying his bills, he offers a _BOND_ or _ANNUITY_. He rises just time enough to ride to Kensington Gardens; returns to dress; dines late; and then attends the party of gamblers, as he had done the night before, unless he allows himself to be detained for a few moments by the newspaper, or some political publication. 'Such do we find the present fashionable style of life, from "his Grace" to the "Ensign" in the Guards. Will this mode of education rear up heroes, to lead forth our armies, or to conduct our fleets to victory? Review the conduct of your generals abroad, and of your statesmen at home, during the late unfortunate war, and these questions are answered.(65) (65) Of course this is an allusion to the American War of Independence and the political events at home, from 1774 to 1784. 'At present, tradesmen must themselves be gamblers before they give credit to a member of these clubs; but if a reform succeeds they will be placed in a state of security. At present they must make _REGULAR_ families pay an enormous price for their goods, to enable them to run the risk of never receiving a single shilling from their gambling customers.' Such is the picture of the times in question, drawn by a contemporary; and it may be said that private reckless and unscrupulous political machinations were the springs and fountains of all the calamities that subsequently overflowed, as it were, the 'opening of the seals' of doom upon the nation. Notwithstanding the purity of morals enjoined by the court of George III., the early part of his reign presents a picture of dissolute manners as well as of furious party spirit. The most fashionable of our ladies of rank were immersed in play, or devoted to politics: the same spirit carried them into both. The Sabbath was disregarded, spent often in cards, or desecrated by the meetings of partisans of both factions; moral duties were neglected and decorum outraged. The fact was, that a minor court had become the centre of all the bad passions and reprehensible pursuits in vogue. Carlton House, in Pall Mall, which even the oldest of us can barely remember, with its elegant open screen, the pillars in front, its low exterior, its many small rooms, its decorations in vulgar taste, and, to crown the whole, its associations of a corrupting revelry,--Carlton House was, in the days of good King George, almost as great a scandal to the country as Whitehall in the time of improper King Charles II.(66) The influence which the example of a young prince, of manners eminently popular, produced upon the young nobility of the realm was most disastrous in every way and ruinous to public morality. (66) Wharton, 'The Queens of Society.' Mem. of _Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire._ After that period, the vast license given to those abominable engines of fraud, the E.O. tables,(67) and the great length of time which elapsed before they met with any check from the police, afforded a number of dissolute and abandoned characters an opportunity of acquiring property. This they afterwards increased in the low gaming houses, and by following up the same system at Newmarket and the other fashionable places of resort, and finally by means of the lottery, that mode of insensate gambling; till at length they acquired a sum of money nothing short of _ONE MILLION STERLING_. (67) So called from the letters E and O, the turning up of which decided the bet. They were otherwise called _Roulette_ and _Roly Poly_, from the balls used in them. They seem to have been introduced in England about the year 1739. The first was set up at Tunbridge and proved extremely profitable to the proprietors. This enormous wealth was then used as an efficient capital in carrying on various illegal establishments, particularly gaming houses, the expenses of a first-rate house being L7000 per annum, which were again employed as the means of increasing these ill-gotten riches. The system was progressive but steady in its development. Several of these conspicuous members of the world of fashion, rolling in their gaudy carriages and associating with men of high rank and influence, might be found on the registers of the Old Bailey, or had been formerly occupied in turning, with their own hands, E.O. tables in the public streets. The following _Queries_, which are extracted from the _Morning Post_ of July the 5th, 1797, throw considerable light upon this curious subject, and show how seriously the matter was regarded when so public a denunciation was deemed necessary and ventured upon:-- 'Is Mr Ogden (now the Newmarket oracle) the same person who, five-and-twenty years since, was an annual pedestrian to Ascot, covered with dust, amusing himself with "_PRICKING in the_ belt," "_HUSTLING_ in the hat," &c., among the lowest class of rustics, at the inferior booths of the fair? 'Is D-k-y B--n who now has his snug farm, the same person who, some years since, _DROVE A POST CHAISE_ for T--y, of Bagshot, could neither read nor write, and was introduced to _THE FAMILY_ only by his pre-eminence at cribbage? 'Is Mr Twycross (with his phaeton) the same person who some years since became a bankrupt in Tavistock Street, immediately commenced the Man of Fashion at Bath, kept running horses, &c., _secundum artem?_ 'Is Mr Phillips (who has now his town and country house, in the most fashionable style) the same who was originally a linen-draper and bankrupt at Salisbury, and who made his first _family entre_ in the metropolis, by his superiority at _Billiards_ (with Captain Wallace, Orrell, &c.) at Cropley's, in Bow Street? 'Was poor carbuncled P--e (so many years the favourite decoy duck of _THE FAMILY_) the very barber of Oxford, who, in the midst of the operation upon a gentleman's face, laid down his razor, swearing that he would never shave another man so long as he lived, and immediately became the hero of the card table, the _bones_, the _box_, and the _Cockpit?_' Capital was not the only qualification for admission into the Confederacy of Gambling. Some of the members were taken into partnership on account of their dexterity in 'securing' dice or 'dealing' cards. One is said to have been actually a sharer in every 'Hell' at the West-End of the Town, because he was feared as much as he was detested by the firms, who had reason to know that he would 'peach' if not kept quiet. Informers against the illegal and iniquitous associations were arrested and imprisoned upon writs, obtained by perjury--to deter others from similar attacks; witnesses were suborned; officers of justice bribed; ruffians and bludgeon-men employed, where gratuities failed; personal violence and even assassination threatened to all who dared to expose the crying evil--among others, to Stockdale, the well-known publisher of the day, in Piccadilly. Then came upon the nation the muddy flood of French emigrants, poured forth by the Great Revolution--a set of men, speaking generally, whose vices contaminated the very atmosphere. Before the advent of these worthies the number of gambling houses in the metropolis, exclusive of those so long established by subscription, was not more than half-a-dozen; but by the year 1820 they had increased to nearly fifty. Besides _Faro_ and _Hazard_, the foreign games of _Macao, Roulette, Rouge et Noir_, &c., were introduced, and there was a graduated accommodation for all ranks, from the Peer of the Realm to the Highwayman, the Burglar, and the Pick et. At one of the watering-places, in 1803, a baronet lost L20,000 at play, and a bond for L7000. This will scarcely surprise us when we consider that at the time above five hundred notorious characters supported themselves in the metropolis by this species of robbery, and in the summer spread themselves through the watering-places for their professional operations. Some of them kept bankers, and were possessed of considerable property in the funds and in land, and went their _circuits_ as regularly as the judges. Most excellent judges they were, too, of the condition of a 'pigeon.' In a great commercial city where, from the extent of its trade, manufacture, and revenue, there must be an immense circulation of property, the danger is not to be conceived of the allurements which were thus held out to young men in business having the command of money, as well as the clerks of merchants, bankers, and others. In fact, too many of this class proved, at the bar of justice, the consequence of their resort to these complicated scenes of vice, idleness, extravagance, misfortune, and crime. Among innumerable instances are the following:--In 1796, a shopman to a grocer in the city was seduced into a gaming party, where he first lost all his own money, and ultimately what his master had intrusted him with. He hanged himself in his bed-room a few hours afterwards. In the same year, Lord Kenyon in summing up a case of the kind said:--'It was extremely to be lamented that the vice of gambling had descended to the very lowest orders of the people. It was prevalent among the highest ranks of society, who had set the example to their inferiors, and who, it seemed, were too great for the law. I wish they could be punished. If any prosecutions are fairly brought before me, and the parties are justly convicted, whatever may be their rank or station in the country--though they should be the first ladies in the land--they shall certainly exhibit themselves in the pillory.' In 1820, James Lloyd, one of the harpies who practised on the credulity of the lower orders by keeping a _Little Go_, or illegal lottery, was brought up for the twentieth time, to answer for that offence. This man was a methodist preacher, and assembled his neighbours together at his dwelling on a Saturday to preach the gospel to them, and the remainder of the week he was to be found, with an equally numerous party, instructing them in the ruinous vice of gambling. The charge was clearly proved, and the prisoner was sentenced to three months' imprisonment with hard labour. In the same year numbers of young persons robbed their masters to play at a certain establishment called Morley's Gambling House, in the City, and were ruined there. Some were brought to justice at the Old Bailey; others, in the madness caused by their losses, destroyed themselves; and some escaped to other countries, by their own activity, or through the influence of their friends. A traveller of the coachmakers, Messrs Houlditch of Long Acre, embezzled or applied to his own use considerable sums of money belonging to them. It appeared in evidence that the prisoner was sent by his employers to the Continent to take orders for carriages; he was allowed a handsome salary, and was furnished with carriages for sale. The money he received for them he was to send to his employers, after deducting his expenses; but instead of so doing, he gambled nearly the whole of it away. The following letter to his master was put in by way of explanation of his career:--'Sir,--The errors into which I have fallen have made me so hate myself that I have adopted the horrible resolution of destroying myself. I am sensible of the crime I commit against God, my family, and society, but have not courage to live dishonoured. The generous confidence you placed in me I have basely violated; I have robbed you, and though not to enrich myself, the consciousness of it destroys me. Bankruptcy, poverty, beggary, and want I could bear--conscious integrity would support me: but the ill-fated acquaintance I formed led me to those earthly hells--gambling houses; and then commenced my villainies and deceptions to you. My losses were not large at first; and the stories that were told me of gain made me hope they would soon be recovered. At this period I received the order to go to Vienna, and on settling at the hotel I found my debts treble what I had expected. I was in consequence compelled to leave the two carriages as a guarantee for part of the debt, which I had not in my power to discharge. I had hoped such success at Vienna as would enable me to state all to you; but disappointment blasted every hope, and despair, on my return to Paris, began to generate the fatal resolution which, at the moment you read this, will have matured itself to consummation. I feel that my reputation is blasted; no way left of re-imbursing the money wasted, your confidence in me totally destroyed, and nothing left to me but to see my wife and children, and die. Affection for them holds me in existence a little longer. The gaming table again presented itself to my imagination as the only possible means of extricating myself. Count Montoni's 3000 francs, which I received before you came to Paris, furnished me with the means--my death speaks the result! After robbery so base as mine, I fear it will be of no use for me to solicit your kindness for my wretched wife and forlorn family. Oh, Sir, if you have pity on them and treat them kindly, and do not leave them to perish in a foreign land, the consciousness of the act will cheer you in your last moments, and God will reward you and yours for it tenfold. Their sensibilities will not cause them to need human aid. Thus I shall be threefold the murderer. I thank you for the kindness you have rendered me; and I assure your brother that he has, in this dreadful moment, my ardent wishes for his welfare here and hereafter. I have so contrived it that you will see a person at the Prince's tomorrow, who will interpret for you. In mentioning my fate to him, you will not much serve your own interest by blackening my character and memory. I subjoin the reward of my villainies and the correct balance of the account. Count Edmond's regular bills I have not received; his valet will give you them; the others are in a pocket-book, which will be found on my corpse somewhere in the wood of Boulogne. 'Signed, W. KINSBY.' It appears, however, that the gentleman changed his mind and did not commit suicide, but surrendered at the Insolvent Debtor's Court to be dealt with according to law, which was a much wiser resolution. To the games of Faro, Hazard, Macao, Doodle-do, and Rouge et Noir, more even than to horse-racing, many tradesmen, once possessing good fortunes and great business, owed their destruction. Thousands upon thousands have been ruined in the vicinity of St James's. It was not confined to youths of fortune only, but the decent and respectable tradesman, as well as the dashing clerk of the merchant and banker, was ingulfed in its vortes. The proprietors of gaming houses were also concerned in fraudulent insurances, and employed a number of clerks while the lotteries were drawing, who conducted the business without risk, in counting-houses, where no insurances were taken, but to which books were carried, as well as from the different offices in every part of the town, as from the _Morocco-men_, who went from door to door taking insurances and enticing the poor and middling ranks to adventure. It was gambling, and not the burdens of the long war, nor the revulsion from war to peace, that made so many bankruptcies in the few years succeeding the Battle of Waterloo. It was the plunderers at gaming tables that filled the gazettes and made the gaols overflow with so many victims. A foreigner has advanced an opinion as to the source of the gambling propensity of Englishmen. 'The English,' says M. Dunne,(68) 'the most speculative nation on earth, calculate even upon future contingences. Nowhere else is the adventurous rage for stock-jobbing carried on to so great an extent. The fury of gambling, so common in England, is undoubtedly a daughter of this speculative genius. The _Greeks_ of Great Britain are, however, much inferior to those of France in cunning and industry. A certain Frenchman who assumed in London the title and manners of a baron, has been known to surpass all the most dexterous rogues of the three kingdoms in the art of robbing. His aide-de-camp was a kind of German captain, or rather _chevalier d'industrie_, a person who had acted the double character of a French spy and an English officer at the same time. Their tactics being at length discovered, the baron was obliged to quit the country; and he is said to have afterwards entered the monastery of La Trappe,' where doubtless, in the severe and gloomy religious practices of that terrible penitentiary, he atoned for his past enormities. (68) 'Refexions sur l'Homme.' 'Till near the commencement of the present century the favourite game was Faro, and as it was a decided advantage to hold the Bank, masters and mistresses, less scrupulous than Wilberforce, frequently volunteered to fleece and amuse the company. But scandal having made busy with the names of some of them, it became usual to hire a professed gamester at five or ten guineas a night, to set up a table for the evening, just as any operatic professional might now-a-days be hired for a concert, or a band-master for a ball. 'Faro gradually dropped out of fashion; Macao took its place; Hazard was never wanting; and Whist began to be played for stakes which would have satisfied Fox himself, who, though it was calculated that he might have netted four or five thousand a year by games of skill, complained that they afforded no excitement. 'Wattier's Club, in Piccadilly, was the resort of the Macao players. It was kept by an old _maitre d'hotel_ of George IV., a character in his way, who took a just pride in the cookery and wines of his establishment. 'All the brilliant stars of fashion (and fashion was power then) frequented Wattier's, with Beau Brummell for their sun. 'Poor Brummell, dead, in misery and idiotcy, at Caen! and I remember him in all his glory, cutting his jokes after the opera, at White's, in a black velvet great-coat, and a cocked hat on his well-powdered head. 'Nearly the same turn of reflection is suggested as we run over the names of his associates. Almost all of them were ruined--three out of four irretrievably. Indeed, it was the forced expatriation of its supporters that caused the club to be broken up. 'During the same period (from 1810 to 1815 or thereabouts) there was a great deal of high play at White's and Brookes', particularly at Whist. At Brookes' figured some remarkable characters--as Tippoo Smith, by common consent the best Whist-player of his day; and an old gentleman nicknamed Neptune, from his having once flung himself into the sea in a fit of despair at being, as he thought, ruined. He was fished out in time, found he was not ruined, and played on during the remainder of his life. 'The most distinguished player at White's was the nobleman who was presented at the Salons in Paris as Le Wellington des Joueurs (Lord Rivers); and he richly merited the name, if skill, temper, and the most daring courage are titles to it. The greatest genius, however, is not infallible. He once lost three thousand four hundred pounds at Whist by not remembering that the seven of hearts was in! He played at Hazard for the highest stakes that any one could be got to play for with him, and at one time was supposed to have won nearly a hundred thousand pounds; but _IT ALL WENT_, along with a great deal more, at Crockford's. 'There was also a great deal of play at Graham's, the Union, the Cocoa Tree, and other clubs of the second order in point of fashion. Here large sums were hazarded with equal rashness, and remarkable characters started up. Among the most conspicuous was the late Colonel Aubrey, who literally passed his life at play. He did nothing else, morning, noon, and night; and it was computed that he had paid more than sixty thousand pounds for card-money. He was a very fine player at all games, and a shrewd, clever man. He had been twice to India and made two fortunes. It was said that he lost the first on his way home, transferred himself from one ship to another without landing, went back, and made the second. His life was a continual alternation between poverty and wealth; and he used to say, the greatest pleasure in life is winning at cards--the next greatest, losing! 'For several years deep play went on at all these clubs, fluctuating both as to amount and locality, till by degrees it began to flag. It had got to a low ebb when Mr Crockford came to London and established the celebrated club which bore his name. 'Some good was certainly produced by the system. In the first place, private gambling (between gentleman and gentleman), with its degrading incidents, is at an end. In the second place, this very circumstance brings the worst part of the practice within the reach of the law. Public gambling, which only existed by and through what were popularly termed _hells_, might be easily suppressed. There were, in 1844, more than twenty of these establishments in Pall Mall, Piccadilly, and St James's, called into existence by Crockford's success.'(69) (69) Private MS. (Edinburgh Review, vol. LXXX). Whilst such was the state of things among the aristocracy and those who were able to consort with them, it seems that the lower orders were pursuing 'private gambling,' in their 'ungenteel' fashion, to a very sad extent. In 1834 a writer in the 'Quarterly' speaks as follows:-- 'Doncaster, Epsom, Ascot, and Warwick, and most of our numerous race-grounds and race-towns, are scenes of destructive and universal gambling among the lower orders, which our absurdly lax police never attempt to suppress; and yet, without the slightest approach to an improperly harsh interference with the pleasures of the people, the Roulette and E.O. tables, which plunder the peasantry at these places for the benefit of travelling sharpers (certainly equally respectable with some bipeds of prey who drive coroneted cabs near St James's), might be put down by any watchful magistrate.'(70) (70) Quarterly Review, vol. LII. I fear that something similar may be suggested at the present day, as to the same notorious localities. Mr Sala, writing some years ago on gambling in England, said:-- 'The passion for gambling is, I believe, innate; but there is, happily, a very small percentage of the population who are born with a propensity for high play. We are speculative and eagerly commercial; but it is rare to discover among us that inveterate love for gambling, as gambling, which you may find among the Italians, the South American Spaniards, the Russians, and the Poles. Moro, Baccara, Tchuka--these are games at which continental peasants will wager and lose their little fields, their standing crops, their harvest in embryo, their very wives even. The Americans surpass us in the ardour of their propitiation of the gambling goddess, and on board the Mississippi steamboats, an enchanting game, called _Poker_, is played with a delirium of excitement, whose intensity can only be imagined by realizing that famous bout at "catch him who can," which took place at the horticultural _fete_ immortalized by Mr Samuel Foote, comedian, at which was present the great _Panjandrum_ himself, with the little round button at top, the festivities continuing till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of the company's boots. 'When I was a boy, not so very long--say twenty years--since, the West-end of London swarmed with illicit gambling houses, known by a name I will not offend your ears by repeating. On every race-course there was a public gambling booth and an abundance of thimble-riggers' stalls. These, I am happy to state, exist no longer; and the fools who are always ready to be plucked, can only, in gambling, fall victims to the commonest and coarsest of swindlers; skittle sharps, beer-house rogues and sharpers, and knaves who travel to entrap the unwary in railway carriages with loaded dice, marked cards, and little squares of green baize for tables, and against whom the authorities of the railway companies very properly warn their passengers. A notorious gambling house in St James's Street--Crockford's,--where it may be said, without exaggeration, that millions of pounds sterling have been diced away by the fools of fashion, is now one of the most sumptuous and best conducted dining establishments in London--the "Wellington." The semipatrician Hades that were to be found in the purlieus of St James's, such as the "Cocoa Tree," the "Berkeley," and the "stick-shop," at the corner of Albemarle Street--a whole Pandemonium of rosewood and plate-glass dens--never recovered from a razzia made on them simultaneously one night by the police, who were organized on a plan of military tactics, and under the command of Inspector Beresford; and at a concerted signal assailed the portals of the infamous places with sledge-hammers. At the time to which I refer, in Paris, the Palais Royal, and the environs of the Boulevards des Italiens, abounded with magnificent gambling rooms similar to those still in existence in Hombourg, which were regularly licensed by the police, and farmed under the municipality of the Ville de Paris; a handsome per-centage of the iniquitous profits being paid towards the charitable institutions of the French metropolis. There are very many notabilities of the French Imperial Court, who were then _fermiers des jeux_, or gambling house contractors; and only a year or two since Doctor Louis Veron, ex-dealer in quack medicines, ex-manager of the Grand Opera, and ex-proprietor of the "Constitutionnel" newspaper, offered an enormous royalty to Government for the privilege of establishing a gambling house in Paris. But the Emperor Napoleon--all ex-member of Crockford's as he is--sensibly declined the tempting bait. A similarly "generous" offer was made last year to the Belgian Government by a joint-stock company who wanted to establish public gaming tables at the watering-places of Ostend, and who offered to establish an hospital from their profits; but King Leopold, the astute proprietor of Claremont, was as prudent as his Imperial cousin of France, and refused to soil his hands with cogged dice. The lease of the Paris authorized gaming houses expired in 1836-7; and the municipality, albeit loath to lose the fat annual revenue, was induced by governmental pressure not to renew it; and it is asserted that from that moment the number of annual suicides in Paris very sensibly decreased. "It is not generally known," as the penny-a-liners say, "that the Rev. Caleb Colton, a clergyman of the Church of England, and the author of "Lacon," a book replete with aphoristic wisdom, blew his brains out in the forest of St Germains, after ruinous losses at Frascati's, at the corner of the Rue Richelieu and the Boulevards, one of the most noted of the _Maisons des Jeux_, and which was afterwards turned into a _restaurant_, and is now a shawl-shop.(71) Just before the revolution of 1848, nearly all the watering-places in the Prusso-Rhenane provinces, and in Bavaria, and Hesse, Nassau, and Baden, contained Kursaals, where gambling was openly carried on. These existed at Aix-la-Chapelle, Baden-Baden, Wiesbaden, Ems, Kissengen, and at Spa, close to the Prussian frontier, in Belgium. It is due to the fierce democrats who revolted against the monarchs of the defunct Holy Alliance, to say that they utterly swept away the gambling-tables in Rhenish-Prussia, and in the Grand Duchy of Baden. Herr Hecker, of the red republican tendencies, and the astounding wide-awake hat, particularly distinguished himself in the latter place by his iconoclastic animosity to _Roulette_ and _Rouge et Noir_. When dynastic "order" was restored the Rhine gaming tables were re-established. The Prussian Government, much to its honour, has since shut up the gambling houses at that resort for decayed nobility and ruined livers, Aix-la-Chapelle. A motion was made in the Federal Diet, sitting at Frankfort, to constrain the smaller governments, in the interest of the Germanic good name generally, to close their _tripots_, and in some measure the Federal authorities succeeded. The only existing continental gaming houses authorized by government are now the two Badens, Spa (of which the lease is nearly expired, and will not be renewed), Monaco (capital of the ridiculous little Italian principality, of which the suzerain is a scion of the house of "Grimaldi"), Malmoe, in Sweden, too remote to do much harm, and HOMBOURG. This last still flourishes greatly, and I am afraid is likely to flourish, though happily in isolation; for, as I have before remarked, the "concession" or privilege of the place has been guaranteed for a long period of years to come by the expectant dynasty of Hesse-Darmstadt. "_C'est fait_," "It is all settled," said the host of the Hotel de France to me, rubbing his hands exultingly when I mentioned the matter. But, _Quis custodiet custodes?_ Hesse-Darmstadt has guaranteed the "administration of Hesse-Hombourg, but who is to guarantee Hesse-Darmstadt? A battalion of French infantry would, it seems to me, make short work of H. D., lease guarantees, Federal contingent, and all. I must mention, in conclusion, that within a very few years we had, if we have not still, a licensed gaming house in our exquisitely moral British dominions. This was in that remarkably "tight little island" at the mouth of the Elbe, Heligoland, which we so queerly possess--Puffendorf, Grotius, and Vattel, or any other writers on the _Jus gentium_, would be puzzled to tell why, or by what right. I was at Hamburg in the autumn of 1856, crossed over to Heligoland one day on a pleasure trip, and lost some money there, at a miniature _Roulette_ table, much frequented by joyous Israelites from the mainland, and English "soldier officers" in mufti. I did not lose much of my temper, however, for the odd, quaint little place pleased me. Not so another Roman citizen, or English travelling gent., who losing, perhaps, seven-and-sixpence, wrote a furious letter to the "Times," complaining of such horrors existing under the British flag, desecration of the English name, and so forth. Next week the lieutenant-governor, by "order," put an end to _Roulette_ at Heligoland; but play on a diminutive scale has since, I have been given to understand, recommenced there without molestation. (71) Mr Sala is here in error. Colton was a prosperous gambler throughout, and committed suicide to avoid a surgical operation. A notice of the Rev. C. Colton will be found in the sequel. 'We gamble in England at the Stock Exchange, we gamble on horse-races all the year round; but there is something more than the mere eventuality of a chance that prompts us to the _enjeu;_ there is mixed up with our eagerness for the stakes the most varied elements of business and pleasure; cash-books, ledgers, divident-warrants, indignation meetings of Venezuelan bond-holders, coupons, cases of champagne, satin-skinned horses with plaited manes, grand stands, pretty faces, bright flags, lobster salads, cold lamb, fortune-telling gipsies, barouches-and-four, and "our Aunt Sally." High play is still rife in some aristocratic clubs; there are prosperous gentlemen who wear clean linen every day, and whose names are still in the Army List, who make their five or six hundred a year by Whist-playing, and have nothing else to live upon; in East-end coffee-shops, sallow-faced Jew boys, itinerant Sclavonic jewellers, and brawny German sugar-bakers, with sticky hands, may be found glozing and wrangling over their beloved cards and dominoes, and screaming with excitement at the loss of a few pence. There are yet some occult nooks and corners, nestling in unsavoury localities, on passing which the policeman, even in broad daylight, cannot refrain from turning his head a little backwards--as though some bedevilments must necessarily be taking place directly he has passed--where, in musty back parlours, by furtive lamplight, with doors barred, bolted, and sheeted with iron, some wretched, cheating gambling goes on at unholy hours. Chicken-hazard is scotched, not killed; but a poor, weazened, etiolated biped is that once game-bird now. And there is Doncaster, every year--Doncaster, with its subscription-rooms under authority, winked at by a pious corporation, patronized by nobles and gentlemen supporters of the turf, and who are good enough, sometimes, to make laws for us plebeians in the Houses of Lords and Commons. There is Doncaster, with policemen to keep order, and admit none but "respectable" people--subscribers, who fear Heaven and honour the Queen. Are you aware, my Lord Chief-Justice, are you aware, Mr Attorney, Mr Solicitor-General, have you the slightest notion, ye Inspectors of Police, that in the teeth of the law, and under its very eyes, a shameless gaming-house exists in moral Yorkshire, throughout every Doncaster St Leger race-week? Of course you haven't; never dreamed of such a thing--never could, never would. Hie you, then, and prosecute this wretched gang of betting-touts, congregating at the corner of Bride Lane, Fleet Street; quick, lodge informations against this publican who has suffered card-playing to take place, raffles, or St Leger sweeps to be held in his house. "You have seen a farmer's dog bark at a beggar, and the creature run from the cur. There thou might'st behold the great image of authority: a dog's obeyed in office." You have--very well. Take crazy King Lear's words as a text for a sermon against legislative inconsistencies, and come back with me to Hombourg Kursaal.' CHAPTER VII. GAMBLING IN BRIGHTON IN 1817. The subject of English gambling may be illustrated by a series of events which happened at Brighton in 1817, when an inquiry respecting the gaming carried on at the libraries led to many important disclosures. It appears that a warrant was granted on the oath of a Mr William Clarke, against William Wright and James Ford, charged with feloniously stealing L100. But the prosecutor did not appear in court to prove the charge. It was quite evident, therefore, that the law had been abused in the transaction, and the magistrate, Sergeant Runnington, directed warrants to be issued for the immediate appearance of the prosecutor and Timothy O'Mara, as an evidence; but they absconded, and the learned Sergeant discharged the prisoners. The matter then took a different turn. The same William Wright, before charged with 'stealing' the L100, was now examined as a witness to give evidence upon an examination against Charles Walker, of the Marine Library, for keeping an unlawful Gaming House. This witness stated that he was engaged, about five weeks before, to act as _punter_ or player (that is, in this case, a sham player or decoy) to a table called _Noir, rouge, tout le deux_ (evidently a name invented to evade the statute, if possible), by William Clarke, the prosecutor, before-mentioned; that the table was first carried to the back room of Donaldson's Library, where it continued for three or four days, when Donaldson discharged it from his premises. He said he soon got into the confidence of Clarke, who put him up to the secrets of playing. The firm consisted of O'Mara, Pollett, Morley, and Clarke. There was not much playing at Donaldson's. Afterwards the table was removed into Broad Street, but the landlady quickly sent it away. It was then carried to a room over Walker's Library, where a rent was paid of twelve guineas per week, showing plainly the profits of the speculation. Several gentlemen used to frequent the table, among whom was one who lost L125. Clarke asked the witness if he thought the person who lost his money was rich? And being answered in the affirmative, it was proposed that he, William Wright, should invite the gentleman to dinner, to let him have what wine he liked, and to spare no expense to get him drunk. The gentleman was induced to play again, and endeavour to recover his money. As he had nothing but large bills, to a considerable amount, he was prevailed on to go to London, in company with the witness, who was to take care and bring him back. One of the firm, Pollett, wrote a letter of recommendation to a Mr Young, to get the bills discounted at his broker's. They returned to Brighton, and the witness apprized the firm of his arrival. They wanted him to come that evening, but the witness _TOLD THE GENTLEMAN OF HIS SUSPICIONS_--that during their absence a _FALSE TABLE_ had been substituted. The witness, however, returned to his employers that evening, when the firm advanced him L100, and Ford, another punter of the sort, L100, to back with the gentleman as a blind--so that when the signal was given to put upon black or red, they were to put their stakes--by which means the gentleman would follow; and they calculated upon fleecing him of five or six thousand pounds in the course of an hour. According to his own account, the witness told the gentleman of this trick; and the following morning the latter went with him, to know if this nefarious dealing has been truly represented. On entering the library they met Walker, who wished them better success, but trembled visibly. At the door leading into the room porters were stationed; and, as soon as they entered, Walker ordered it to be bolted, for the sake of privacy; but as soon as the gentleman ascended the dark staircase, he became alarmed at the appearance of men in the room, and returned to the porter, and, by a timely excuse, was allowed to pass. At this table Clarke generally dealt, and O'Mara played. It was for not restoring the L100 to the firm that the charge of felony was laid against the witness--after the escape of the gentleman; but an offer of L100 was made to him, after his imprisonment, if he would not give his evidence of the above facts and transactions. The evidence of the other witness, Ford, confirmed all the material facts of the former, and the gentleman himself, the intended victim, substantiated the evidence of Wright--as to putting him in possession of their nefarious designs. When the gentleman found that he had been cheated of the L125, he went to Walker to demand back his money. Walker, in the utmost confusion, went into the room, and returned with a proposal to allow L100. This he declined to take, and immediately laid the information before Mr Sergeant Runnington. The learned Sergeant forcibly recapitulated the evidence, and declared that in the whole course of his professional duties he had never heard such a disclosure of profligacy and villainy, combined with every species of wickedness. In a strain of pointed animadversion he declared it to be an imperative duty,--however much his private feelings might be wounded in seeing a reputable tradesman of the town convicted of such nefarious pursuits,--to order warrants to be issued against all parties concerned as rogues and vagrants. At the next hearing of the case the court was crowded to excess; and the mass of evidence deposed before the magistrates threw such a light on the system of gambling, that they summarily put a stop to the Cobourg and Loo tables at the various public establishments. At the first examination, the 'gentleman' before mentioned, a Mr Mackenzie, said he had played _Rouge et Noir_ at Walker's, and had lost L125. He saw O'Mara there, but he appeared as a player, not a banker; the only reason for considering him as one of the proprietors of the table, arose from the information of the witnesses Wright and Ford. On this evidence, Mr Sergeant Runnington called on O'Mara and Walker for their defence, observing that, according to the statements before him, there appeared sufficient ground for considering O'Mara as a rogue and vagabond; and for subjecting Mr Walker to penalties for keeping a house or room wherein he permitted unlawful games to be played. O'Mara affirmed that the whole testimony of Wright and Ford with respect to him was false; that he had been nine years a resident housekeeper in Brighton, and was known by, and had rendered essential services to, many respectable individuals who lived in the town, and to many noble persons who were occasional visitors. He seemed deeply penetrated by the intimation that he could be whipped, or otherwise treated as a vagabond; and said, that if time were allowed him to collect evidence, and obtain legal assistance, he could disprove the charge, or at least invalidate the evidence of the two accusers. In consequence of these representations, the case was adjourned to another day, when, so much was the expectation excited by the rumour of the affair, that at the opening of the court the hall was crowded almost to suffocation, and all the avenues were completely beset. O'Mara appeared, with his counsel, the celebrated Mr Adolphus--the Ballantyne of his day--of Old Bailey renown and forensic prowess. Mr Sergeant Runnington very obligingly stated to Mr Adolphus the previous proceeding, directed the depositions to be laid before him, and allowed him time to peruse them. Mr Adolphus having gone through the document, requested that the witnesses might be brought into court, that he might cross-question them separately; which being ordered, Wright was first put forward--the man who had received the L100, enlightened the Mr Mackenzie, and who was charged with feloniously stealing the above amount. After the usual questions, very immaterial in the present case, but answered, the witness went on to say that, O'Mara called at his lodgings and said, if he (Wright) could not persuade Mr Mackenzie to come from London, he was not to leave him, but write to him (O'Mara), and he would go to town, and win all his money. He had, on a former occasion, told the witness, that he could win all Mackenzie's money at child's play--that he could toss up and win ninety times out of one hundred; he had told both him and Ford, that if they met with any gentleman who did not like the game of _Rouge et Noir_, and would bring them to his house, he was always provided with cards, dice, and backgammon tables, to win their money from them. The learned counsel then cross-questioned the witness as to various matters, in the usual way, but tending, of course, to damage him by the answers which the questions necessitated--a horrible, but, perhaps, necessary ordeal perpetuated in our law-procedure. In these answers there was something like prevarication; so that the magistrate, Mr Sergeant Runnington, asked the witness at the close of the examination, whether he had any previous acquaintance with the gentlemen who had engaged him at half-a-crown a game, and then so candily communicated to him all their schemes? He said, none whatever. 'But,' said the Sergeant, 'you were in the daily habit of playing at this public table for the purpose of deceiving the persons who might come there?' The witness answered--'I was.' The witness Ford fared no better in the cross-examination, and Mr Sergeant Runnington, at its close, asked him the same question that he had addressed to Wright, respecting his playing at the table, and received the same answer. Mr Mackenzie did not appear, and there was no further evidence. Mr Adolphus said that if he were called upon to make any defence for his client upon a charge so supported, he was ready to do it; but, as he must make many observations, not only on the facts, but on the _LAW_, he was anxious if possible to avoid doing so, as he did not wish to say too much about the law respecting gaming before so large and mixed an audience.(72) (72) See Chapter XI. for the views of Mr Adolphus here alluded to. Two witnesses were called, who gave evidence which was damaging to the character of Ford, stating that he told them he was in a conspiracy against O'Mara and some other moneyed men, from whom they should get three or four hundred pounds, and if witness would conceal from O'Mara his (Ford's) real name, he should have his share of the money, and might go with him and Wright to Brussels. After hearing these witnesses, Mr Sergeant Runnington, without calling on Mr Adolphus for any further defence of his client, pronounced the judgment of the Bench. He reviewed the transaction from its commencement, and stated the impression, to the disadvantage of O'Mara, which the tale originally told by the two witnesses was calculated to make. But, on hearing the cross-examination of those witnesses, and seeing no evidence against the defendant but from sources so impure and corrupt--recollecting the severe penalties of the Vagrant Acts, and sitting there not merely as a judge, but also exercising the functions of a jury, he could not bring himself to convict on such evidence. The witnesses, impure as they were, were _NOT SUPPORTED BY MR MACKENZIE IN ANY PARTICULAR_, except the fact of his losing money, at a time when O'Mara did not appear as a proprietor of the table, but as a player like himself. O'Mara must therefore be discharged; but the two witnesses would not be so fortunate. From their own mouths it appeared that they had been using subtle craft to deceive and impose upon his Majesty's subjects, by playing or betting at unlawful games, and had no legal or visible means of gaining a livelihood; the court, therefore, adjudged them to be rogues and vagabonds, and committed them, in execution, to the gaol at Lewes, there to remain till the next Quarter Sessions, and then to be further dealt with according to law. A short private conference followed between the magistrates and Mr Adolphus, the result of which was that Mr Walker was not proceeded against, but entered into a recognizance not to permit any kind of gaming to be carried on in his house. CHAPTER VIII. GAMBLING AT THE GERMAN BATHING-PLACES.---- BADEN AND ITS CONVERSATION HOUSE. Baden-Baden in the season is full of the most exciting contrasts--gay restaurants and brilliant saloons, gaming-tables, promenades, and theatres crammed with beauty and rank, in the midst of lovely natural scenery, and under the shade of the pine-clad heights of the Hercynian or Black Forest--the scene of so many weird tales of old Germany--as for instance of the charming _Undine_ of De la Mothe Fouque. But among the seducing attractions of Baden-Baden, and of all German bathing-places, the Rouge-et-noir and Roulette-table hold a melancholy pre-eminence,--being at once a shameful source of revenue to the prince,--a rallying point for the gay, the beautiful, the professional blackleg, the incognito duke or king,--and a vortex in which the student, the merchant, and the subaltern officer are, in the course of the season, often hopelessly and irrevocably ingulfed. Remembering the gaming excitement of the primitive Germans, we can scarcely be surprised to find that the descendants of these northern races poison the pure stream of pleasure by the introduction of this hateful occupation. It is, however, rather remarkable that all foreign visitors, whether Dutch, Flemish, Swede, Italian, or even English, of whatever age or disposition or sex, 'catch the frenzy' during the (falsely so-called) _Kurzeit_, that is, _Cure-season_, at Baden, Ems, and Ais. Princes and their subjects, fathers and sons, and even, horrible to say, mothers and daughters, are hanging, side by side, for half the night over the green table; and, with trembling hands and anxious eyes, watching their chance-cards, or thrusting francs and Napoleons with their rakes to the red or the black cloth. No spot in the whole world draws together a more distinguished society than may be met at Baden; its attractions are felt and acknowledged by every country in Europe. Many of the _elite_ of each nation may yearly be found there during the months of summer, and, as a natural consequence, many of the worst and vilest follow them, in the hope of pillage. Says Mrs Trollope:--'I doubt if anything less than the evidence of the senses can enable any one fully to credit and comprehend the spectacle that a gaming-table offers. I saw women distinguished by rank, elegant in person, modest, and even reserved in manner, sitting at the Rouge-et-noir table with their rateaux, or rakes, and marking-cards in their hands;--the former to push forth their bets, and draw in their winnings, the latter to prick down the events of the game. I saw such at different hours through the whole of Sunday. To name these is impossible; but I grieve to say that two English women were among them.' The Conversationshaus, where the gambling takes place, is let out by the Government of Baden to a company of speculators, who pay, for the exclusive privilege of keeping the tables, L11,000 annually, and agree to spend in addition 250,000 florins (L25,000) on the walks and buildings, making altogether about L36,000. Some idea may be formed from this of the vast sums of money which must be yearly lost by the dupes who frequent it. The whole is under the direction of M. Benazet, who formerly farmed the gambling houses of Paris. 'On trouve ici le jeu, les livres, la musique, Les cigarres, l'amour, les orangers, Le monde tantot gai, tantot melancholique, Les glaces, la danse, et les cochers; De la biere, de bons diners, A cote d'arbre une boutique, Et la vue de hauts rochers. Ma foi!' 'We find here gambling, books, and music, Cigars, love-making, orange-trees; People or gay or melancholic, Ices, dancing, and coachmen, if you please; Beer, and good dinners; besides these, Shops where they sell not _on tic;_ And towering rocks one ever sees.' 'How shall I describe,' says Mr Whitelocke, 'to my readers in language sufficiently graphic, one of the resorts the most celebrated in Europe; a place, if not competing with Crockford's in gorgeous magnificence and display, at least surpassing it in renown, and known over a wider sphere? The metropolitan pump-room of Europe, conducted on the principle of gratuitous admittance to all bearing the semblance of gentility and conducting themselves with propriety, opens its Janus doors to all the world with the most laudable hospitality and with a perfect indifference to exclusiveness, requiring only the hat to be taken off upon entering, and rejecting only short jackets, cigar, pipe, and meerschaum. A room of this description, a temple dedicated to fashion, fortune, and flirtation, requires a pen more current, a voice more eloquent, than mine to trace, condense, vivify, and depict. Taking everything, therefore, for granted, let us suppose a vast saloon of regular proportions, rather longer than broad, at either end garnished by a balcony; beneath, doors to the right and left, and opposite to the main entrance, conduct to other apartments, dedicated to different purposes. On entering the eye is at once dazzled by the blaze of lights from chandeliers of magnificent dimensions, of lamps, lustres, and sconces. The ceiling and borders set off into compartments, showered over with arabesques, the gilded pillars, the moving mass of promenaders, the endless labyrinth of human beings assembled from every region in Europe, the costly dresses, repeated by a host of mirrors, all this combined, which the eye conveys to the brain at a single glance, utterly fails in description. As with the eye, so it is with the ear; at every step a new language falls upon it, and every tongue with different intonation, for the high and the low, the prince, peer, vassal, and tradesman, the proud beauty, the decrepit crone, some fresh budding into the world, some standing near the grave, the gentle and the stern, the sombre and the gay, in short, every possible antithesis that the eye, ear, heart can perceive, hear, or respond to, or that the mind itself can imagine, is here to be met with in two minutes. And yet all this is no Babel; for all, though concentrated, is admirably void of confusion; and evil or strong passions, if they do exist, are religiously suppressed--a necessary consequence, indeed, where there can be no sympathy, and where contempt and ridicule would be the sole reciprocity. In case, however, any such display should take place, a gendarme keeps constant watch at the door, appointed by government, it is true, but resembling our Bow-street officers in more respects than one. 'Now that we have taken a survey of the brilliant and moving throng, let us approach the stationary crowd to the left hand, and see what it is that so fascinates and rivets their attention. They are looking upon a long table covered with green cloth, in the centre of which is a large polished wooden basin with a moveable rim, and around it are small compartments, numbered to a certain extent, namely 38, alternately red and black in irregular order, numbered from one to 36, a nought or zero in a red, and a double zero upon the black, making up the 38, and each capable of holding a marble. The moveable rim is set in motion by the hand, and as it revolves horizontally from east to west round its axis, the marble is caused by a jerk of the finger and thumb to fly off in a contrary movement. The public therefore conclude that no calculation can foretell where the marble will fall, and I believe they are right, inasmuch as the bank plays a certain and sure game, however deep, runs no risk of loss, and consequently has no necessity for superfluously cheating or deluding the public. It also plays double, that is, on both sides of the wheel of fortune at once. 'When the whirling of both rim and marble cease, the latter falls, either simultaneously or after some coy uncertainty, into one of the compartments, and the number and colour, &c., are immediately proclaimed, the stakes deposited are dexterously raked up by the croupier, or increased by payment from the bank, according as the colour wins or loses. Now, the two sides or tables are merely duplicates of one another, and each of them is divided something like a chess-board into three columns of squares, which amount to 36; the numbers advance arithmetically from right to left, and consequently there are 12 lines down, so as to complete the rectangle; as one, therefore, stands at the head, four stands immediately under it, and so on. At the bottom lie three squares, with the French marks 12 p--12 m--12 d, that is, first, middle, third dozen. The three large meadows on either side are for red and black, pair and odd, miss and pass--which last signify the division of the numbers into the first and second half, from 1 to 18, and from 19 to 36, inclusive. If a number be staked upon and wins, the stake is increased to six times its amount, and so on, always less as the stake is placed in different positions, which may be effected in the following ways--by placing the piece of gold or silver on the line (_a cheval_, as it is called), partly on one and partly on its neighbour, two numbers are represented, and should one win, the piece is augmented to eighteen times the sum; three numbers are signified upon the stroke at the end or beginning of the numbers that go across; six, by placing the coin on the border of a perpendicular and a horizontal line between two strokes; four, where the lines cross within; twelve numbers are signified in a two-fold manner, either upon the column where the figures follow in the order of one, four, seven, and so on, or on the side-fields mentioned above; these receive the stake trebled; and those who stake solely upon the colour, the two halves, or equal and odd, have their stake doubled when they win. Now, the two zeros, that is, the simple and compound, stand apart and may be separately staked upon; should either turn up, the stake is increased in a far larger proportion. 'To render the game equal, without counting in the zeros and other trifles, the winner ought to receive the square of 36, instead of 36. 'It is a melancholy amusement to any rational being not infatuated by the blind rage of gold, to witness the incredible excitement so repeatedly made to take the bank by storm, sometimes by surprise, anon by stealth, and not rarely by digging a mine, laying intrenchments and opening a fire of field-pieces, heavy ordnance, and flying artillery; but the fortress, proud and conscious of its superior strength, built on a rock of adamant, laughs at the fiery attacks of its foes, nay, itself invites the storm. 'For those classes of mankind who possess a little more prudence, the game called _Trente-et-un_, and _Quarante_, or _Rouge et Noir_ are substituted. 'The lord of the temple or establishment pays, I believe, to government a yearly sum of 35,000 florins (about L3000) for permission to keep up the establishment. He has gone to immense expense in decorating the building; he pays a crowd of croupiers at different salaries, and officers of his own, who superintend and direct matters; he lights up the building, and he presides over the festivities of the town--in short, he is the patron of it all. With all this liberality he himself derives an enormous revenue, an income as sure and determined as that of my Lord Mayor himself.'(73) (73) City of the Fountains, or Baden-Baden. By R. H. Whitelocke. Carlsruhe, 1840. The Baden season begins in May; the official opening takes place towards the close of the spring quarter, and then the fashionable world begins to arrive at the rendezvous. It cannot be denied that everything is right well regulated, and apart from the terrible dangers of gambling, the place does very great credit to the authorities who thrive on the nefarious traffic. Perfect order and decency of deportment, with all the necessary civilities of life, are rigorously insisted on, and summary expulsion is the consequence of any intolerable conduct. If it so happens that any person becomes obnoxious in any way, whatever may be his or her rank, the first intimation will be--'Sir, you are not in your place here;' or, 'Madame, the air of Baden does not suit you.' If these words are disregarded, there follows a summary order--'You must leave Baden this very day, and cross the frontiers of the Grand Duchy within twenty-four hours.' Mr Sala, in his novel 'Make your Game,'(74) has given a spirited description of the gambling scenes at Baden. (74) Originally published in the 'Welcome Guest.' Whilst I write there is exhibited at the Egyptian Hall, London, Dore's magnificent picture of the _Tapis Vert_, or Life in Baden-Baden, of which the following is an accurate description:-- 'The _Tapis Vert_ is a moral, and at the same time an exceedingly clever, satire. It is illustrative of the life, manners, and predilections and pursuits of a class of society left hereafter to enjoy the manifold attractions of fashionable watering-places, without the scourge that for so many years held its immoral and degrading sway in their sumptuous halls. 'In one of these splendid salons the fashionable crowd is eagerly pressing round an oblong table covered with green cloth (_le tapis vert_), upon which piles of gold and bank-notes tell the tale of "_noir perd et la couleur gagne_," and vice versa. The principal group, upon which Dore has thrown one of his powerful effects of light, is lifelike, and several of the actors are at once recognized. Both croupiers are well-known characters. There is much life and movement in the silent scene, in which thousands of pounds change hands in a few seconds. To the left of the croupier (dealer), who turns up the winning card, sits a finely-dressed woman, who cares for little else but gold. There is a remarkable expression of eagerness and curiosity upon the countenance of the lady who comes next, and who endeavours, with the assistance of her eye-glass, to find out the state of affairs. The gentleman next to her is an inveterate _blase_. The countenance of the old man reckoning up needs no description. Near by stands a lady with a red feather in her hat, and whose lace shawl alone is worth several hundred pounds--for Dore made it. The two female figures to the left are splendidly painted. The one who causes the other croupier to turn round seems somewhat extravagantly dressed; but these costumes have been frequently worn within the last two years both at Baden and Hombourg. The old lady at the end of the table, to the left, is a well-known habituee at both places. The bustling and shuffling eagerness of the figures in the background is exceedingly well rendered. 'As a whole, the _Tapis Vert_ is a very fine illustration of real life, as met with in most of the leading German watering-places.'(75) (75) 'Illustrated Times.' 'At the present moment,' says another authority, writing more than a year ago, 'there are three very bold female gamblers at Baden. One is the Russian Princess ----, who plays several hours every day at _Rouge et Noir_, and sometimes makes what in our money would be many hundreds, and at others goes empty away. She wins calmly enough, but when luck is against her looks anxious. The second is the wife of an Italian ex-minister, who is well known both as an authoress and politician. She patronizes _Roulette_, and at every turn of the wheel her money passes on the board. She is a good gambler--smirking when she wins, and smirking when she loses. She dresses as splendidly as any of the dames of Paris. The other night she excited a flutter among the ladies assembled in the salons of the "Conversation" by appearing in a robe flaming red with an exaggerated train which dragged its slow length along the floor. But the greatest of the feminine players is the Leonie Leblanc. When she is at the _Rouge et Noir_ table a larger crowd than usual is collected to witness her operation. The stake she generally risks is 6000 francs (L240), which is the maximum allowed. Her chance is changing: a few days back she won L4000 in one sitting; some days later she lost about L2000, and was then reduced to the, for her, indignity of playing for paltry sums--L20 or thereabouts.' Among the more recent chronicles, the _Figaro_ gives the following account of the close of the campaign of a gaming hero, M. Edgar de la Charme, who, for a number of days together, never left the gaming-room without carrying off the sum of 24,000 francs. 'The day before yesterday, M. de la Charme, reflecting that there must be an end even to the greatest run of luck, locked his portmanteau, paid his bill, and took the road to the railway station, accompanied by some of his friends. On reaching the wicket he found it closed; there were still three-quarters of an hour to pass before the departure of the train. "I will go and play my parting game," he exclaimed, and, turning to the coachman, bade him drive to the Kursaal. His friends surrounded him, and held him back; he should not go, he would lose all his winnings. But he was resolute, and soon reached the Casino, where his travelling dress caused a stir of satisfaction among the croupiers. He sat down at the _Trente-et-quarante_, broke the bank in 20 minutes, got into his cab again, and seeing the inspector of the tables walking to and fro under the arcades, he said to him, in a tone of exquisite politeness, "I could not think of going away without leaving you my P.P.C."' SPA. 'The gambling houses of Spa are in the Redoute, where _Rouge et Noir_ and _Roulette_ are carried on nearly from morning to night. The profits of these establishments exceed L40,000 a year. In former times they belonged to the Bishop of Liege, who was a partner in the concern, and derived a considerable revenue from his share of the ill-gotten gains of the manager of the establishment, and no gambling tables could be set up without his permission.'(76) (76) Murray's Handbook for Travellers on the Continent. 'The gambling in Spa is in a lower style than elsewhere. The croupiers seem to be always on the look-out for cheating. You never see here a pile of gold or bank notes on the table, as at Hombourg or Wiesbaden, with the player saying, "Cinquante louis aux billet," "Cent-vingt louis a la masse," and the winnings scrupulously paid, or the losings raked carefully away from the heap. They do not allow that at Spa; there is an order against it on the wall. They could not trust the people that play, I suppose, and it is doubtful if the people could trust the croupiers. The ball spins more slowly at _Roulette_--the cards are dealt more gingerly at _Trente-et-quarante_ here than elsewhere. Nothing must be done quickly, lest somebody on one side or other should try to do somebody else. Altogether Spa is not a pleasant place to play in, and as, moreover, the odds are as great against you as at Ems, it is better to stick to the promenade _de sept heures_ and the ball-room, and leave the two tables alone. Outside it is cheery and full of life. The Queen of the Belgians is here, the Duke of Aumale, and other nice people. The breeze from the hills is always delicious; the Promenade Meyerbeer as refreshing on a hot day as a draught of iced water. But the denizens, male and female, of the _salons de jeu_ are often obnoxious, and one wishes that the old Baden law could be enforced against some of the gentler sex. 'By way of warning to any of your readers who propose to visit the tables this summer, will you let me tell a little anecdote, from personal experience, of one of these places--which one I had perhaps better not say. I took a place at the Roulette table, and had not staked more than once or twice, when two handsomely dressed ladies placed themselves one on either side of me, and commenced playing with the smallest coins allowed, wedging me in rather unpleasantly close between them. At my third or fourth stake I won on both the colour and a number, and my neighbour on the right quietly swept up my coins from the colour the instant they were paid. I remonstrated, and she very politely argued the point, ending by restoring my money. But during our discussion my far larger stake, paid in the mean while, on the winning number, had disappeared into the pocket of my neighbour on the left, who was not so polite, and was very indignant at my suggestion that the stake was mine. An appeal to the croupier only produced a shrug of the shoulders and regret that he had not seen who staked the money, an offer to stop the play, and a suggestion that I should find it very difficult to prove it was my stake. The "plant" between the two women was evident. The whole thing was a systematically-planned robbery, and very possibly the croupier was a confederate. I detected the two women in communication, and I told them that I should change my place to the other side of the table where I would trouble them not to come. They took the hint very mildly, and could afford to do so, for they had got my money. The affair was very neatly managed, and would succeed in nearly every case, especially if the croupier is, as is most probable, always on the side of the ladies.' HOMBOURG. 'In 1842 Hombourg was an obscure village, consisting of the castle of the Landgraf, and of a few hundred houses which in the course of ages had clustered around it. Few would have known of its existence except from the fact of its being the capital of the smallest of European countries. Its inhabitants lived poor and contented--the world forgetting, by the world forgot. It boasted only of one inn--the "Aigle"--which in summer was frequented by a few German families, who came to live cheaply and to drink the waters of a neighbouring mineral spring. That same year two French brothers of the name of Blanc arrived at Frankfort. They were men of a speculative turn, and a recent and somewhat daring speculation in France, connected with the old semaphore telegraph, had rendered it necessary for them to withdraw for a time from their native land. Their stock-in-trade consisted in a Roulette wheel, a few thousand francs, and an old and skilful croupier of Frascati, who knew a great deal about the properties of cards. The authorities of the town of Frankfort, being dull traders, declined to allow them to initiate their townsmen into the mysteries of cards and Roulette, so hearing that there were some strangers living at Hombourg, they put themselves into an old diligence, and the same evening disembarked at the "Aigle." The next day the elder brother called upon the prime minister, an ancient gentleman, who, with a couple of clerks, for some L60 a year governed the Landgrafate of Hombourg to his own and the general satisfaction. After a private interview with this statesman the elder Blanc returned poorer in money, but with a permission in his pocket to put up his Roulette wheel in one of the rooms of the inn. In a few months the money of the innocent water-drinkers passed from their pockets into those of the brothers Blanc. The ancient man of Frascati turned the wheel, and no matter on what number the water-drinkers risked their money, that number did not turn up. At the close of the summer season a second visit was made to the prime minister, and the Blancs returned to Frankfort with an exclusive concession to establish games of hazard within the wide spreading dominions of the Landgraf. For this they had agreed to build a kursaal, to lay out a public garden, and to pay into the national exchequer 40,000 florins (a florin is worth one shilling and eight-pence) per annum. Having obtained this concession, the next step was to found a company. Frankfort abounds in Hebrew speculators, who are not particular how they make money, and as the speculation appeared a good one, the money was soon forthcoming. It was decided that the nominal capital was to be 400,000 florins, divided into shares of 100 florins each. Half the shares were subscribed for by the Hebrew financialists, and the other half was credited to the Blancs as the price of their concession. During the winter a small kursaal was built and a small garden planted; the mineral well was deepened, and flaming advertisements appeared in all the German newspapers announcing to the world that the famous waters of Hombourg were able to cure every disease to which flesh is heir, and that to enable visitors to while away their evenings agreeably a salon had been opened, in which they would have an opportunity to win fabulous sums by risking their money either at the game of _Trente et Quarante_ or at _Roulette_. From these small beginnings arose the "company" whose career has been so notorious. It has enjoyed uninterrupted good fortune. During the twenty-six years that have elapsed since its foundation, a vast palace dedicated to gambling has been built, the village has become a town, well paved, and lighted with gas; the neighbouring hills are covered with villas; about eighty acres have been laid out in pleasure-grounds; roads have been made in all directions through the surrounding woods; the visitors are numbered by tens of thousands; there are above twenty hotels and many hundred excellent lodging-houses.'(77) (77) Correspondent of _Daily News._ 'Let those who are disposed to risk their money inquire what is the character of the managers, and be on their guard. The expenses of such an enormous and splendid establishment amount to L10,000, and the shares have for some years paid a handsome dividend--the whole of which must be paid out of the pockets of travellers and visitors.'(78) (78) Murray, _ubi supra_. Mr Sala in his interesting work, already quoted, furnishes the completest account of Hombourg, its Kursaal, and gambling, which I have condensed as follows:-- 'In Hombourg the Kursaal is everything, and the town nothing. The extortionate hotel-keepers, the "snub-nosed rogues of counter and till," who overcharge you in the shops, make their egregious profits from the Kursaal. The major part of the Landgrave's revenue is derived from the Kursaal; he draws L5000 a year from it. He and his house are sold to the Kursaal; and the Board of Directors of the Kursaal are the real sovereigns and land-graves of Hesse Hombourg. They have metamorphosed a miserable mid-German townlet into a city of palaces. Their stuccoed and frescoed palace is five hundred times handsomer than the mouldy old Schloss, built by William with the silver leg. They have planted the gardens; they have imported the orange-trees; they have laid out the park, and enclosed the hunting-grounds; they board, lodge, wash, and tax the inhabitants; and I may say, without the slightest attempt at punning, that the citizens are all _Kursed_. 'In the Kursaal is the ball or concert-room, at either end of which is a gallery, supported by pillars of composition marble. The floors are inlaid, and immense mirrors in sumptuous frames hang on the walls. Vice can see her own image all over the establishment. The ceiling is superbly decorated with bas-reliefs in _carton-pierre_, like those in Mr Barry's new Covent Garden Theatre; and fresco paintings, executed by Viotti, of Milan, and Conti, of Munich; whilst the whole is lighted up by enormous and gorgeous chandeliers. The apartment to the right is called the _Salle Japanese_, and is used as a dining-room for a monster _table d'hote_, held twice a day, and served by the famous Chevet of Paris. 'There is a huge Cafe Olympique, for smoking and imbibing purposes, private cabinets for parties, the monster saloon, and two smaller ones, where _FROM ELEVEN IN THE FORENOON TO ELEVEN AT NIGHT, SUNDAYS NOT EXCEPTED, ALL THE YEAR ROUND_, and year after year--(the "administration" have yet a "_jouissance_" of eighty-five years to run out, guaranteed by the incoming dynasty of Hesse Darmstadt), knaves and fools, from almost every corner of the world, gamble at the ingenious and amusing games of _Roulette_, and _Rouge et Noir_, otherwise _Trente et Quarante_. 'There is one table covered with green baize, tightly stretched as on a billiard-field. In the midst of the table there is a circular pit, coved inwards, but not bottomless, and containing the Roulette wheel, a revolving disc, turning with an accurate momentum on a brass pillar, and divided at its outer edge into thirty-seven narrow and shallow pigeon-hole compartments, coloured alternately red and black, and numbered--not consecutively--up to thirty-six. The last is a blank, and stands for _Zero_, number _Nothing_. Round the upper edge, too, run a series of little brass hoops, or bridges, to cause the ball to hop and skip, and not at once into the nearest compartment. This is the regimen of Roulette. The banker sits before the wheel,--a croupier, or payer-out of winnings to and raker in of losses from the players, on either side. Crying in a voice calmly sonorous, "_Faites le Jeu, Messieurs_,"--"Make your game, gentlemen!" the banker gives the wheel a dexterous twirl, and ere it has made one revolution, casts into its Maelstrom of black and red an ivory ball. The interval between this and the ball finding a home is one of breathless anxiety. Stakes are eagerly laid; but at a certain period of the revolution the banker calls out--"_Le Jeu est fait. Rien ne va plus_,"--and after that intimation it is useless to lay down money. Then the banker, in the same calm and impassable voice, declares the result. It may run thus:--"_Vingt-neuf, Noir, Impair, et Passe," "Twenty-nine, Black, Odd, and Pass the Rubicon_" (No. 18); or, "_Huit, Rouge, Pair, et Manque_," "Eight, Red, Even, and _NOT_ Pass the Rubicon." 'Now, on either side of the wheel, and extending to the extremity of the table, run, in duplicate, the schedule of _mises_ or stakes. The green baize first offers just thirty-six square compartments, marked out by yellow threads woven in the fabric itself, and bearing thirty-six consecutive numbers. If you place a florin (one and eight-pence)--and no lower stake is permitted--or ten florins, or a Napoleon, or an English five-pound note, or any sum of money not exceeding the maximum, whose multiple is the highest stake which the bank, if it loses, can be made to pay, in the midst of compartment 29, and if the banker, in that calm voice of his, has declared that 29 has become the resting place of the ball, the croupier will push towards you with his rake exactly thirty-three times the amount of your stake, whatever it might have been. You must bear in mind, however, that the bank's loss on a single stake is limited to eight thousand francs. Moreover, if you have placed another sum of money in the compartment inscribed, in legible yellow colours, "_Impair_," or Odd, you will receive the equivalent to your stake--twenty-nine being an odd number. If you have placed a coin on _Passe_, you will also receive this additional equivalent to your stake, twenty-nine being "Past the Rubicon," or middle of the table of numbers--18. Again, if you have ventured your money in a compartment bearing for device a lozenge in outline, which represents black, and twenty-nine being a black number, you will again pocket a double stake, that is, one in addition to your original venture. More, and more still,--if you have risked money on the columns--that is, betted on the number turning up corresponding with some number in one of the columns of the tabular schedule, and have selected the right column--you have your own stake and two others;--if you have betted on either of these three eventualities, _douze premier, douze milieu_, or _douze dernier_, otherwise "first dozen," "middle dozen," or "last dozen," as one to twelve, thirteen to twenty-four, twenty-five to thirty-six, all inclusive, and have chanced to select _douze dernier_, the division in which No. 29 occurs, you also obtain a treble stake, namely, your own and two more which the bank pays you, your florin or your five-pound note--benign fact!--metamorphosed into three. But, woe to the wight who should have ventured on the number "eight," on the red colour (compartment with a crimson lozenge), on "even," and on "not past the Rubicon;" for twenty-nine does not comply with any one of these conditions. He loses, and his money is coolly swept away from him by the croupier's rake. With reference to the last chances I enumerated in the last paragraph, I should mention that the number _EIGHT_ would lie in the second column--there being three columns,--and in the first dozen numbers. 'There are more chances, or rather subdivisions of chances, to entice the player to back the "numbers;" for these the stations of the ball are as capricious as womankind; and it is, of course, extremely rare that a player will fix upon the particular number that happens to turn up. But he may place a piece of money _a cheval_, or astride, on the line which divides two numbers, in which case (either of the numbers turning up) he receives sixteen times his stake. He may place it on the cross lines that divide four numbers, and, if either of the four wins, he will receive eight times the amount of his stake. A word as to _Zero_. Zero is designated by the compartment close to the wheel's diameter, and zero, or blank, will turn up, on an average, about once in seventy times. If you have placed money in zero, and the ball seeks that haven, you will receive thirty-three times your stake.' The twin or elder brother of _Roulette_, played at Hombourg, _Rouge et Noir_, or _Trente et Quarante_, is thus described by Mr Sala:-- 'There is the ordinary green-cloth covered table, with its brilliant down-coming lights. In the centre sits the banker, gold and silver in piles and _rouleaux_, and bank-notes before him. On either hand, the croupier, as before, now wielding the rakes and plying them to bring in the money, now balancing them, now shouldering them, as soldiers do their muskets, half-pay officers their canes, and dandies their silk umbrellas. The banker's cards are, as throughout all the Rhenish gaming-places, of French design; the same that were invented, or, at least, first used in Europe, for crazy Charles the Simple. These cards are placed on an inclined plane of marble, called a _talon_. 'The dealer first takes six packs of cards, shuffles them, and distributes them in various parcels to the various punters or players round the table, to shuffle and mix. He then finally shuffles them, and takes and places the end cards into various parts of the three hundred and twelve cards, until he meets with a _court card_, which he must place upright at the end. This done, he presents the pack to one of the players to cut, who places the pictured card where the _dealer_ separates the pack, and that part of the pack beyond the pictured card he places at the end nearest him, leaving the pictured card at the bottom of the pack. 'The dealer then takes a certain number of cards, about as many as would form a pack, and, looking at the first card, to know its colour, puts it on the table with its face downwards. He then takes two cards, one red and the other black, and sets them back to back. These cards are turned, and displayed conspicuously, as often as the colour varies, for the information of the company. 'The gamblers having staked their money on either of the colours, the dealer asks, "_Votre jeu est-il fait?_" "Is your game made?" or, "_Votre jeu est-il piet?_" "Is your game ready?" or, "_Le jeu est pret, Messieurs_," "The game is ready, gentlemen." He then deals the first card with its face upwards, saying "_Noir;_" and continues dealing until the cards turned exceed thirty points or pips in number, which number he must mention, as "_Trente-et-un_," or "_Trente-six_," as the case may be. 'As the aces reckon but for one, no card after thirty can make up forty; the dealer, therefore, does not declare the _tens_ after _thirty-one_, or upwards, but merely the units, as one, two, three; if the number of points dealt for _Noir_ are thirty-five he says "_Cinq_." 'Another parcel is then dealt for _rouge_, or _red_, and with equal deliberation and solemnity; and if the players stake beyond the colour that comes to _thirty-one_ or nearest to it, he wins, which happy eventuality is announced by the dealer crying--"_Rouge gagne_," "Red wins," or "_Rouge perd_," "Red loses." These two parcels, one for each colour, make a _coup_. The same number of parcels being dealt for each colour, the dealer says, "_Apres_," "After." This is a "doublet," called in the amiable French tongue, "_un refait_," by which neither party wins, unless both colours come to _thirty-one_, which the dealer announces by saying, "_Un refait Trente-et-un_," and he wins half the stakes posted on both colours. He, however, does not take the money, but removes it to the middle line, and the players may change the _venue_ of their stakes if they please. This is called the first "prison," or _la premiere prison_, and, if they win their next event, they draw the entire stake. In case of another "_refait_," the money is removed into the third line, which is called the second prison. So you see that there are wheels within wheels, and Lord Chancellor King's dictum, that walls can be built higher, but there should be no prison within a prison, is sometimes reversed. When this happens the dealer wins all. 'The cards are sometimes cut for which colour shall be dealt first; but, in general, the first parcel is for _black_, and the second for _red_. The odds against a "_refait_" turning up are usually reckoned as 63 to 1. The bankers, however, acknowledge that they expect it twice in three deals, and there are generally from twenty-nine to thirty-two coups in each deal. The odds in favour of winning several times are about the same as in the game of Pharaon, and are as delusive. 'He who goes to Hombourg and expects to see any melodramatic manifestation of rage, disappointment, and despair in the losing players, reckons without his host. Winners or losers seldom speak above a whisper; and the only sound that is heard above the suppressed buzz of conversation, the muffled jingle of the money on the green cloth, the "sweep" of the croupiers' rakes, and the ticking of the very ornate French clocks on the mantel-pieces, is the impassibly metallic voice of the banker, as he proclaims his "_Rouge perd_," or "_Couleur gagne_." People are too genteel at Hombourg-von-der-Hohe to scream, to yell, to fall into fainting fits, or go into convulsions, because they have lost four or five thousand francs or so in a single coup. 'I have heard of one gentleman, indeed, who, after a ruinous loss, put a pistol to his head, and discharging it, spattered his brains over the Roulette wheel. It was said that the banker, looking up calmly, called out--'_Triple Zero,' 'Treble Nothing_,'--a case as yet unheard of in the tactics of Roulette, but signifying annihilation,--and that, a cloth being thrown over the ensanguined wheel, the bank of that particular table was declared to be closed for the day. Very probably the whole story is but a newspaper _canard_, devised by the proprietors of some rival gaming establishment, who would have been delighted to see the fashionable Hombourg under a cloud. 'When people want to commit suicide at Hombourg, they do it genteelly; early in the morning, or late at night, in the solitude of their own apartments at the hotels. It would be reckoned a gross breach of good manners to scandalize the refined and liberal administration of the Kursaal by undisguised _felo-de-se_. The devil on two _croupes_ at Hombourg is the very genteelest of demons imaginable. He ties his tail up with cherry-coloured ribbon, and conceals his cloven foot in a patent-leather boot. All this gentility and varnish, and elegant veneering of the sulphurous pit, takes away from him, if it does not wholly extinguish, the honour and loathing for a common gaming-house, with which the mind of a wellured English youth has been sedulously imbued by his parents and guardians. He has very probably witnessed the performance of the "Gamester" at the theatre, and been a spectator of the remorseful agonies of Mr Beverly, the virtuous sorrows of Mrs B., and the dark villanies of Messieurs Dawson and Bates. 'The first visit of the British youth to the Kursaal is usually paid with fear and trembling. He is with difficulty persuaded to enter the accursed place. When introduced to the saloons--delusively called _de conversation_, he begins by staring fixedly at the chandeliers, the ormolu clocks, and the rich draperies, and resolutely averts his eyes from the serried ranks of punters or players, and the Pactolus, whose sands are circulating on the green cloth on the table. Then he thinks there is no very great harm in looking on, and so peeps over the shoulder of a moustached gamester, who perhaps whispers to him in the interval between two coups, that if a man will only play carefully, and be content with moderate gains, he may win sufficient--taking the good days and the evil days in a lump--to keep him in a decent kind of affluence all the year round. Indeed, I once knew a croupier--we used to call him Napoleon, from the way he took snuff from his waistcoat pocket, who was in the way of expressing a grave conviction that it was possible to make a capital living at Roulette, so long as you stuck to the colours, and avoided the Scylla of the numbers and the Charybdis of the Zero. By degrees, then, the shyness of the neophyte wears off. Perhaps in the course of his descent of Avernus, a revulsion of feeling takes place, and, horror-struck and ashamed, he rushes out of the Kursaal, determined to enter its portals no more. Then he temporizes; remembers that there is a capital reading-room, provided with all the newspapers and periodicals of civilized Europe, attached to the Kursaalian premises. There can be no harm, he thinks, in glancing over "Galignani" or the "Charivari," although under the same roof as the abhorred _Trente et Quarante;_ but, alas! he finds _Galignani_ engaged by an acrid old lady of morose countenance, who has lost all her money by lunch-time, and is determined to "take it out in reading," and the _Charivari_ slightly clenched in one hand by the deaf old gentleman with the dingy ribbon of the Legion of Honour, and the curly brown wig pushed up over one ear, who always goes to sleep on the soft and luxurious velvet couches of the Kursaal reading-room, from eleven till three, every day, Sundays not excepted. The disappointed student of home or foreign news wanders back to one of the apartments where play is going, on. In fact, he does not know what to do with himself until table-d'hote time. You know what the moral bard, Dr Watts says:-- "Satan finds some mischief still, For idle hands to do." The unfledged gamester watches the play more narrowly. A stout lady in a maroon velvet mantle, and a man with a bald head, a black patch on his occiput, and gold spectacles, obligingly makes way for him. He finds himself pressed against the very edge of the table. Perhaps a chair--one of those delightfully comfortable Kursaal chairs--is vacant. He is tired with doing nothing, and sinks into the emolliently-cushioned _fauteuil_. He fancies that he has caught the eye of the banker, or one of the gentlemen of the _croupe_, and that they are meekly inviting him to try his luck. "Well, there can't be much harm in risking a florin," he murmurs. He stakes his silver-piece on a number or a colour. He wins, we will say, twice or thrice. Perhaps he quadruples his stake, nay, perchance, hits on the lucky number. It turns up, and he receives thirty-five times the amount of his _mise_. Thenceforth it is all over with that ingenuous British youth. The Demon of Play has him for his own, and he may go on playing and playing until he has lost every florin of his own, or as many of those belonging to other people as he can beg or borrow. Far more fortunate for him would it be in the long run, if he met in the outset with a good swinging loss. The burnt child _DOES_ dread the fire as a rule; but there is this capricious, almost preternatural, feature of the physiology of gaming, that the young and inexperienced generally win in the first instance. They are drawn on and on, and in and in. They begin to lose, and continue to lose, and by the time they have cut their wise teeth they have neither sou nor silver to make their dearly-bought wisdom available. 'At least one-half of the company may be assumed to be arrant rascals--rascals male and rascals female--_chevaliers d'industrie_, the offscourings of all the shut-up gambling-houses in Europe, demireps and _lorettes_, single and married women innumerable.' In the course of the three visits he has paid to Hombourg, Mr Sala has observed that 'nine-tenths of the English visitors to the Kursaal, play;' and he does not hesitate to say that the moths who flutter round the garish lamps at the Kursaal Van der Hohe, and its kindred Hades, almost invariably singe their wings; and that the chaseer at _Roulette_ and _Rouge_, generally turn out edged tools, with which those incautious enough to play with them are apt to cut their fingers, sometimes very dangerously. The season of 1869 in Hombourg is thus depicted in a high class newspaper. 'Never within the memory of the oldest inhabitant (who in this instance must undoubtedly be that veteran player Countess Kisselef) has the town witnessed such an influx of tourists of every class and description. Hotels and lodging-houses are filled to overflowing. Every day imprudent travellers who have neglected the precaution of securing rooms before their arrival return disconsolately to Frankfort to await the vacation of some apartment which a condescending landlord has promised them after much negotiation for the week after next. The morning promenade is a wonderful sight; such a host of bilious faces, such an endless variety of eccentric costumes, such a Babel of tongues, among which the shrill twang of our fair American cousins is peculiarly prominent, could be found in no other place in the civilized world. A moralist would assuredly find here abundant food for reflection on the wonderful powers of self-deception possessed by mankind. We all get up at most inconvenient hours, swallow a certain quantity of a most nauseous fluid, and then, having sacrificed so much to appearances, soothe our consciences with the unfounded belief that a love of early rising and salt water was our real reason for coming here, and that the gambling tables had nothing whatever to do with it. Perhaps, in some few instances, this view may be the correct one; some few invalids, say one in a hundred, may have sought Hombourg solely in the interest of an impaired digestion, but I fear that such cases are few and far between; and, as a friend afflicted with a mania for misquotation remarked to me the other day, even "those who come to drink remain to play." 'Certainly the demon of Rouge et Noir has never held more undisputed sway in Hombourg than in the present season; never have the tables groaned under such a load of notes and rouleaux. It would seem as if the gamblers, having only two or more years left in which to complete their ruin, were hurrying on with redoubled speed to that desirable consummation, and where a stake of 12,000 francs is allowed on a single coup the pace can be made very rapid indeed. High play is so common that unless you are lucky enough to win or rich enough to lose a hundred thousand francs at least, you need not hope to excite either envy or commiseration. One persevering Muscovite, who has been punting steadily for six weeks, has actually succeeded in getting rid of a million of florins. As yet there have been no suicides to record, owing probably to the precautionary measures adopted by a paternal Administration. As soon as a gambler is known to be utterly cleared out he at once receives a visit from one of M. Blanc's officials, who offers him a small sum on condition he will leave the town forthwith; which viaticum, however, for fear of accidents, is only handed to him when fairly seated in the train that bears him away, to blow out his brains, should he feel so inclined, elsewhere. One of the most unpleasant facts connected with the gambling is the ardour displayed by many ladies in this very unfeminine pursuit: last night out of twenty-five persons seated at the Roulette table I counted no fewer than fifteen ladies, including an American lady with her two daughters! 'The King of Prussia has arrived, and, with due deference to the official editors who have described in glowing paragraphs the popular demonstrations in his honour, I am bound to assert that he was received with very modified tokens of delight. There was not even a repetition of the triumphal arch of last year; those funereal black and white flags, whose sole aspect is enough to repress any exuberance of rejoicing, were certainly flapping against the hotel windows and the official flagstaffs, but little else testified to the joy of the Hombourgers at beholding their Sovereign. They manage these things better in France. Any French _prefet_ would give the German authorities a few useful hints concerning the cheap and speedy manufacture of loyal enthusiasm. The foreigners, however, seem determined to atone amply for any lack of proper feeling on the part of the townspeople. They crowd round his Majesty as soon as he appears in the rooms or gardens, and mob the poor old gentleman with a vigour which taxes all the energies of his aides-de-camp to save their Royal master from death by suffocation. Need I add that our old friend the irrepressible "'Arry" is ever foremost in these gentlemanlike demonstrations? 'Of course the town swarms with well-known English faces; indeed, the Peers and M.P.s here at present would form a very respectable party in the two Houses. We are especially well off for dukes; the _Fremdenliste_ notifies the presence of no fewer than five of those exalted personages. A far less respectable class of London society is also, I am sorry to say, strongly represented: I allude to those gentlemen of the light-fingered persuasion whom the outer world rudely designate as pickpockets. This morning two gorgeously arrayed members of the fraternity were marched down to the station by the police, each being decorated with a pair of bright steel handcuffs; seventeen of them were arrested last week in Frankfort at one fell swoop, and at the tables the row of lookers-on who always surround the players consists in about equal proportions of these gentry and their natural enemies--the detectives. Their booty since the beginning of the season must be reckoned by thousands. Mustapha Fazyl Pasha had his pocket picked of a purse containing L600, and a Russian lady was lately robbed of a splendid diamond brooch valued at 75,000 francs.(79) (79) Pall Mall Gazette, Aug. 1869. But the days of the Kursaal are numbered, and the glories or infamies of Hombourg are doomed. 'The fiat has gone forth. In five years(80) from this time the "game will be made" no longer--the great gambling establishment of Hombourg will be a thing of the past. The town will be obliged to contend on equal terms with other watering-places for its share of the wool on the backs of summer excursionists. (80) In 1872. 'As most of the townspeople are shareholders in this thriving concern, and as all of them gain either directly or indirectly by the play, it was amusing to watch the anxiety of these worthies during the war between Austria and Prussia. Patriotism they had none; they cared neither for Austrian nor Prussian, for a great Germany nor for a small Germany. The "company" was their god and their country. All that concerned them was to know whether the play was likely to be suppressed. When they were annexed to Prussia, at first they could not believe that Count Bismarck, whatever he might do with kings, would venture to interfere with the "bank." It was to them a divine institution--something far superior to dynasties and kingdoms.... 'For a year the Hombourgers were allowed to suppose that their "peculiar institution" was indeed superior to fate, to public opinion, and to Prussia; but at the commencement of the present year they were rudely awakened from their dreams of security. The sword that had been hanging over them fell. The directors of the company were ordered to appear before the governor of the town, and they were told that they and all belonging to them were to cease to exist in 1872, and that the following arrangement was to be made respecting the plunder gained until that date. The shareholders were to receive 10 per cent. on their money; 5000 shares were to be paid off at par each year, and if this did not absorb all the profits, the surplus was to go towards a fund for keeping up the gardens after the play had ceased. By this means, as there are now 36,000 shares, 25,000 will be paid off at par, and the remaining 11,000 will be represented by the buildings and the land belonging to the company, which it will be at liberty to sell to the highest bidder. Since this decree has been promulgated the Hombourgers are in despair. The croupiers and the clerks, the Jews who lend money at high interest, the Christians who let lodgings, all the rogues and swindlers who one way or another make a living out of the play, fill the air with their complaints. 'Although no doubt individuals will suffer by the suppression of public play here, it is by no means certain that the town itself will not be a gainer by it. Holiday seekers must go somewhere. The air of Hombourg is excellent; the waters are invigorating; the town is well situated and easy of access by rail; living is comparatively cheap--a room may be had for about 18_s_. a week, an excellent dinner for 2_s_.; breakfast costs less than a shilling. Hombourg is now a fixed fact, and if the townspeople take heart and grapple with the new state of things--if they buy up the Kursaal, and throw open its salons to visitors; if they keep up the opera, the cricket club, and the shooting; if they have good music, and balls and concerts for those who like them, there is no reason why they should not attract as many visitors to their town as they do now.'(81) (81) Correspondent of _Daily News._ AIX-LA-CHAPELLE. The gaming at Aix-la-Chapelle is equally desperate and destructive. 'A Russian officer of my acquaintance,' says a writer in the Annual Register for 1818, 'was subject, like many of his countrymen whom I have known, to the infatuation of play to a most ridiculous excess. His distrust of himself under the assailments which he anticipated at a place like Aix-la-Chapelle, had induced him to take the prudent precaution of paying in advance at his hotel for his board and lodging, and at the bathing-house for his baths, for the time he intended to stay. The remaining contents of his purse he thought fairly his own; and he went of course to the table all the gayer for the license he had taken of his conscience. On fortune showing him a few favours, he came to me in high spirits, with a purse full of Napoleons, and a resolute determination to keep them by venturing no more; but a gamester can no more be stationary than the tide of a river, and on the evening he was put out of suspense by having not a Napoleon left, and nothing to console but congratulation on his foresight, and the excellent supper which was the fruit of it.' Towards the end of the last century Aix-la-Chapelle was a great rendezvous of gamblers. The chief banker there paid a thousand louis per annum for his license. A little Italian adventurer once went to the place with only a few louis in his pocket, and played crown stakes at Hazard. Fortune smiled on him; he increased his stakes progressively; in twenty-four hours won about L4000. On the following day he stripped the bank entirely, pocketing nearly L10,000. He continued to play for some days, till he was at last reduced to a single louis! He now obtained from a friend the loan of L30, and once more resumed his station at the gaming table, which he once more quitted with L10,000 in his pocket, and resolved to leave it for ever. The arguments of one of the bankers, however, who followed him to his inn, soon prevailed over his resolution, and on his return to the gaming table he was stripped of his last farthing. He went to his lodgings, sold his clothes, and by that means again appeared at his old haunt, for the half-crown stakes, by which he honourably repaid his loan of L30. His end was unknown to the relater of the anecdote, but 'ten to one,' it was ruin. At the same place, in the year 1793, the heir-apparent of an Irish Marquis lost at various times nearly L20,000 at a billiard table, partly owing to his antagonist being an excellent calculator, as well as a superior player. A French emigrant at Aix-la-Chapelle, who carried a basket of tarts, liqueurs, &c., for regaling the gamesters, put down twenty-five louis at _Rouge et Noir_. He lost. He then put down fifteen, and lost again; at the third turn he staked ten; but while the cards were being shuffled, seeming to recollect himself, he felt all his pockets, and at length found two large French crowns, and a small one, which he also ventured. The deal was determined at the ninth card; and the poor wretch, who had lost his all, dashed down his basket, started from his seat, overturning two chairs as he forced the circle, tore off his hair, and with horrid blasphemies, burst the folding doors, and rushing out like a madman, was seen no more. Another emigrant arrived here penniless, but meeting a friend, obtained the loan of a few crowns, nearly his all. With these he went to the rooms, put down his stake, and won. He then successively doubled his stakes till he closed the evening with a hundred louis in his pocket. He went to his friend, and with mutual congratulations they resolved to venture no more, and calculated how long their gains would support them from absolute want, and thus seemed to strengthen their wise resolution. The next night, however, the lucky gambler returned to the room--but only to be a spectator, as he firmly said. Alas! his resolution failed him, and he quitted the tables indebted to a charitable bystander for a livre or two, to pay for his petty refreshments. It is said that the annual profit to the bankers was 120,000 florins, or L14,000. 'The very name of Aix-la-Chapelle,' says a traveller, 'makes one think (at least, makes me think) of cards and dice,--sharks and pigeons. It has a "professional odour" upon it, which is certainly not that of sanctity. I entered the Redoute with my head full of sham barons, German Catalinas, and the thousand-and-one popular tales of renowned knights of the green cloth,--their seducing confederates, and infatuated dupes. 'The rooms are well distributed; the saloons handsome. A sparkling of ladies, apparently (and really, as I understood) of the best water, the _elite_, in short, of Aix-la-Chapelle, were lounging on sofas placed round the principal saloon, or fluttering about amidst a crowd of men, who filled up the centre of the room, or thronged round the tables that were ranged on one side of it. 'The players continued their occupation in death-like silence, undisturbed by the buzz or the gaze of the lookers-on; not a sound was heard but the rattle of the heaped-up money, as it was passed from one side of the table to the other; nor was the smallest anxiety or emotion visible on any countenance. 'The scene was unpleasing, though to me curious from its novelty. Ladies are admitted to play, but there were none occupied this morning. I was glad of it; indeed, though English travellers are accused of carrying about with them a portable code of morality, which dissolves or stiffens like a soap-cake as circumstances may affect its consistency, yet I sincerely believe that there are few amongst us who would not feel shocked at seeing one of the gentler sex in so unwomanly a position.'(82) (82) Reminiscences of the Rhine, &c. Anon. WIESBADEN. The gambling here in 1868 has been described in a very vivid manner. 'Since the enforcement of the Prussian Sunday observance regulations, Monday has become the great day of the week for the banks of the German gambling establishments. Anxious to make up for lost time, the regular contributors to the company's dividends flock early on Monday forenoon to the play-rooms in order to secure good places at the tables, which, by the appointed hour for commencing operations (eleven o'clock), are closely hedged round by persons of both sexes, eagerly waiting for the first deal of the cards or the initial twist of the brass wheel, that they may try another fall with Fortune. Before each seated player are arranged precious little piles of gold and silver, a card printed in black and red, and a long pin, wherewith to prick out a system of infallible gain. The croupiers take their seats and unpack the strong box; rouleaux--long metal sausages composed of double and single florins,--wooden bowls brimming over with gold Frederics and Napoleons, bank notes of all sizes and colours, are arranged upon the black leather compartment, ruled over by the company's officers; half-a-dozen packs of new cards are stripped of their paper cases, and swiftly shuffled together; and when all these preliminaries, watched with breathless anxiety by the surrounding speculators, have been gravely and carefully executed, the chief croupier looks round him--a signal for the prompt investment of capital on all parts of the table--chucks out a handful of cards from the mass packed together convenient to his hand--ejaculates the formula, "Faites le jeu!" and, after half a minute's pause, during which he delicately moistens the ball of his dealing thumb, exclaims "Le jeu est fait, rien ne va plus," and proceeds to interpret the decrees of fate according to the approved fashion of Trente et Quarante. A similar scene is taking place at the Roulette table--a goodly crop of florins, with here and there a speck of gold shining amongst the silver harvest, is being sown over the field of the cloth of green, soon to be reaped by the croupier's sickle, and the pith ball is being dropped into the revolving basin that is partitioned off into so many tiny black and red niches. For the next twelve hours the processes in question are carried on swiftly and steadily, without variation or loss of time; relays of croupiers are laid on, who unobtrusively slip into the places of their fellows when the hours arrive for relieving guard; the game is never stopped for more than a couple of minutes at a time, viz., when the cards run out and have to be re-shuffled. This brief interruption is commonly considered to portend a break in the particular vein which the game may have happened to assume during the deal--say a run upon black or red, an alternation of coups (in threes or fours) upon either colour, two reds and a black, or _vice versa_, all equally frequent eccentricities of the cards; and the heavier players often change their seats, or leave the table altogether for an hour or so at such a conjuncture. Curiously enough, excepting at the very commencement of the day's play, the _habitues_ of the Trente et Quarante tables appear to entertain a strong antipathy to the first deal or two after the cards have been "re-made." I have been told by one or two masters of the craft that they have a fancy to see how matters are likely to go before they strike in, as if it were possible to deduce the future of the game from its past! That it is possible appears to be an article of faith with the old stagers, and, indeed, every now and then odd coincidences occur which tend to confirm them in their creed. I witnessed an occurrence which was either attributable (as I believe) to sheer chance, or (as its hero earnestly assured me) to instinct. A fair and frail Magyar was punting on numbers with immense pluck and uniform ill fortune. Behind her stood a Viennese gentleman of my acquaintance, who enjoys a certain renown amongst his friends for the faculty of prophecy, which, however, he seldom exercises for his own benefit. Observing that she hesitated about staking her double florin, he advised her to set it on the number 3. Round went the wheel, and in twenty seconds the ball tumbled into compartment 3 sure enough. At the next turn she asked his advice, and was told to try number 24. No sooner said than done, and 24 came up in due course, whereby Mdlle L. C. won 140 odd gulden in two coups, the amount risked by her being exactly four florins. Like a wise girl, she walked off with her booty, and played no more that day at Roulette. A few minutes later I saw an Englishman go through the performance of losing four thousand francs by experimentalizing on single numbers. Twenty times running did he set ten louis-d'ors on a number (varying the number at each stake), and not one of his selection proved successful. At the "Thirty and Forty" I saw an eminent diplomatist win sixty thousand francs with scarcely an intermission of failure; he played all over the table, pushing his rouleaux backwards and forwards, from black to red, without any appearance of system that I could detect, and the cards seemed to follow his inspiration. It was a great battle; as usual, three or four smaller fish followed in his wake, till they lost courage and set against him, much to their discomfiture and the advantage of the bank; but from first to last--that is, till the cards ran out, and he left the table--he was steadily victorious. In the evening he went in again for another heavy bout, at which I chanced to be present; but fortune had forsaken him; and he not only lost his morning's winnings, but eight thousand francs to boot. I do not remember to have ever seen the tables so crowded--outside it was thundering, lightening, and raining as if the world were coming to an end, and the whole floating population of Wiesbaden was driven into the Kursaal by the weather. A roaring time of it had the bank; when play was over, about which time the rain ceased, hundreds of hot and thirsty gamblers streamed out of the reeking rooms to the glazed-in terrace, and the next hour, always the pleasantest of the twenty-four here and in Hombourg--at Ems people go straight from the tables to bed,--was devoted to animated chat and unlimited sherry-cobbler; all the "events" of the day were passed in review, experiences exchanged, and confessions made. Nobody had won; I could not hear of a single great success--the bank had had it all its own way, and most of the "lions," worsted in the fray, had evidently made up their minds to "drown it in the bowl." The Russian detachment--a very strong one this year--was especially hard hit; Spain and Italy were both unusually low-spirited; and there was an extra solemnity about the British Isles that told its own sad tale. Englishmen, when they have lost more than they can afford, generally take it out of themselves in surly, brooding self-reproach. Frenchmen give vent to their disgust and annoyance by abusing the game and its myrmidons. You may hear them, loud and savage, on the terrace, "Ah! le salle jeu! comment peut-on se laisser eplucher par des brigands de la sorte! Tripot, infame, va! je te donne ma malediction!" Italians, again, endeavour to conceal their discomfiture under a flow of feverish gaiety. Germans utter one or two "Gotts donnerwetterhimmelsapperment!" light up their cigars, drink a dozen or so "hocks," and subside into their usual state of ponderous cheerfulness. Russians betray no emotion whatever over their calamities, save, perhaps, that they smoke those famous little 'Laferme' cigarettes a trifle faster and more nervously than at other times; but they are excellent winners and magnificent losers, only to be surpassed in either respect by their old enemy the Turk, who is _facile princeps_ in the art of hiding his feelings from the outer world. 'The great mass of visitors at Wiesbaden this season, as at Hombourg, belong to the middle and lower middle classes, leavened by a very few celebrities and persons of genuine distinction. There are a dozen or two eminent men here, not to be seen in the play-rooms, who are taking the waters--Lord Clarendon, Baron Rothschild, Prince Souvarof, and a few more--but the general run of guests is by no means remarkable for birth, wealth, or respectability; and we are shockingly off for ladies. As a set-off against this deficiency, it would seem that all the aged, broken-down courtesans of Paris, Vienna, and Berlin have agreed to make Wiesbaden their autumn rendezvous. Arrayed in all the colours of the rainbow, painted up to the roots of their dyed hair, shamelessly _decolletees_, prodigal of "free" talk and unseemly gesture, these ghastly creatures, hideous caricatures of youth and beauty, flaunt about the play-rooms and gardens, levying black-mail upon those who are imprudent enough to engage them in "chaff" or badinage, and desperately endeavouring to hook themselves on to the wealthier and younger members of the male community. They poison the air round them with sickly perfumes; they assume titles, and speak of one another as "cette chere comtesse;" their walk is something between a prance and a wriggle; they prowl about the terrace whilst the music is playing, seeking whom they may devour, or rather whom they may inveigle into paying for their devouring: and, _bon Dieu!_ how they do gorge themselves with food and drink when some silly lad or aged roue allows himself to be bullied or wheedled into paying their scot! Their name is legion; and they constitute the very worst feature of a place which, naturally a Paradise, is turned into a seventh hell by the uncontrolled rioting of human passions. They have no friends--no "protectors;" they are dependent upon accident for a meal or a piece of gold to throw away at the tables; they are plague-spots upon the face of society; they are, as a rule, crassly ignorant and horribly cynical; and yet there are many men here who are proud of their acquaintance, always ready to entertain them in the most expensive manner, and who speak of them as if they were the only desirable companions in the world! 'Amongst our notabilities of the eccentric sort, not the least singular in her behaviour is the Countess C----o, an aged patrician of immense fortune, who is as constant to Wiesbaden as old Madame de K----f is to Hombourg on the Heights. Like the last-named lady, she is daily wheeled to her place in the Black and Red temple, and plays away for eight or nine hours with wonderful spirit and perseverance. She has with her a _suite_ of eight domestics; and when she wins (which is not often), on returning to her hotel at night, she presents each member of her retinue with--twopence! "not," as she naively avows, "from a feeling of generosity, but to propitiate Fortune." When she loses, none of them, save the man who wheels her home, get anything but hard words from her; and he, happy fellow, receives a donation of six kreutzers. She does not curse the croupiers loudly for her bad luck, like her contemporary, the once lovely Russian Ambassadress; but, being very far advanced in years, and of a tender disposition, sheds tears over her misfortunes, resting her chin on the edge of the table. An edifying sight is this venerable dame, bearing an exalted title, as she mopes and mouths over her varying luck, missing her stake twice out of three times, when she fain would push it with her rake into some particular section of the table! She is very intimate with one or two antediluvian diplomatists and warriors, who are here striving to bolster themselves up for another year with the waters, and may be heard crowing out lamentations over her fatal passion for play, interspersed with bits of moss-grown scandal, disinterred from the social ruins of an age long past: Radetzky, Wratislaw (le beau sabreur), the two Schwarzenbergs (he of Leipsic, and the former Prime Minister), Paul Eszterhazy, Wrangel, and Blucher were friends of her youth; judging from her appearance, one would not be surprised to hear that she had received a "poulet" from Baron Trenck, or played whist with Maria Theresa. She has outlived all human friendships or affections, and exists only for the chink of the gold as it jingles on the gaming table. I cannot help fancying that her last words will be "Rien ne va plus!" She is a great and convincing moral, if one but interpret her rightly.'(83) (83) Daily Telegraph, Aug. 15, 1868. The doom of the German gaming houses seems to be settled. They will all be closed in 1872, as appears by the following announcement:-- 'The Prussian government, not having been able to obtain from the lessees of the gaming tables at Wiesbaden, Ems, and Hombourg their consent to their cancelling of their contracts, has resolved to terminate their privileges by a legislative measure. It has presented a bill to the Chamber of Deputies at Berlin, fixing the year 1872 as the limit to the existence of these establishments, and even authorizing the government to suppress them at an earlier period by a royal ordinance. No indemnity is to be allowed to the persons holding concessions.'--_Feb_. 23, 1868. A London newspaper defends this measure in a very successful manner. 'Prussia has declared her purpose to eradicate from the territories subject to her increased sway, and from others recognizing her influence, the disgrace of the _Rouge et Noir_ and the Roulette table as public institutions. Her reasoning is to the effect that they bring scandal upon Germany; that they associate with the names of its favourite watering-places the appellation of "hells;" that they attract swindlers and adventurers of every degree; and that they have for many a year past been held up to the opprobrium of Europe. For why should this practice be a lawful practice of Germany and of no other country in Europe? Why not in France, in Spain, in Italy, in the Northern States, in Great Britain itself? Let us not give to this last proposition more importance than it is worth. The German watering-places are places of leisure, of trifling, of _ennui_. That is why, originally, they were selected as encampments by the tribes which fatten upon hazards. But there was another reason: they brought in welcome revenues to needy princes. Even now, in view of the contemplated expurgation, Monaco is named, with Geneva, as successor to the perishing glories of Hombourg, Wiesbaden, and the great Baden itself. That is to say, the gamblers, or, rather, the professionals who live upon the gambling propensities of others, having received from Prussia and her friends notice to quit, are in search of new lodgings. 'The question is, they being determined, and the accommodation being not less certainly ready for them than the sea is for the tribute of a river, will the reform designed be a really progressive step in the civilization of Europe? Prussia says--decidedly so; because it will demolish an infamous privilege. She affirms that an institution which might have been excusable under a landgrave, with a few thousand acres of territory, is inconsistent with the dignity and, to quote continental phraseology, the mission of a first-class state. Here again the reasoning is incontrovertible. Of one other thing, moreover, we may feel perfectly sure, that Prussia having determined to suppress these centres and sources of corruption, they will gradually disappear from Europe. Concede to them a temporary breathing-time at Monaco; the time left for even a nominally independent existence to Monaco is short: imagine that they find a fresh outlet at Geneva; Prussia will have represented the public opinion of the age, against which not even the Republicanism of Switzerland can long make a successful stand. Upon the whole, history can never blame Prussia for such a use either of her conquests or her influence. Say what you will, gambling is an indulgence blushed over in England; abroad, practised as a little luxury in dissipation, it may be pardoned as venial; habitually, however, it is a leprosy. And as it is by habitual gamblers that these haunts are made to flourish, this alone should reconcile the world of tourists to a deprivation which for them must be slight; while to the class they imitate, without equalling, it will be the prohibition of an abominable habit.'(84) (84) Extracts from a 'leader' in the Standard of Sept. 4, 1869. CHAPTER IX. GAMBLING IN THE UNITED STATES. It is not surprising that a people so intensely speculative, excitable, and eager as the Americans, should be desperately addicted to gambling. Indeed, the spirit of gambling has incessantly pervaded all their operations, political, commercial, and social.(85) It is but one of the manifestations of that thorough license arrogated to itself by the nation, finding its true expression in the American maxim recorded by Mr Hepworth Dixon, so coarsely worded, but so significant,--'Every man has a right to do what he _DAMNED_ pleases.'(86) (85) In the American correspondence of the Morning Advertiser, Feb. 6, 1868, the writer says:--'It was only yesterday (Jan. 24) that an eminent American merchant of this city (New York) said, in referring to the state of affairs--"we are socially, politically, and commercially demoralized."' (86) 'Spiritual Wives.'--A work the extraordinary disclosures of which tend to show that a similar spirit, destined, perhaps, to bring about the greatest social changes, is gaining ground elsewhere than in America. Although laws similar to those of England are enacted in America against gambling, it may be said to exist everywhere, but, of course, to the greatest extent in the vicinity of the fashionable quarters of the large cities. In New York there is scarcely a street without its gambling house--'private,' of course, but well known to those who indulge in the vice. The ordinary public game is Faro. High and low, rich and poor, are perfectly suited in their requirements; whilst at some places the stakes are unlimited, at others they must not exceed one dollar, and a player may wager as low as five cents, or twopence-halfpenny. These are for the accommodation of the very poorest workmen, discharged soldiers, broken-down gamblers, and street-boys. 'I think,' says a recent writer,(87) 'of all the street-boys in the world, those of New York are the most precocious. I have seen a shoe-black, about three feet high, walk up to the table or 'Bank,' as it is generally called, and stake his money (five cents) with the air of a young spendthrift to whom "money is no object."' (87) 'St James's Magazine,' Sept., 1867. The chief gambling houses of New York were established by men who are American celebrities, and among these the most prominent have been Pat Hern and John Morrissey. PAT HERN. Some years ago this celebrated Irishman kept up a splendid establishment in Broadway, near Hauston Street. At that time his house was the centre of attraction towards which 'all the world' gravitated, and did the thing right grandly--combining the Apicius with the Beau Nash or Brummell. He was profusely lavish with his wines and exuberant in his suppers; and it was generally said that the game in action there, _Faro_, was played in all fairness. Pat Hern was a man of jovial disposition and genial wit, and would have adorned a better position. During the trout-fishing season he used to visit a well-known place called Islip in Long Island, much frequented by gentlemen devoted to angling and fond of good living. At Islip the equally renowned Oby Snedecker kept the tavern which was the resort of Pat Hern and his companions. It had attached to it a stream and lake to which the gentlemen who had the privilege of the house were admitted. Mrs Obadiah Snedecker, the buxom wife of 'mine host,' was famous for the exquisite way in which she cooked veal cutlets. There were two niggers in the establishment, named Steve and Dick, who accompanied the gentlemen in their angling excursions, amusing them with their stolidity and the enormous quantity of gin they could imbibe without being more than normally fuddled. After fishing, the gentlemen used to take to gambling at the usual French games; but here Pat Hern appeared not in the character of gambler, but as a private gentleman. He was always well received by the visitors, and caused them many a hearty laugh with his overflowing humour. He died about nine years ago, I think tolerably well off. JOHN MORRISSEY. John Morrissey was originally a prize-fighter,--having fought with Heenan and also with Yankee Sullivan, and lived by teaching the young Americans the noble art of self-defence. He afterwards set up a 'Bar,' or public-house, and over this he established a small Faro bank, which he enlarged and improved by degrees until it became well known, and was very much frequented by the gamblers of New York. He is now, I believe, a member of Congress for that city, and immensely wealthy. Not content with his successful gambling operations in New York, he has opened a splendid establishment at the fashionable summer resort of Saratoga, consisting of an immense hotel, ballrooms, and gambling-rooms, and is said to have a profit of two millions of dollars (about L400,000) during the season.(88) He is mentioned as one of those who pay the most income tax. (88) _Ubi supra_. Morrissey's gambling house is in Union Square, and is said to be magnificently furnished and distinguished by the most princely hospitality. At all hours of the day or night tables are laid out with every description of refreshment, to which all who visit the place are welcome. This is a remarkable feature in the American system. At all 'Bars,' or public-houses, you find provided, free of charge, supplies of cheese, biscuits, &c., and sometimes even some savoury soup--which are often resorted to by those unfortunates who are 'clean broke' or 'used up,' with little else to assuage the pangs of hunger but the everlasting quid of tobacco, furiously 'chawed.' Another generous feature of the American system is that the bar-man does not measure out to you, after our stingy fashion, what drink you may require, but hands you the tumbler and bottle to help yourself, unless in the case of made drinks, such as 'mint-juleps,' &c. However, you must drink your liquor at a gulp, after the Yankee fashion; for if you take a sip and turn your back to the counter, your glass will disappear--as it is not customary to have glasses standing about. Morrissey's wines are very good, and always supplied in abundance. Almost every game of chance is played at this establishment, and the stakes are very high and unlimited. The visitors are the wealthy and wild young men of New York, and occasionally a Southern-looking man who, perhaps, has saved some of his property, being still the same professional gambler; for it may be affirmed that all the Southern planters were addicted to gambling. 'The same flocks of well-dressed and fashionable-looking men of all ages pass in and out all through the day and night; tens of thousands of dollars are lost and won; the "click" of the markers never ceases; all speak in a low tone; everything has a serious, quiet appearance. The dealers seem to know every one, and nod familiarly to all who approach their tables. John Morrissey is occasionally to be seen, walking through the rooms, apparently a disinterested spectator. He is a short, thick-set man, of about 40 years, dark complexion, and wears a long beard, dresses in a slovenly manner, and walks with a swagger. Now and then he approaches the table; makes a few bets, and is then lost in the crowd.'(89) (89) _Ubi supra_. OTHER GAMING-HOUSES. The same writer furnishes other very interesting facts. 'After the opera-house and theatres are closed, Morrissey's gambling house becomes very full; in fact, the best time to see it to advantage is about two or three o'clock in the morning. 'A little below the New York Hotel, and on the opposite side of Broadway, there is a gambling house, not quite so "respectable" as the one I have been describing; here the stakes are not below a dollar, and not more than twenty-five; there are no refreshments gratis, and the rooms are not so well furnished. The men to be seen gaming in this house differ but very little in appearance from those in Union Square, but there seems to be less discipline amongst them, and more noise and confusion. It is a rare thing to see an intoxicated man in a gambling house; the door-keepers are very particular as to whom they admit, and any disturbance which might call for the interference of the police would be ruinous to their business. The police are undoubtedly aware of everything going on in these houses, and do not interfere as long as everything goes on quietly. 'Now and then a clerk spends his employer's money, and if it is discovered where he lost it then a _RAID_ is made by the police in force, the tables and all the gaming paraphernalia are carried off, and the proprietors heavily fined. 'I witnessed a case of this: a young man in the employment of a commission merchant appropriated a large sum of his employer's money, and lost it at Faro. He was arrested, and confessed what he had done with it. The police at once proceeded to the house where the Faro bank was kept, and the scene, when it was known that the police were below, beggars description. The tables were upset, and notes and markers were flying about in all directions. Men, sprawling and scrambling on the floor, fought with one another for whatever they could seize; then the police entered and cleared the house, having arrested the owners of the bank. This was in one of the lowest gaming houses, where "skin" games (cheating games) are practised. 'In the gambling house in Broadway, near the New York Hotel, I have often noticed a young man, apparently of some 18 or 20 years of age, fashionably dressed, and of prepossessing appearance. On some days he would play very high, and seemed to have most remarkable luck; but he always played with the air of an old gamester, seeming careless as to whether he won or lost. One night he lost so heavily that he attracted the notice of all the players; every stake of his was swept away; and he still played on until his last dollar was lost; then he quietly walked out, whistling a popular Yankee air. He was there next day _MINUS_ his great-coat and watch and chain--he lost again, went out and returned in his shirt sleeves, having pawned his coat, studs, and everything he could with decency divest himself of. He lost everything; and when I next saw him he was selling newspapers in front of the post-office! 'The mania for gambling is a most singular one. I have known a man to win a thousand dollars in a few hours, and yet he would not spend a dollar to get a dinner, but when he felt hungry he went to a baker's shop and bought a loaf of bread, and that same night lost all his money at Roulette. 'There is another house on the corner of Centre and Grand Streets, open during night and day. The stakes here are the same as in the one in Broadway, and the people who play are very much the same--in fact, the same faces are constantly to be met with in all the gambling houses, from the highest to the lowest. When a gambler has but small capital, he will go to a small house, where small stakes are admissible. I saw a man win 50 or 60 dollars at this place, and then hand in his checks (markers) to be cashed. The dealer handed him the money, and said--"Now you go off, straight away to Union Square, and pay away all you have won from here to John Morrissey. This is the way with all of them; they never come here until they are dead broke, and have only a dirty dollar or so to risk." There was some truth in what he said, but notwithstanding he managed to keep the bank going on. There is a great temptation to a man who has won a sum of money at a small gambling house to go to a higher one, as he may then, at a single stake, win as much as he could possibly win if he had a run of luck in a dozen stakes at the smaller bank. 'In No. 102, in the Bowery, there is one of the lowest of the gaming houses I have seen in the Empire city. The proprietor is an Irishman; he employs three men as dealers, and they relieve one another every four hours during the day and night. The stakes here are of the lowest, and the people to be seen here of the roughest to be found in the city. The game is Faro, as elsewhere. 'In this place I met an old friend with whom I had served in the army of Northern Virginia, under General Lee, in his Virginia campaign of 1865. He told me he had been in New York since the end of the war, and lived a very uncertain sort of life. Whatever money he could earn he spent at the gaming table. Sometimes he had a run of luck, and whilst it lasted he dressed well, and stopped at the most expensive hotels. One night he would sleep at the Astor House; and perhaps the next night he would not be able to pay for his bed, and would stay all night in the parks. Strange to say, hundreds live in this way, which is vulgarly called "scratching" in New York. I afterwards saw my friend driving an omnibus; and when I could speak to him, I found that he was still attending the banks with every cent he earned! 'It is amusing to watch the proprietor of this place at the Bowery; he has a joke for every one he sees. "Hallo, old sport!" he cries, "come and try your luck--you look lucky this evening; and if you make a good run you may sport a gold watch and chain, and a velvet vest, like myself." Then to another, "Young clear-the-way, you look down at the mouth to-night! Come along and have a turn--and never mind your supper tonight." In this way the days and nights are passed in those gambling houses.' There is also in New York an association for the prevention of gambling. The society employs detectives to visit the gambling saloons, and procure evidence for the suppression of the establishments. It is the business of these agents also to ascertain the names and occupations of those who frequent the gambling rooms, and a list of the persons thus detected is sent periodically to the subscribers to the society, that they may know who are the persons wasting their money, or perhaps the money of their employers, in gambling. Many large houses of business subscribe. In the month of August the society's agents detected among the gamblers 68 clerks of mercantile houses, and in the previous six months reported 623 cases. It is stated that there are in New York and Brooklyn 1017 policy and lottery offices, and 163 Faro banks, and that their net annual gains are not less than 36,000,000 dollars. AMERICAN GAMBLERS. At American gambling houses 'it is very easy,' says the same writer, 'to distinguish the professional from the ordinary gambler. The latter has a nervous expression about the mouth, and an intense gaze upon the cards, and altogether a very serious nervous appearance; while the professional plays in a very quiet manner, and seems to care but little how the game goes; and his desire to appear as if the game was new to him is almost certain to expose him to those who know the manoeuvre. 'Previous to the struggle for independence in the South, there were many hundreds of gamblers scattered through the Southern towns, and the Mississippi steam-boats used to abound with them. In the South, a gambler was regarded as outside the pale of society, and classed with the slave-trader, who was looked upon with loathing by the very same men who traded with him; such was the inconsistency of public opinion. 'The American gambler differs from his European brethren in many respects. He is very frequently, in education, appearance, and manner, a gentleman, and if his private history were known, it would be found that he was of good birth, and was at one time possessed of considerable fortune; but having lost all at the gambling table, he gradually came down to the level of those who proved his ruin, and having no profession nor means of livelihood left to him, he adopted their mode of life. 'On one occasion I met a brother of a Southern General (very famous in the late war and still a wealthy man) who, at one time, was one of the richest planters in the State of Louisiana, and is now acting as an agent for a set of gamblers to their gaming houses. After losing everything he had, he became a croupier to a gambling house in New Orleans, and afterwards plied his trade on the Mississippi for some years; then he went into Mexico, and finally to New York, where he opened a house on his own account. 'During the war he speculated in "greenbacks," and lost all his ill-gotten gains, and had to descend to his present position.'(90) (90) _Ubi supra_. AMERICAN GAMES:--DRAW POKER, OR BLUFF. Draw Poker, or Bluff, is a favourite game with the Americans. It is played by any number of persons, from four to seven; four, five, or six players are preferred; seven are only engaged where a party of friends consists of that number, and all require to be equally amused. The deal is usually determined by fixing on a card, and dealing round, face upwards, until such card appears. The dealer then places in the pool an _Ante_, or certain agreed-upon sum, and proceeds to deal to each person five cards. The player next to the dealer, before looking at his cards, has the option of staking a certain sum. This is called the 'blind,' and makes him the elder hand, or last player; and when his turn comes round he can, by giving up his first stake, withdraw from the game, or, if he pleases, by making good any sum staked by a previous player, raise the stakes to any sum he pleases, provided, of course, that no limit has been fixed before sitting down. The privilege of raising or doubling on the _blind_ may be exercised by any one round the table, provided he has not looked at his cards. If no intervening player has met the original _blind_, that is, staked double the sum, this must be done by all who wish to play, and, of course, must be made good by the last player. Each person then looks at his cards, and decides on his plan of action. It should be understood that every one, except the _blind_, may look at his cards in his turn before deciding if he will meet the _blind_. Before speaking of the manner of drawing it will be better to give the relative value of the hands, which will much simplify the matter, and make it more easily understood. Thus: four aces are the best cards that can be held; four kings next, and so on, down to four twos; four cards of the same value beating anything except four of a higher denomination. The next best hand is called a _full_, and is made up thus:--three aces and a pair of sixes; three nines and pair of twos; in fact, any three cards of the same value and a pair constitute a full hand, and can only be beaten by a full hand of a higher denomination or fours. The next hand that takes precedence is a _flush_, or five cards of one colour; after this comes _threes_, vis., three cards all of the same value, say, three aces, kings, queens, and so on, downwards (the two remaining, being odd ones, are of no value). The next is a sequence, as five following cards, for instance, nine, eight, seven, six, five; it is not necessary they should all be of one colour, as this, of course, would constitute a _flush_. Next come two pairs, say, two knaves and two fives; and, last of all, is a single pair of cards. Having explained the value of the hands, let us show how you endeavour to get them. The bets having been made, and the _blind_ made good or abandoned, or given up, the dealer proceeds to ask each player in his turn how many cards he wants; and here begins the first study of the game--_TO KNOW WHAT TO THROW AWAY_ in order to get in others to make the hand better if possible. Your hand may, of course, be so utterly bad as to make it necessary to throw away the whole five and draw five new ones; this is not very likely, as few players will put a stake in the pool unless, on looking first at his cards, he has seen something, say a pair, to start with. We will suppose he has this, and, of course, he throws away three cards, and draws three in place of them. To describe the proper way to fill up a hand is impossible; we can but give an instance here and there to show the varying interest which attaches to the game;--thus, you may have threes in the original hand dealt; some players will throw away the two odd cards and draw two more, to try and make the hand fours, or, at least, a full; while a player knowing that his is not a very good hand, will endeavour to _DECEIVE_ the rest by standing out, that is, not taking any fresh cards; of course all round the table make remarks as to what he can possibly have. It is usually taken to be a sequence, as this requires no drawing, if originally dealt. The same remark applies to a _flush;_ two pairs or four to a flush, of course, require one card to make them into good hands, a player being only entitled to draw once; and the hands being made good, the real and exciting part of the game begins. Each one endeavours to keep his real position a secret from his neighbours. Some put on a look of calm indifference, and try to seem self-possessed; some will grin and talk all sorts of nonsense; some will utter sly bits of _badinage;_ while others will study intently their cards, or gaze at the ceiling--all which is done merely to distract attention, or to conceal the feelings, as the chance of success or failure be for or against; and then begins the betting or gambling part of the game. The player next the _blind_ is the first to declare his bet; in which, of course, he is entirely governed by circumstances. Some, being the first to bet, and having a very good card indeed, will 'bet small,' in hopes that some one else will see it, and 'go better,' that is, bet more, so that when it comes round to his turn again he may see all previous bets, and bet as much higher as he thinks proper; for it must be borne in mind that a player's first bet does not preclude him from coming in again if his first bet has been raised upon by any player round the table in his turn; but if once the original bet goes round and comes to the _blind_, or last player, without any one going better, the game is closed, and it becomes a _show of hands_, to see who takes the pool and all the bets. This does not often happen, as there is usually some one round the table to raise it; but my informant has seen it occur, and has been highly amused at watching the countenance of the expectant _small better_ at having to show a fine hand for a mere trifle. Some players will, in order to conceal their method of play, occasionally throw their cards among the waste ones and abandon their stakes; this is not often done; but it sometimes happens where the stakes have been small, or the player has been _trying a bluff_, and has found some one whom he could not _bluff off_. The foregoing is a concise account of the game, as played in America, where it is of universal interest, and exercises great fascination. It is often played by parties of friends who meet regularly for the purpose, and instances can be found where fortunes have been lost in a night. The game of Pokers differs from the one just described, in so far that the players receive only the original five cards dealt without drawing fresh ones, and must either play or refuse on them. In this game, as there are more cards, as many as ten persons can play. LANSQUENET.(91) Lansquenet is much played by the Americans, and is one of the most exciting games in vogue. The dealer or banker stakes a certain sum, and this must be met by the nearest to the dealer first, and so on. When the stake is met, the dealer turns up two cards, one to the right,--the latter for himself, the former for the table or the players. He then keeps on turning up the cards until either of the cards is matched, which constitutes the winning,--as, for instance, suppose the five of diamonds is his card, then should the five of any other suit turn up, he wins. If he loses, then the next player on the left becomes banker and proceeds in the same way. (91) This name is derived from the German '_landsknecht_' ('valet of the fief'), applied to a mercenary soldier. When the dealer's card turns up, he may take the stake and pass the bank; or he may allow the stake to remain, whereat of course it becomes doubled if met. He can continue thus as long as the cards turn up in his favour--having the option at any moment of giving up the bank and retiring for that time. If he does that, the player to whom he passes the bank has the option of continuing it at the same amount at which it was left. The pool may be made up by contributions of all the players in certain proportions. The terms used respecting the standing of the stake are, 'I'll see' (_a moi le tout)_ and _Je tiens_. When _jumelle_ (twins), or the turning up of similar cards on both sides, occurs, then the dealer takes half the stake. Sometimes there is a run of several consecutive winnings; but on one occasion, on board one of the Cunard steamers, a banker at the game turned up in his own favour I think no less than eighteen times. The original stake was only six-pence; but had each stake been met as won, the final doubling would have amounted to the immense sum of L3,236 16_s_.! This will appear by the following scheme:-- L s. d. L s. d. 1st turn up 0 0 6 10th turn up 12 16 0 2nd,, 0 1 0 11th,, 25 12 0 3rd,, 0 2 0 12th,, 51 4 0 4th,, 0 4 0 13th,, 102 8 0 5th,, 0 8 0 14th,, 204 16 0 6th,, 0 16 0 15th,, 409 12 0 7th,, 1 12 0 16th,, 819 4 0 8th,, 3 4 0 17th,, 1,618 8 0 9th,, 6 8 0 18th,, 3,236 16 0 In fair play, as this is represented to have been, such a long sequence of matches must be considered very remarkable, although six or seven is not unfrequent. Unfortunately, however, there is a very easy means by which card sharpers manage the thing to perfection. They prepare beforehand a series of a dozen cards arranged as follows:-- 1st Queen 6th Nine 2nd Queen 7th Nine 3rd Ten 8th Ace 4th Seven 9th Eight 5th Ten 10th Ace Series thus arranged are placed in side pockets outside the waistcoat, just under the left breast. When the sharper becomes banker he leans negligently over the table, and in this position his fingers are as close as possible to the prepared cards, termed _portees_. At the proper moment he seizes the cards and places them on the pack. The trick is rendered very easy by the fact that the card-sharper has his coat buttoned at the top, so that the lower part of it lies open and permits the introduction of the hand, which is completely masked. Some sharpers are skilful enough to take up some of the matches already dealt, which they place in their _costieres_, or side-pockets above described, in readiness for their next operation; others keep them skilfully hidden in their hand, to lay them, at the convenient moment, upon the pack of cards. By this means, the pack is not augmented.(92) (92) Robert Houdin, 'Les Tricheries des Grecs devoilees.' In France the stakes commence at 5 francs; and it may be easily imagined how soon vast sums of money may change hands if the players are determined and reckless. EUCHRE. This is also a game much played in the States. I suppose it is a Yankee invention, named by one of their learned professors, from the Greek (gr euceis) (eucheir), meaning 'well in the hand' or 'strong'--a very appropriate designation of the game, which is as follows:-- In this game all the cards are excluded up to the sixes,--seven being the lowest in the Euchre pack. Five cards are dealt out, after the usual shuffling and cutting, with a turn-up, or trump. The dealer has the privilege of discarding one of his cards and taking up the trump--not showing, however, the one he discards. The Knave is the best card in the game--a peculiar Yankee 'notion.' The Knave of trumps is called the Right Bower, and the other Knave of the _same colour_ is the Left Bower. Hence it appears that the nautical propensity of this great people is therein represented--'bower' being in fact a sheet anchor. If both are held, it is evident that the _point_ of the deal is decided--since it results from taking three tricks out of the five; for, of course, the trump card appropriated by the dealer will, most probably, secure a trick, and the two Knaves must necessarily make two. The game may be five or seven points, as agreed upon. Euchre is rapid and decisive, and, therefore, eminently American. FLY LOO. Some of the games played by the Americans are peculiar to themselves. For instance, vast sums of money change hands over Fly Loo, or the attraction existing between lumps of sugar and adventurous flies! This game is not without its excitement. The gamblers sit round a table, each with a lump of sugar before him, and the player upon whose lump a fly first perches carries off the pool--which is sometimes enormous. They tell an anecdote of a 'cute Yankee, who won invariably and immensely at the game. There seemed to be a sort of magical or mesmeric attraction for the flies to his lump. At length it was ascertained that he touched the lump with his finger, after having smeared it with something that naturally and irresistibly attracts flies whenever they can get at it. I am told that this game is also played in England; if so, the parties must insist upon fresh lumps of sugar, and prevent all touching. The reader will probably ask--what next will gamblers think of betting on? But I can tell of a still more curious source of gambling infatuation. In the _Oxford Magazine_,(93) is the following statement:-- (93) Vol. V. 'A few days ago, as some sprigs of nobility were dining together at a tavern, they took the following conceit into their heads after dinner. One of them observing a maggot come from a filbert, which seemed to be uncommonly large, attempted to get it from his companion, who, not choosing to let it go, was immediately offered five guineas for it, which was accepted. He then proposed to run it against any other two maggots that could be produced at table. Matches were accordingly made, and these poor reptiles were the means of L500 being won and lost in a few minutes!' THE CRIMES OF AMERICAN GAMBLERS. Suicides, duels, and murders have frequently resulted from gambling here as elsewhere. Many of the duels in dark rooms originate in disputes at the gaming table. The combatants rush from play to an upper or adjoining room, and settle their difference with revolver-shots, often fatal to both. One of these was a serio-comic affair which is perhaps worth relating. Two players had a gambling dispute, and resolved to settle it in a dark room with pistols. The door was locked and one of them fired, but missed. On this the other exclaimed--'Now, you rascal, I'll finish you at my leisure.' He then began to search for his opponent. Three or four times he walked stealthily round the room--but all in vain--he could not find his man; he listened; he could not hear him breathe. What had become of him? 'Oh!' at length he exclaimed--'Now I've got you, you ---- sneak--here goes!' 'Hold! Hold!' cried a voice from the chimney, 'Don't fire! I'll pay you anything.--Do take away that ---- pistol.' In effect his adversary held the muzzle of his pistol close to the seat of honour as the fellow stood stuffed up the chimney! 'You'll pay, will you?' said the former; 'Very well--800 dollars--is 't a bargain?' 'Yes, yes!' gasped the voice in the chimney. 'Very well,' rejoined the tormentor, 'but just wait a bit; I must have a voucher. I'll just cut off the bottom of your breeches by way of voucher.' So saying he pulled out his knife and suited the action to the words. 'Now get down,' he said, 'and out with the money;' which was paid, when the above-named voucher was returned to the chimney-groper. The town of Vicksburg, on the Mississippi, was formerly notorious as the rendezvous of all sorts of desperadoes. It was a city of men; you saw no women, except at night; and never any children. Vicksburg was a sink of iniquity; and there gambling raged with unrestricted fury. It was always after touching at Vicksburg that the Mississippi boats became the well-known scene of gambling--some of the Vicksburghers invariably getting on board to ply their profession. On one occasion, one of these came on board, and soon induced some of the passengers to proceed to the upper promenade-deck for gambling. Soon the stakes increased and a heap of gold was on the table, when a dispute arose, in the midst of which one of the players placed his hand on the stake. Thereupon the Vicksburg gambler drew his knife and plunged it into the hand of the former, with a terrible imprecation. Throughout the Southern States, as before observed, gambling prevailed to a very great extent, and its results were often deplorable. A planter went to a gambling house, accompanied by one of his negroes, whom he left at the door to wait his return. Whilst the master was gambling the slave did the same with another whom he found at the door. Meanwhile a Mexican came up and stood by looking at the game of the negroes. By-and-by one of them accused the other of cheating, which was denied, when the Mexican interposed and told the negro that he saw him cheat. The latter told the Mexican that he lied--whereupon the Mexican stabbed him to the heart, killing him on the spot. Soon the negro's master came out, and on being informed of the affair, turned to the Mexican, saying--'Now, sir, we must settle the matter between us--my negro's quarrel is mine.' 'Agreed,' said the Mexican; they entered the house, proceeded to a dark room, fired at each other, and both were killed. About six and twenty years ago there lived in New York a well-to-do merchant, of the name of Osborne, who had an only son, who was a partner in the concern. The young man fell in love with the daughter of a Southern planter, then on a visit at New York, to whom he engaged himself to be married, with the perfect consent of all parties concerned. On the return of the planter and his daughter, young Osborne accompanied them to Mobile. On the very night of their arrival, the planter proposed to his intended son-in-law to visit the gaming table. They went; Osborne was unlucky; and after some hours' play lost an immense amount to the father of his sweetheart. He gave bills, drawn on his house, in payment of the debt of honour. On the following morning the planter referred to the subject, hinting that Osborne must be ruined. 'Indeed, I am!' said the young man; 'but the possession of your daughter will console me for the calamity, which, I doubt not, I shall be able to make up for by industry and exertion.' 'The possession of _MY_ daughter?' exclaimed the planter; 'do you think I would marry my daughter to a beggar? No, no, sir, the affair is ended between you--and I insist upon its being utterly broken off.' Such was the action of the heartless gambler, rendered callous to all sentiments of real honour by his debasing pursuit. Young Osborne was equal to the occasion. Summoning all his powers to manfully bear this additional shock of fate, he calmly replied:-- 'So be it, sir, as you wish it. Depend upon it, however, that my bills will be duly honoured'--and so saying he bowed and departed, without even wishing to take leave of his betrothed. On returning to New York Osborne immediately disclosed the transaction to his father, who, in spite of the utter ruin which impended, and the brutality of the cause of the ruin, resolved to meet the bills when due, and maintain the honour of his son--whatever might be the consequences to himself. The bills were paid; the concern was broken up; old Mr Osborne soon died broken-hearted; and young Osborne went as clerk to some house of business in Wall Street. A year or so passed away, and one day a lady presented herself at the old house of Osborne--now no longer theirs--inquiring for young Osborne. She was directed to his new place of business; being no other than his betrothed, who loved him as passionately as ever, and to whom her father had accounted for the non-fulfilment of the engagement in a very unsatisfactory manner. Of course Osborne could not fail to be delighted at this proof of her devotedness; the meeting was most affectionate on both sides; and, with the view of coming to a decision respecting their future proceedings, they adjourned to an hotel in the vicinity. Here, whilst seated at a table and in earnest conversation, the young lady's father rushed in, and instantly shot down Osborne, who expired at his feet. With a frantic shriek the poor girl fell on the body of her betrothed, and finding a poniard or a knife concealed in his breast, she seized it, instantly plunged it into her heart, and was soon a corpse beside her lover. CHAPTER X. LADY GAMESTRESSES. The passions of the two sexes are similar in the main; the distinctions between them result less from nature than from education. Often we meet with women, especially the literary sort, who seem veritable men, if not so, as the lawyers say, 'to all intents and purposes;' and often we meet with men, especially town-dandies, who can only be compared to very ordinary women. Almost all the ancients had the bad taste to speak ill of women; among the rest even that delightful old Father 'of the golden mouth,' St Chrysostom.(94) So that, evidently, Dr Johnson's fierce dictum cannot apply universally--'Only scoundrels speak ill of women.' (94) Hom. II. Seneca took the part of women, exclaiming:--'By no means believe that their souls are inferior to ours, or that they are less endowed with the virtues. As for honour, it is equally great and energetic among them.' A foreign lady was surprised at beholding the equality established between the men and women at Sparta; whereupon the wife of Leonidas, the King of Sparta, said to her:--'Do you not know that it is we who bring forth the men? It is not the fathers, but the mothers, that effectually form the heart.' Napoleon seems to have formed what may be called a professional estimate of women. When the demonstrative Madame de Stael asked him--evidently expecting him to pay her a compliment--'Whom do you think the greatest woman dead or alive?' Napoleon replied, 'Her, Madame, _WHO HAS BORNE MOST SONS_.' Nettled by this sarcastic reply, she returned to the charge, observing, 'It is said you are not friendly to the sex.' Napoleon was her match again; 'Madame,' he exclaimed, 'I am passionately fond of my wife;' and off he walked. Assuredly it would not mend matters in this world (or the next) if all men were Napoleons and all women de Staels. If we consider the question in other points of view, have there been, proportionally, fewer celebrated women than illustrious men? fewer great queens than truly great kings? Compare, on all sides, the means and the circumstances; count the reigns, and decide. The fact is that this question has been argued only by tyrannical or very silly men, who found it difficult to get rid of the absurd prejudices which retain the finest half of human nature in slavery, and condemn it to obscurity under the pretext that it is essentially corrupted. Towards the end of the 15th century a certain demented writer attempted to prove that women do not even deserve the title of reasonable creatures, which in the original sounds oddly enough, namely, _probare nititur mulieres non homines esse_. Another, a very learned Jesuit, endeavoured to demonstrate that women have no souls! Some say that women surpass us in wickedness; others, that they are both worse and better than men. That morbid wretch, Alexander Pope, said, 'Every woman is at heart a rake;' and a recent writer in the _Times_ puts more venom in the dictum by saying, 'Every woman is (or likes) at heart a rake.' Both these opinions may be set down as mere claptrap, witty, but vile. But a truce to such insults against those who beautify the earth; _THEIR_ vices cannot excuse ours. It is we who have depraved them by associating them with excesses which are repugnant to their delicacy. The contagion, however, has not affected all of them. Among our 'plebeians,' and even among nobility, many women remind us of the modesty and courage of those ancient republican matrons, who, so to speak, founded, the manners and morals of their country; and among all classes of the community there are thousands who inspire their husbands with generous impulses in the battle of life, either by cheering words of comfort, or by that mute eloquence of duties well fulfilled, which nothing can resist if we are worthy of the name of men. How many a gambler has been reformed by the tender appeals of a good and devoted wife. 'Venerable women!' one of them exclaims, 'in whatever rank Heaven has placed you, receive my homage.' The gentleness of your souls smooths down the roughness of ours and checks its violence. Without your virtues what would we be? Without YOU, my dear wife, what would have become of me? You beheld the beginning and the end of the gaming fury in me, which I now detest; and it is not to me, but to you alone, that the victory must be ascribed.'(95) (95) Dusaulx, _De la Passion du Jeu_. A very pretty anecdote is told of such a wife and a gaming husband. In order to simplify the signs of loss and gain, so as not to be overburdened with the weight of gold and silver, the French players used to carry the representation of their fortunes in small boxes, more or less elegant. A lady (who else could have thought of such a device?), trembling for the fate of her husband, made him a present of one of these dread boxes. This little master-piece of conjugal and maternal affection represented a wife in the attitude of supplication, and weeping children, seeming to say to their father--_THINK OF US!_.... It is, therefore, only with the view of avenging good and honourable women, that I now proceed to speak of those who have disgraced their sex. I have already described a remarkable gamestress--the Persian Queen Parysatis.(96) (96) Chapter III. There were no gamestresses among the Greeks; and the Roman women were always too much occupied with their domestic affairs to find time for play. What will our modern ladies think, when I state that the Emperor Augustus scarcely wore a garment which had not been woven by his wife, his sister, or grand-daughters.(97) (97) Veste non temere alia quam domestica usus est, ab uxore et filia nepotibusque confecta. Suet. in Vita Augusti. Although deeply corrupted under Nero and the sovereigns that resembled him, the Roman women never gambled among themselves except during the celebration of the festival of the Bona Dea. This ceremonial, so often profaned with licentiousness, was not attended by desperate gambling. The most depraved women abstained from it, even when that mania was at its height, not only around the Capitol, but even in the remainder of the Empire. Contemporary authors, who have not spared the Roman ladies, never reproached them with this vice, which, in modern times, has been desperately practised by women who in licentiousness vied with Messalina. In France, women who wished to gamble were, at first, obliged to keep the thing secret; for if it became known they lost caste. In the reign of Louis XIV., and still more in that of Louis XV., they became bolder, and the wives of the great engaged in the deepest play in their mansions; but still a gamestress was always denounced with horror. 'Such women,' says La Bruyiere, 'make us chaste; they have nothing of the sex but its garments.' By the end of the 18th century, gamestresses became so numerous that they excited no surprise, especially among the higher classes; and the majority of them were notorious for unfair play or downright cheating. A stranger once betted on the game of a lady at a gaming-table, who claimed a stake although on a losing card. Out of consideration for the distinguished trickstress, the banker wished to pay the stranger as well; but the latter with a blush, exclaimed--'Possibly madame won, but as for myself, I am quite sure that I lost.' But if women cheated at play, they also frequently lost; and were often reduced to beggary, or to what is far viler, to sacrifice, not only their own honour, but that of their daughters. Gaming sometimes led to other crimes. The Countess of Schwiechelt, a young and beautiful lady from Hanover, was much given to gambling, and lost 50,000 livres at Paris. In order to repair this great loss, she planned and executed the robbery of a fine coronet of emeralds, the property of Madame Demidoff. She had made herself acquainted with the place where it was kept, and at a ball given by its owner the Hanoverian lady contrived to purloin it. Her youth and rank in life induced many persons to solicit her pardon; but Buonaparte left her to the punishment to which she was condemned. This occurred in 1804. In England, too, the practice of gambling was fraught with the worst consequences to the finest feelings and best qualities of the sex. The chief danger is very plainly hinted at in the comedy of _The Provoked Husband_. _Lord Townley_.--'Tis not your ill hours that always distract me, but, as often, the ill company that occasions those hours. _Lady Townley_.--Sure I don't understand you now, my lord. What ill company do I keep? _Lord Townley_.--Why, at best, women that lose their money, and men that win it; _or, perhaps, men that are voluntary bubbles at one game, in hopes a lady will give them fair play at another._ 'The facts,' says Mr Massey,(98) 'confirm the theory. Walpole's Letters and Mr Jesse's volumes on George Selwyn and his Contemporaries, teem with allusions to proved or understood cases of matrimonial infidelity; and the manner in which notorious irregularities were brazened out, shows that the offenders did not always encounter the universal reprobation of society. (98) History of England, ii. 'Whist was not much in vogue until a later period, and was far too abstruse and slow to suit the depraved taste which required unadulterated stimulants.' The ordinary stakes at these mixed assemblies would, at the present day, be considered high, even at the clubs where a rubber is still allowed. 'The consequences of such gaming were often still more lamentable than those which usually attended such practices. It would happen that a lady lost more than she could venture to confess to her husband or father. Her creditor was probably a fine gentleman, or she became indebted to some rich admirer for the means of discharging her liabilities. In either event, the result may be guessed. In the one case, the debt of honour was liquidated on the old principle of the law-merchant, according to which there was but one alternative to payment in purse. In the other, there was likewise but one mode in which the acknowledgment of obligation by a fine woman would be acceptable to a man of the world.' 'The pernicious consequences of gambling to the nation at large,' says another writer, 'would have been intolerable enough had they been confined to the stronger sex; but, unfortunately, the women of the day were equally carried away by this criminal infatuation. The disgusting influence of this sordid vice was so disastrous to female minds, that they lost their fairest distinction and privileges, together with the blushing honours of modesty. Their high gaming was necessarily accompanied with great losses. If all their resources, regular and irregular, honest and fraudulent, were dissipated, still, _GAME-DEBTS MUST BE PAID!_ The cunning winner was no stranger to the necessities of the case. He hinted at _commutations_--which were not to be refused. "So tender these,--if debts crowd fast upon her, She'll pawn her _VIRTUE_ to preserve her _HONOUR!_" Thus, the last invaluable jewel of female possession was unavoidably resigned. That was indeed the forest of all evils, but an evil to which every deep gamestress was inevitably exposed.' Hogarth strikingly illustrated this phase of womanhood in England, in his small picture painted for the Earl of Charlemont, and entitled '_Picquet, or Virtue in Danger_.' It shows a young lady, who, during a _tete-a-tete_, had just lost all her money to a handsome officer of her own age. He is represented in the act of returning her a handful of bank-bills, with the hope of exchanging them for another acquisition and more delicate plunder. On the chimney-piece are a watch-case and a figure of Time, over it this motto--_Nunc_, 'Now!' Hogarth has caught his heroine during this moment of hesitation--this struggle with herself--and has expressed her feelings with uncommon success. But, indeed, the thing was perfectly understood. In the _Guardian_ (No. 120) we read:--'All play-debts must be paid in specie or by equivalent. The "man" that plays beyond his income pawns his estate; the "woman" must find out something else to mortgage when her pin-money is gone. The husband has his lands to dispose of; the wife her person. Now when the female body is once dipped, if the creditor be very importunate, I leave my reader to consider the consequences.'.... A lady was married when very young to a noble lord, the honour and ornament of his country, who hoped to preserve her from the contagion of the times by his own example, and, to say the truth, she had every good quality that could recommend her to the bosom of a man of discernment and worth. But, alas! how frail and short are the joys of mortals! One unfortunate hour ruined his darling visionary scheme of happiness: she was introduced to an infamous woman, was drawn into play, liked it, and, as the unavoidable consequence, she was ruined,--having lost more in one night than would have maintained a hundred useful families for a twelvemonth; and, dismal to tell, she felt compelled to sacrifice her virtue to the wretch who had won her money, in order to recover the loss! From this moment she might well exclaim-- 'Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content!' The affectionate wife, the agreeable companion, the indulgent mistress, were now no more. In vain she flattered herself that the injury she had done her husband would for ever remain one of those secrets which can only be disclosed at the last day. Vengeance pursued her steps, she was lost; the villain to whom she had sacrificed herself boasted of the favours he had received. The fatal report was conveyed to her injured husband. He refused to believe what he thought impossible, but honour obliged him to call the boaster to the field. The wretch received the challenge with much more contentment than concern; as he had resolution enough to murder any man whom he had injured, so he was certain, if he had the good fortune to conquer his antagonist, he should be looked upon as the head of all modern bucks and bloods--esteemed by the men as a brave fellow, and admired by the ladies as a fine gentleman and an agreeable rake. The meeting took place--the profligate gambler not content with declaring, actually exulted in his guilt. But his triumph was of short date--a bullet through the head settled his account with this world. The husband, after a long conflict in his bosom, between justice and mercy, tenderness and rage, resolved--on what is very seldom practised by an English husband--to pardon his wife, conceal her crime, and preserve her, if possible, from utter destruction. But the gates of mercy were opened in vain--the offender refused to receive forgiveness because she had offended. The lust of gambling had absorbed all her other desires. She gave herself up entirely to the infamous pursuit and its concomitants, whilst her husband sank by a quick decay, and died the victim of grief and anguish.(99) (99) Doings in London. Of other English gamestresses, however, nothing but the ordinary success or inconveniences of gambling are recorded. In the year 1776, a lady at the West End lost one night, at a sitting, 3000 guineas at Loo.(100) Again, a lady having won a rubber of 20 guineas from a city merchant, the latter pulled out his pocket-book, and tendered L21 in bank notes. The fair gamestress, with a disdainful toss of the head, observed--'In the great houses which I frequent, sir, we always use gold.' 'That may be, madam,' said the gentleman, 'but, in the _LITTLE_ houses which I frequent, we always use paper.' (100) Annual Register. Goldsmith mentions an old lady in the country who, having been given over by her physician, played with the curate of the parish to pass the time away. Having won all his money, she next proposed playing for the funeral charges to which she would be liable. Unfortunately, the lady expired just as she had taken up the game! A lady who was desperately fond of play was confessing herself. The priest represented, among other arguments against gaming, the great loss of time it occasioned. 'Ah!' said the lady, 'that is what vexes me--so much time lost in shuffling the cards!' The celebrated Mrs Crewe seems to have been fond of gaming. Charles James Fox ranked among her admirers. A gentleman lost a considerable sum to this lady at play; and being obliged to leave town suddenly, he gave Fox the money to pay her, begging him to apologize to the lady for his not having paid the debt of honour in person. Fox unfortunately lost every shilling of it before morning. Mrs Crewe often met the supposed debtor afterwards, and, surprised that he never noticed the circumstance, at length delicately hinted the matter to him. 'Bless me,' said he, 'I paid the money to Mr Fox three months ago!' 'Oh, you did, sir?' said Mrs Crewe good-naturedly, 'then probably he paid me and I forgot it.' This famous Mrs Crewe was the wife of Mr Crewe, who was created, in 1806, Lord Crewe. She was as remarkable for her accomplishments and her worth as for her beauty; nevertheless she permitted the admiration of the profligate Fox, who was in the rank of her admirers, and she was a gamestress, as were most of the grand ladies in those days. The lines Fox wrote on her were not exaggerated. They began thus:-- 'Where the loveliest expression to features is join'd, By Nature's most delicate pencil design'd; Where blushes unhidden, and smiles without art, Speak the softness and feeling that dwell in the heart, Where in manners enchanting no blemish we trace, But the soul keeps the promise we had from the face; Sure philosophy, reason, and coldness must prove Defences unequal to shield us from love.' 'Nearly eight years after the famous election at Westminster, when she personally canvassed for Fox, Mrs Crewe was still in perfection, with a son one-and-twenty, who looked like her brother. The form of her face was exquisitely lovely, her complexion radiant. "I know not," Miss Burney writes, "any female in her first youth who could bear the comparison. She _uglifies_ every one near her." 'This charming partisan of Fox had been active in his cause; and her originality of character, her good-humour, her recklessness of consequences, made her a capital canvasser.'(101) (101) Wharton, _The Queens of Society._ THE GAMBLING BARROW-WOMEN. In 1776 the barrow-women of London used generally to carry dice with them, and children were induced to throw for fruit and nuts. However, the pernicious consequences of the practice beginning to be felt, the Lord Mayor issued an order to apprehend all such offenders, which speedily put an end to such street-gambling. At the present day a sort of roulette is used for the same purpose by the itinerant caterers to the sweetmeat and fruit-loving little ones. GAMESTRESSES AT BADEN-BADEN. Mrs Trollope has described two specimens of the modern gamestresses at the German watering-places, one of whom seems to have specially attracted her notice:-- 'There was one of this set,' she says, 'whom I watched, day after day, during the whole period of our stay, with more interest than, I believe, was reasonable; for had I studied any other as attentively I might have found less to lament. 'She was young--certainly not more than twenty-five--and, though not regularly nor brilliantly handsome, most singularly winning both in person and demeanour. Her dress was elegant, but peculiarly plain and simple,--a close white silk bonnet and gauze veil; a quiet-coloured silk gown, with less of flourish and frill, by half, than any other person; a delicate little hand which, when ungloved, displayed some handsome rings; a jewelled watch, of peculiar splendour; and a countenance expressive of anxious thoughtfulness--must be remembered by many who were at Baden in August, 1833. They must remember, too, that, enter the rooms when they would, morning, noon, or night, still they found her nearly at the same place at the _Rouge et Noir_ table. 'Her husband, who had as unquestionably the air of a gentleman as she had of a lady, though not always close to her, was never very distant. He did not play himself, and I fancied, as he hovered near her, that his countenance expressed anxiety. But he returned her sweet smile, with which she always met his eye, with an answering smile; and I saw not the slightest indication that he wished to withdraw her from the table. 'There was an expression in the upper part of her face that my blundering science would have construed into something very foreign to the propensity she showed; but there she sat, hour after hour, day after day, not even allowing the blessed sabbath, that gives rest to all, to bring it to her;--there she sat, constantly throwing down handfuls of five-franc pieces, and sometimes drawing them back again, till her young face grew rigid from weariness, and all the lustre of her eye faded into a glare of vexed inanity. Alas! alas! is that fair woman a mother? God forbid! 'Another figure at the gaming table, which daily drew our attention, was a pale, anxious old woman, who seemed no longer to have strength to conceal her eager agitation under the air of callous indifference, which all practised players endeavour to assume. She trembled, till her shaking hand could hardly grasp the instrument with which she pushed or withdrew her pieces; the dew of agony stood upon her wrinkled brow; yet, hour after hour, and day after day, she too sat in the enchanted chair. I never saw age and station in a position so utterly beyond the pale of respect. I was assured she was a person of rank; and my informant added, but I trust she was mistaken, that she was an _ENGLISH_ woman.'(102) (102) Belgium and Western Germany, in 1833. GAMING HOUSES KEPT BY LADIES. There is no doubt that during the last half of the last century many titled ladies not only gambled, but kept gaming houses. There is even evidence that one of them actually appealed to the House of Lords for protection against the intrusion of the peace officers into her establishment in Covent Garden, on the plea of her Peerage! All this is proved by a curious record found in the Journals of the House of Lords, by the editor of the _Athenaeum_. It is as follows:-- 'Die Lunae, 29 Aprilis, 1745.--_Gaming_. A Bill for preventing the excessive and deceitful use of it having been brought from the Commons, and proceeded on so far as to be agreed to in a Committee of the whole House with amendments,--information was given to the House that Mr Burdus, Chairman of the Quarter Sessions for the city and liberty of Westminster, Sir Thomas de Veil, and Mr Lane, Chairman of the Quarter Sessions for the county of Middlesex, were at the door; they were called in, and at the Bar severally gave an account that claims of privilege of Peerage were made and insisted on by the Ladies Mordington and Casselis, in order to intimidate the peace officers from doing their duty in suppressing the public gaming houses kept by the said ladies. And the said Burdus thereupon delivered in an instrument in writing under the hand of the said Lady Mordington, containing the claim she made of privilege for her officers and servants employed by her in her said gaming house. And then they were directed to withdraw. And the said instrument was read as follows:--"I, Dame Mary, Baroness of Mordington, do hold a house in the Great Piazza, Covent Garden, for and as an Assembly, where all persons of credit are at liberty to frequent and play at such diversions as are used at other Assemblys. And I have hired Joseph Dewberry, William Horsely, Ham Cropper, and George Sanders as my servants or managers (under me) thereof. I have given them orders to direct the management of the other inferior servants (namely): John Bright, Richard Davis, John Hill, John Vandenvoren, as box-keepers,--Gilbert Richardson, housekeeper, John Chaplain, regulator, William Stanley and Henry Huggins, servants that wait on the company at the said Assembly, William Penny and Joseph Penny as porters thereof. And all the above-mentioned persons I claim as my domestick servants, and demand all those privileges that belong to me as a peeress of Great Britain appertaining to my said Assembly. M. MORDINGTON. Dated 8th Jan., 1744." 'Resolved and declared that no person is entitled to privilege of Peerage against any prosecution or proceeding for keeping any public or common gaming house, or any house, room, or place for playing at any game or games prohibited by any law now in force.' That such practice continued in vogue is evident from the police proceedings subsequently taken against THE FAMOUS LADY BUCKINGHAMSHIRE. This notorious gamestress of St James's Square, at the close of the last century, actually slept with a blunderbuss and a pair of pistols at her side, to protect her Faro bank. On the 11th of March, 1797, her Ladyship, together with Lady E. Lutterell and a Mrs Sturt, were convicted at the Marlborough Street Police-court, in the penalty of L50, for playing at the game of Faro; and Henry Martindale was convicted in the sum of L200, for keeping the Faro table at Lady Buckinghamshire's. The witnesses had been servants of her Ladyship, recently discharged on account of a late extraordinary loss of 500 guineas from her Ladyship's house, belonging to the Faro bank.(103) (103) The case is reported in the Times of March 13th, 1797. One cannot help being struck with the appearance of the Times newspaper at that period--70 years ago. It was printed on one small sheet, about equal to a single page of the present issue, and contained four pages, two of which were advertisements, while the others gave only a short summary of news--no leader at all. In the same year, the croupier at the Countess of Buckinghamshire's one night announced the unaccountable disappearance of the cash-box of the Faro bank. All eyes were turned towards her Ladyship. Mrs Concannon said she once lost a gold snuff-box from the table, while she went to speak to Lord C--. Another lady said she lost her purse there last winter. And a story was told that a certain lady had taken, _BY MISTAKE_, a cloak which did not belong to her, at a rout given by the Countess of ----. Unfortunately a discovery of the cloak was made, and when the servant knocked at the door to demand it, some very valuable lace which it was trimmed with had been taken off. Some surmised that the lady who stole the cloak might also have stolen the Faro bank cash-box. Soon after, the same Martindale, who had kept the Faro bank at Lady Buckinghamshire's, became a bankrupt, and his debts amounted to L328,000, besides 'debts of honour,' which were struck off to the amount of L150,000. His failure is said to have been owing to misplaced confidence in a subordinate, who robbed him of thousands. The first suspicion was occasioned by his purchasing an estate of L500 a year; but other purchases followed to a considerable extent; and it was soon discovered that the Faro bank had been robbed sometimes of 2000 guineas a week! On the 14th of April, 1798, other arrears, to a large amount, were submitted to, and rejected by, the Commissioners in Bankruptcy, who declared a first dividend of one shilling and five-pence in the pound.(104) (104) Seymour Harcourt, _Gaming Calendar._ This chapter cannot be better concluded than with quoting the _Epilogue_ of 'The Oxonian in Town,' 1767, humorously painting some of the mischiefs of gambling, and expressly addressed to the ladies:-- 'Lo! next, to my prophetic eye there starts A beauteous gamestress in the Queen of Hearts. The cards are dealt, the fatal pool is lost, And all her golden hopes for ever cross'd. Yet still this card-devoted fair I view--Whate'er her luck, to "_honour_" ever true. So tender there,--if debts crowd fast upon her, She'll pawn her "virtue" to preserve her "honour." Thrice happy were my art, could I foretell, Cards would be soon abjured by every belle! Yet, I pronounce, who cherish still the vice, And the pale vigils keep of cards and dice--'Twill in their charms sad havoc make, ye fair! Which "rouge" in vain shall labour to repair. Beauties will grow mere hags, toasts wither'd jades, Frightful and ugly as--the _QUEEN OF SPADES_.' CHAPTER XI. GAMBLING POETS, SAVANTS, PHILOSOPHERS, WITS, AND STATESMEN. Perhaps the stern moralist who may have turned over these pages has frowned at the facts of the preceding chapter. If so, I know not what he will do at those which I am about to record. If it may be said that gamesters must be madmen, or rogues, how has it come to pass that men of genius, talent, and virtue withal, have been gamesters? Men of genius, 'gifted men,' as they are called, are much to be pitied. One of them has said--'Oh! if my pillow could reveal my sufferings last night!' His was true grief--for it had no witness.(105) The endowments of this nature of ours are so strangely mixed--the events of our lives are so unexpectedly ruled, that one might almost prefer to have been fashioned after those imaginary beings who act so _CONSISTENTLY_ in the nursery tales and other figments. Most men seem to have a double soul; and in your men of genius--your celebrities--the battle between the two seems like the tremendous conflict so grandly (and horribly) described by Milton. Who loved his country more than Cato? Who cared more for his country's honour? And yet Cato was not only unable to resist the soft impeachments of alcohol-- Narratur et prisci Catonis Saepe mero caluisse virtus-- but he was also a dice-player, a gambler.(106) (105) Ille dolet vere qui sine teste dolet. Martial, lib. I. (106) Plutarch, _Cato._ Julius Caesar did not drink; but what a profligate he was! And I have no doubt that he was a gambler: it is certain that he got rid of millions nobody knew how. I believe, however, that the following is an undeniable fact. You may find suspicious gamesters in every rank of life, but among men of genius you will generally, if not always, find only victims resigned to the caprices of fortune. The professions which imply the greatest enthusiasm naturally furnish the greater number of gamesters. Thus, perhaps, we may name ten poet-gamesters to one savant or philosopher who deserved the title or infamy. Coquillart, a poet of the 15th century, famous for his satirical verses against women, died of grief after having ruined himself by gaming. The great painter Guido--and a painter is certainly a poet--was another example. By nature gentle and honourable, he might have been the most fortunate of men if the demon of gambling had not poisoned his existence, the end of which was truly wretched. Rotrou, the acknowledged master of Corneille, hurried his poetical effusions in order to raise money for gambling. This man of genius was but a spoilt child in the matter of play. He once received two or three hundred _louis_, and mistrusting himself, went and hid them under some vine-branches, in order not to gamble all away at once. Vain precaution! On the following night his bag was empty. The poet Voiture was the delight of his contemporaries, conspicuous as he was for the most exquisite polish and inexhaustible wit; but he was also one of the most desperate gamesters of his time. Like Rotrou, he mistrusted his folly, and sometimes refrained. 'I have discovered,' he once wrote to a friend, 'as well as Aristotle, that there is no beatitude in play; and in fact I have given over gambling; it is now seven months since I played--which is very important news, and which I forgot to tell you.' He would have died rich had he always refrained. His relapses were terrible; one night he lost fifteen hundred pistoles (about L750). The list of foreign poets ruined by gambling might be extended; whilst, on the other hand, it is impossible, I believe, to quote a single instance of the kind among the poets of England,--perhaps because very few of them had anything to lose. The reader will probably remember Dr Johnson's exclamation on hearing of the large debt left unpaid by poor Goldsmith at his death--'Was ever poet so trusted before!'... The great philosophers Montaigne and Descartes, seduced at an early age by the allurements of gambling, managed at length to overcome the evil, presenting examples of reformation--which proves that this mania is not absolutely incurable. Descartes became a gamester in his seventeenth year; but it is said that the combinations of cards, or the doctrine of probabilities, interested him more than his winnings.(107) (107) Hist. des Philos. Modernes: _Descartes_. The celebrated Cardan, one of the most universal and most eccentric geniuses of his age, declares in his autobiography, that the rage for gambling long entailed upon him the loss of reputation and fortune, and that it retarded his progress in the sciences. 'Nothing,' says he, 'could justify me, unless it was that my love of gaming was less than my horror of privation.' A very bad excuse, indeed; but Cardan reformed and ceased to be a gambler. Three of the greatest geniuses of England--Lords Halifax, Anglesey, and Shaftesbury--were gamblers; and Locke tells a very funny story about one of their gambling bouts. This philosopher, who neglected nothing, however eccentric, that had any relation to the working of the human understanding, happened to be present while my Lords Halifax, Anglesey, and Shaftesbury were playing, and had the patience to write down, word for word, all their discordant utterances during the phases of the game; the result being a dialogue of speakers who only used exclamations--all talking in chorus, but more to themselves than to each other. Lord Anglesey observing Locke's occupation, asked him what he was writing. 'My Lord,' replied Locke, 'I am anxious not to lose anything you utter.' This irony made them all blush, and put an end to the game. M. Sallo, Counsellor to the Parliament of Paris, died, says Vigneul de Marville, of a disease to which the children of the Muses are rarely subject, and for which we find no remedy in Hippocrates and Galen;--he died of a lingering disease after having lost 100,000 crowns at the gaming table--all he possessed. By way of diversion to his cankering grief, he started the well-known _Journal des Savans_, but lived to write only 13 sheets of it, for he was wounded to the death.(108) (108) Melanges, d'Hist. et de Litt. i. The physician Paschasius Justus was a deplorable instance of an incorrigible gambler. This otherwise most excellent and learned man having passed three-fourths of his life in a continual struggle with vice, at length resolved to cure himself of the disease by occupying his mind with a work which might be useful to his contemporaries and posterity.(109) He began his book, but still he gamed; he finished it, but the evil was still in him. 'I have lost everything but God!' he exclaimed. He prayed for delivery from his soul's disease;(110) but his prayer was not heard; he died like any gambler--more wretched than reformed. (109) 'De Alea, sive de curanda in pecuniam cupiditate,' pub. in 1560. (110) Illum animi morbum, ut Deus tolleret, serio et frequenter optavit. M. Dusaulx, author of a work on Gaming, exclaims therein--'I have gambled like you, Paschasius, perhaps with greater fury. Like you I write against gaming. Can I say that I am stronger than you, in more critical circumstances?'(111) (111) La Passion du Jeu. What, then, is that mania which can be overcome neither by the love of glory nor the study of wisdom! The literary men of Greece and Rome rarely played any games but those of skill, such as tennis, backgammon, and chess; and even in these it was considered 'indecent' to appear too skilful. Cicero stigmatizes two of his contemporaries for taking too great a delight in such games, on account of their skill in playing them.(112) (112) Ast alii, quia praeclare faciunt, vehementius quam causa postulat delectantur, ut Titius pila, Brulla talis. De Orat. lib. iii. Quinctilian advised his pupils to avoid all sterile amusements, which, he said, were only the resource of the ignorant. In after-times men of merit, such as John Huss and Cardinal Cajetan, bewailed both the time lost in the most innocent games, and the disastrous passions which are thereby excited. Montaigne calls chess a stupid and childish game. 'I hate and shun it,' he says, 'because it occupies one too seriously; I am ashamed of giving it the attention which would be sufficient for some useful purpose.' King James I., the British Solomon, forbade chess to his son, in the famous book of royal instruction which he wrote for him. As to the plea of 'filling up time,' Addison has made some very pertinent observations:--'Whether any kind of gaming has ever thus much to say for itself, I shall not determine; but I think it is very wonderful to see persons of the best sense passing away a dozen hours together in shuffling and dividing a pack of cards, with no other conversation but what is made up of a few game-phrases, and no other ideas but those of black or red spots ranged together in different figures. Would not a man laugh to hear any one of his species complaining that life is short?' Men of intellect may rest assured that whether they win or lose at play, it will always be at the cost of their genius; the soul cannot support two passions together. The passion of play, although fatigued, is never satiated, and therefore it always leaves behind protracted agitation. The famous Roman lawyer Scaevola suffered from playing at backgammon; his head was always affected by it, especially when he lost the game, in fact, it seemed to craze him. One day he returned expressly from the country merely to try and convince his opponent in a game which he had lost, that if he had played otherwise he would have won! It seems that on his journey home he mentally went through the game again, detected his mistake, and could not rest until he went back and got his adversary to admit the fact--for the sake of his _amour propre_.(113) (113) Quinctil., _Instit. Orat_. lib. XI. cap. ii. 'It is rare,' says Rousseau, 'that thinkers take much delight in play, which suspends the habit of thinking or diverts it upon sterile combinations; and so one of the benefits--perhaps the only benefit conferred by the taste for the sciences, is that it somewhat deadens that sordid passion of play.' Unfortunately such was not the result among the literary and scientific men, in France or England, during the last quarter of the last century. Many of them bitterly lamented that they ever played, and yet played on,--going through all the grades and degradations appointed for his votaries by the inexorable demon of gambling. BEAU NASH. Nature had by no means formed Nash for _beau_. His person was clumsy, large, and awkward; his features were harsh, strong, and peculiarly irregular; yet even with these disadvantages he made love, became an universal admirer of the sex, and was in his turn universally admired. The fact is, he was possessed of, at least, some requisites of a 'lover.' He had assiduity, flattery, fine clothes--and as much wit as the ladies he addressed. Accordingly he used to say--'Wit, flattery, and fine clothes are enough to debauch a nunnery!' This is certainly a fouler calumny of women than Pope's 'Every woman is at heart a rake.' Beau Nash was a barrister, and had been a remarkable, a distinguished one in his day--although not at the bar. He had the honour to organize and direct the last grand 'revel and pageant' before a king, in the Hall of the Middle Temple, of which he was a member. It had long been customary for the Inns of Court to entertain our monarchs upon their accession to the crown with a revel and pageant, and the last was exhibited in honour of King William, when Nash was chosen to conduct the whole with proper decorum. He was then a very young man, but succeeded so well in giving satisfaction, that the king offered to give him the honour of knighthood, which, however, Nash declined, saying:--'Please your Majesty, if you intend to make me a knight, I wish it may be one of your poor knights of Windsor; and then I shall have a fortune at least able to support my title.' In the Middle Temple he managed to rise 'to the very summit of second-rate luxury,' and seems to have succeeded in becoming a fashionable _recherche_, being always one of those who were called good company--a professed dandy among the elegants. No wonder, then, that we subsequently find him Master of the Ceremonies at Bath, then the theatre of summer amusements for all people of fashion. It was here that he took to gambling, and was at first classed among the needy adventurers who went to that place; there was, however, the great difference between him and them, that his heart was not corrupt; and though by profession a gamester, he was generous, humane, and honourable. When he gave in his accounts to the Masters of the Temple, among other items he charged was one--'For making one man happy, L10.' Being questioned about the meaning of so strange an item, he frankly declared that, happening to overhear a poor man declare to his wife and large family of children that L10 would make him happy, he could not avoid trying the experiment. He added, that, if they did not choose to acquiesce in his charge, he was ready to refund the money. The Masters, struck with such an uncommon instance of good nature, publicly thanked him for his benevolence, and desired that the sum might be doubled as a proof of their satisfaction. 'His laws were so strictly enforced that he was styled "King of Bath:" no rank would protect the offender, nor dignity of station condone a breach of the laws. Nash desired the Duchess of Queensberry, who appeared at a dress ball in an apron of point-lace, said to be worth 500 guineas, to take it off, which she did, at the same time desiring his acceptance of it; and when the Princess Amelia requested to have one dance more after 11 o'clock, Nash replied that the laws of Bath, like those of Lycurgus, were unalterable. Gaming ran high at Bath, and frequently led to disputes and resort to the sword, then generally worn by well-dressed men. Swords were, therefore, prohibited by Nash in the public rooms; still they were worn in the streets, when Nash, in consequence of a duel fought by torchlight, by two notorious gamesters, made the law absolute, "That no swords should, on any account, be worn in Bath."'(114) (114) The Book of Days, Feb. 3. About the year 1739 the gamblers, in order to evade the laws against gaming, set up E O tables; and as these proved very profitable to the proprietors at Tunbridge, Nash determined to introduce them at Bath, having been assured by the lawyers that no law existed against them. He therefore set up an E O table, and the speculation flourished for a short time; but the legislature interfered in 1745, and inflicted severe penalties on the keepers of such tables. This was the ruin of Nash's gambling speculation; and for the remaining sixteen years of his life he depended solely on the precarious products of the gaming table. He died at Bath, in 1761, in greatly reduced circumstances, being represented as 'poor, old, and peevish, yet still incapable of turning from his former manner of life.' 'He was buried in the Abbey Church with great ceremony: a solemn hymn was sung by the charity-school children, three clergymen preceded the coffin, the pall was supported by aldermen, and the Masters of the Assembly-Rooms followed as chief mourners; while the streets were filled and the housetops covered with spectators, anxious to witness the respect paid to the venerable founder of the prosperity of the city of Bath.'(115) (115) The Book of Days, Feb. 3. The following are the chief anecdotes told of Beau Nash. A giddy youth, who had resigned his fellowship at Oxford, brought his fortune to Bath, and, without the smallest skill, won a considerable sum; and following it up, in the next October added four thousand pounds to his former capital. Nash one night invited him to supper, and offered to give him fifty guineas to forfeit twenty every time he lost two hundred at one sitting. The young man refused, and was at last undone. The Duke of B---- loved play to distraction. One night, chagrined at a heavy loss, he pressed Nash to tie him up from deep play in future. The beau accordingly gave his Grace one hundred guineas on condition to receive ten thousand whenever he lost that amount at one sitting. The duke soon lost eight thousand at Hazard, and was going to throw for three thousand more, when Nash caught the dice-box, and entreated the peer to reflect on the penalty if he lost. The duke desisted for that time; but ere long, losing considerably at Newmarket, he willingly paid the penalty. When the Earl of T---- was a youth he was passionately fond of play. Nash undertook to cure him. Conscious of his superior skill, he engaged the earl in single play. His lordship lost his estate, equipage, everything! Our generous gamester returned all, only stipulating for the payment of L5000 whenever he might think proper to demand it. Some time after his lordship's death, Nash's affairs being on the wane, he demanded it of his heirs, _WHO PAID IT WITHOUT HESITATION_. Nash one day complained of his ill luck to the Earl of Chesterfield, adding that he had lost L500 the last night. The earl replied, 'I don't wonder at your _LOSING_ money, Nash, but all the world is surprised where you get it to lose.' 'The Corporation of Bath so highly respected Nash, that the Chamber voted a marble statue of him, which was erected in the Pump-room, between the busts of Newton and Pope; this gave rise to a stinging epigram by Lord Chesterfield, concluding with these lines: "The _STATUE_ placed these busts between Gives satire all its strength; _WISDOM_ and _WIT_ are little seen, But _FOLLY_ at full length."'(116) (116) The Book of Days, Feb. 3. THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. Walpole tells us that the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield _LIVED_ at White's Club, gaming, and uttering witticisms among the boys of quality; 'yet he says to his son, that a member of a gaming club should be a cheat, or he will soon be a beggar;' an inconsistency which reminds one of old Fuller's saw--'A father that whipt his son for swearing, and swore himself whilst he whipt him, did more harm by his example than good by his correction.' GEORGE SELWYN. The character of Selwyn,' says Mr Jesse, 'was in many respects a remarkable one. With brilliant wit, a quick perception of the ridiculous, and a thorough knowledge of the world and human nature, he united classical knowledge and a taste for the fine arts. To these qualities may be added others of a very contradictory nature. With a thorough enjoyment of the pleasures of society, an imperturbable good-humour, a kind heart, and a passionate fondness for children, he united a morbid interest in the details of human suffering, and, more especially, a taste for witnessing criminal executions. Not only was he a constant frequenter of such scenes of horror, but all the details of crime, the private history of the criminal, his demeanour at his trial, in the dungeon, and on the scaffold, and the state of his feelings in the hour of death and degradation, were to Selwyn matters of the deepest and most extraordinary interest. Even the most frightful particulars relating to suicide and murder, the investigation of the disfigured corpse, the sight of an acquaintance lying in his shroud, seem to have afforded him a painful and unaccountable pleasure. When the first Lord Holland was on his death-bed he was told that Selwyn, who had lived on terms of the closest intimacy with him, had called to inquire after his health. "The next time Mr Selwyn calls," he said, "show him up; if I am alive I shall be delighted to see him, and if I am dead he will be glad to see me." When some ladies bantered him on his want of feeling in attending to see the terrible Lord Lovat's head cut off--"Why," he said, "I made amends by going to the undertaker's to see it sewed on again." And yet this was the same individual who delighted in the first words and in the sunny looks of childhood; whose friendship seems to have partaken of all the softness of female affection; and whose heart was never hardened against the wretched and depressed. Such was the "original" George Selwyn.' This celebrated conversational wit was a devoted frequenter of the gaming table. Writing to Selwyn, in 1765, Lord Holland said:--'All that I can collect from what you say on the subject of money is, that fortune has been a little favourable lately; or may be, the last night only. Till you leave off play entirely you must be--in earnest, and without irony--_en verite le serviteur tres-humble des evenements_, "in truth, the very humble servant of events."' His friend the Lord Carlisle, although himself a great gambler, also gave him good advice. 'I hope you have left off Hazard,' he wrote to Selwyn; 'if you are still so foolish, and will play, the best thing I can wish you is, that you may win and never throw crabs.(117) You do not put it in the power of chance to make you them, as we all know; and till the ninth miss is born I shall not be convinced to the contrary.' (117) That is, aces, or ace and deuce, twelve, or seven. With false dice, as will appear in the sequel, it was impossible to throw any of these numbers, and as the caster always called the main, he was sure to win, as he could call an impossible number: those who were in the secret of course always took the odds. Again:--'As you have played I am happy to hear you have won; but by this time there may be a _triste revers de succes_.' Selwyn had taken to gaming before his father's death--probably from his first introduction to the clubs. His stakes were high, though not extravagantly so, compared with the sums hazarded by his contemporaries. In 1765 he lost L1000 to Mr Shafto, who applied for it in the language of an 'embarrassed tradesman.' 'July 1, 1765. 'DEAR SIR,--I have this moment received the favour of your letter. I intended to have gone out of town on Thursday, but as you shall not receive your money before the end of this week, I must postpone my journey till Sunday. A month would have made no difference to me, had I not had others to pay before I leave town, and must pay; therefore must beg that you will leave the whole before this week is out, at White's, as it is to be paid away to others to whom I have lost, and do not choose to leave town till that is done. Be sure you could not wish an indulgence I should not be happy to grant, if it my power.' Nor was this the only dun of the kind that Selwyn had 'to put up with' on account of the gaming table. He received the following from Edward, Earl of Derby.(118) (118) Edward, twelfth Earl of Derby, was born September 12, 1752, and died October 21, 1834. He married first, Elizabeth, daughter of James, sixth Duke of Hamilton, who died in 1799, and secondly, the celebrated actress, Miss Farren, who died April 23, 1829. _The Earl of Derby to George Selwyn_. 'Nothing could equal what I feel at troubling you with this disagreeable note; but having lost a very monstrous sum of money last night, I find myself under the necessity of entreating your goodness to excuse the liberty I am taking of applying to you for assistance. If it is not very inconvenient to you, I should be glad of the money you owe me. If it is, I must pay what I can, and desire Brookes to trust me for the remainder. I repeat again my apologies, to which I shall beg leave to add how very sincerely I have the honour to be, my dear sir, 'Your most obedient humble servant, 'DEBBY. This is the very model of a dun, and proves how handsomely such ugly things can be done when one has to deal with a noble instead of a plebeian creditor. But Selwyn had not only to endure such indignities, but also to inflict them, as appears by the following letter to him from the Honourable General Fitzpatrick, in answer to a dun, which, we are assured, was 'gentle and moderate.' 'I am very sorry to hear the night ended so ill; but to give you some idea of the utter impossibility of my being useful on the occasion, I will inform you of the state of my affairs. I won L400 last night, which was immediately appropriated by Mr _Martindale_, to whom I still owe L300, and I am in Brookes' book for thrice that sum. Add to all this, that at Christmas I expect an inundation of clamorous creditors, who, unless I somehow or other scrape together some money to satisfy them, will overwhelm me entirely. What can be done? If I could coin my heart, or drop my blood into drachms, I would do it, though by this time I should probably have neither heart nor blood left. I am afraid you will find Stephen in the same state of insolvency. Adieu! I am obliged to you for the gentleness and moderation of your dun, considering how long I have been your debtor. 'Yours most sincerely, 'R. F.'(119) (119) Apud _Selwyn and his Contemporaries_ by Jesse. Selwyn is said to have been a loser on the whole, and often pillaged. Latterly he appears to have got the better of his propensity for play, if we may judge from the following wise sentiment:--'It was too great a consumer,' he said, 'of four things--time, health, fortune, and thinking.' But a writer in the _Edinburgh Review_ seems to doubt Selwyn's reformation; for his initiation of Wilberforce occurred in 1782, when he was 63; and previously, in 1776, he underwent the process of dunning from Lord Derby, before-mentioned, and in 1779 from Mr Crawford ('Fish Crawford,' as he was called), each of whom, like Mr Shafto, 'had a sum to make up'--in the infernal style so horridly provoking, even when we are able and willing to pay. However, as Selwyn died comparatively rich, it may be presumed that his fortune suffered to no great extent by his indulgence in the vice of gaming. The following are some of George Selwyn's jokes relating to gambling:-- One night, at White's, observing the Postmaster-General, Sir Everard Fawkener, losing a large sum of money at Piquet, Selwyn, pointing to the successful player, remarked--'See now, he is robbing the _MAIL!_' On another occasion, in 1756, observing Mr Ponsonby, the Speaker of the Irish House of Commons, tossing about bank-bills at a Hazard table at Newmarket--'Look,' he said, 'how easily the Speaker passes the money-bills!' A few months afterwards (when the public journals were daily containing an account of some fresh town which had conferred the freedom of its corporation in a gold box on Mr Pitt, afterwards Earl of Chatham, and the Right Honourable Henry Bilson Legge, his fellow-patriot and colleague), Selwyn, who neither admired their politics nor respected their principles, proposed to the old and new club at Arthur's, that he should be deputed to present to them the freedom of each club in a _dice-box_. On one of the waiters at Arthur's club having been committed to prison for a felony--'What a horrid idea,' said Selwyn, 'he will give of us to the people in Newgate!' When the affairs of Charles Fox were in a more than usually embarrassed state, chiefly through his gambling, his friends raised a subscription among themselves for his relief. One of them remarking that it would require some delicacy in breaking the matter to him, and adding that 'he wondered how Fox would take it.' 'Take it?' interrupted Selwyn, 'why, _QUARTERLY_, to be sure.'(120) (120) Jesse, _George Selwyn and his Contemporaries._ LORD CARLISLE. This eminent statesman was regarded by his contemporaries as an able, an influential, and occasionally a powerful speaker. Though married to a lady for whom in his letters he ever expresses the warmest feelings of admiration and esteem; and surrounded by a young and increasing family, who were evidently the objects of his deepest affection, Lord Carlisle, nevertheless, at times appears to have been unable to extricate himself from the dangerous enticements to play to which he was exposed. His fatal passion for play--the source of adventitious excitement at night, and of deep distress in the morning--seems to have led to frequent and inconvenient losses, and eventually to have plunged him into comparative distress. 'In recording these failings of a man of otherwise strong sense, of a high sense of honour, and of kindly affections, we have said the worst that can be adduced to his disadvantage. Attached, indeed, as Lord Carlisle may have been to the pleasures of society, and unfortunate as may have been his passion for the gaming table, it is difficult to peruse those passages in his letters in which he deeply reproaches himself for yielding to the fatal fascination of play, and accuses himself of having diminished the inheritance of his children, without a feeling of commiseration for the sensations of a man of strong sense and deep feeling, while reflecting on his moral degradation. It is sufficient, however, to observe of Lord Carlisle, that the deep sense which he entertained of his own folly; the almost maddening moments to which he refers in his letters of self-condemnation and bitter regret; and subsequently his noble victory over the siren enticements of pleasure, and his thorough emancipation from the trammels of a domineering passion, make adequate amends for his previous unhappy career.'(121) (121) Jesse, _George Selwyn and his Contemporaries_, ii. Brave conquerors, for so ye are, Who war against your own affections, And the huge army of the world's desires. Lady Sarah Bunbury, writing to George Selwyn, in 1767, says:--'If you are now at Paris with poor C. (evidently Carlisle), who I dare say is now swearing at the French people, give my compliments to him. I call him poor C. because I hope he is only miserable at having been such a _PIGEON_ to Colonel Scott. I never can pity him for losing at play, and I think of it as little as I can, because I cannot bear to be obliged to abate the least of the good opinion I have always had of him.' Oddly enough the writer had no better account to give of her own husband; she says, in the letter:--'Sir Charles games from morning till night, but he has never yet lost L100 in one day.'(122) (122) This Lady Sarah Bunbury was the wife of Sir Charles Bunbury, after having had a chance of being Queen of England, as the wife of George III., who was passionately in love with her, and would have married her had it not been for the constitutional opposition of his privy council. This charming and beautiful woman died in 1826, at the age of 82. She was probably the last surviving great-granddaughter of Charles II.--Jesse, _Ubi supra_. About the year 1776 Lord Carlisle wrote the following letter to George Selwyn:-- 'MY DEAR GEORGE, 'I have undone myself, and it is to no purpose to conceal from you my abominable madness and folly, though perhaps the particulars may not be known to the rest of the world. I never lost so much in five times as I have done to-night, and am in debt to the house for the whole. You may be sure I do not tell you this with an idea that you can be of the least assistance to me; it is a great deal more than your abilities are equal to. Let me see you--though I shall be ashamed to look at you after your goodness to me.' This letter is endorsed by George Selwyn--'After the loss of L10,000.' He tells Selwyn of a set which, at one point of the game, stood to win L50,000. 'Lord Byron, it is almost needless to remark, was nearly related to Lord Carlisle. The mother of Lord Carlisle was sister to John, fourth Lord Byron, the grandfather of the poet; Lord Carlisle and Lord Byron were consequently first cousins once removed. Had they happened to have been contemporaries, it would be difficult to form an idea of two individuals who, alike from tastes, feelings, and habits of life, were more likely to form a lasting and suitable intimacy. Both were men of high rank; both united an intimate knowledge of society and the world with the ardent temperament of a poet; and both in youth mingled a love of frolic and pleasure with a graver taste for literary pursuits.' CHARLES JAMES FOX. In the midst of the infatuated votaries of the gaming god in England, towers the mighty intellectual giant Charles James Fox. Nature had fashioned him to be equally an object of admiration and love. In addition to powerful eloquence, he was distinguished by the refinement of his taste in all matters connected with literature and art; he was deeply read in history; had some claims to be regarded as a poet; and possessed a thorough knowledge of the classical authors of antiquity, a knowledge of which he so often and so happily availed himself in his seat in the House of Commons. To these qualities was added a good-humour which was seldom ruffled,--a peculiar fascination of manner and address,--the most delightful powers of conversation,--a heart perfectly free from vindictiveness, ostentation, and deceit,--a strong sense of justice,--a thorough detestation of tyranny and oppression,--and an almost feminine tenderness of feeling for the sufferings of others. Unfortunately, however, his great talents and delightful qualities in private life rendered his defects the more glaring and lamentable; indeed, it is difficult to think or speak with common patience of those injurious practices and habits--that abandonment to self-gratification, and that criminal waste of the most transcendent abilities which exhausted in social conviviality and the gaming table what were formed to confer blessings on mankind. So much for the character of Fox, as I have gathered from Mr Jesse;(123) and I continue the extremely interesting subject by quoting from that delightful book, 'The Queens of Society.'(124) 'With a father who had made an enormous fortune, with little principle, out of a public office--for Lord Holland owed the bulk of his wealth to his appointment of paymaster to the forces,--and who spoiled him, in his boyhood, Charles James Fox had begun life _AS A FOP OF THE FIRST WATER_, and squandered L50,000 in debt before he became of age. Afterwards he indulged recklessly and extravagantly in every course of licentiousness which the profligate society of the day opened to him. At Brookes' and the Thatched House Fox ate and drank to excess, threw thousands upon the Faro table, mingled with blacklegs, and made himself notorious for his shameless vices. Newmarket supplied another excitement. His back room was so incessantly filled with Jew money-lenders that he called it his Jerusalem Chamber. It was impossible that such a life should not destroy every principle of honour; and there is nothing improbable in the story that he appropriated to himself money which belonged to his dear friend Mrs Crewe, as before related. (123) George Selwyn and his Contemporaries, ii. (124) By Grace and Philip Wharton. 'Of his talents, which were certainly great, he made an affected display. Of his learning he was proud--but rather as adding lustre to his celebrity for universal tastes. He was not at all ashamed, but rather gloried in being able to describe himself as a fool, as he does in his verses to Mrs Crewe:-- "Is't reason? No; that my whole life will belie; For, who so at variance as reason and I? Is't ambition that fills up each chink in my heart, Nor allows any softer sensation a part? Oh! no; for in this all the world must agree, _ONE FOLLY WAS NEVER SUFFICIENT FOR ME_." 'Sensual and self-indulgent--with a grossness that is even patent on his very portrait (and bust), Fox had nevertheless a manner which enchanted the sex, and he was the only politician of the day who thoroughly enlisted the personal sympathies of women of mind and character, as well as of those who might be captivated by his profusion. When he visited Paris in later days, even Madame Recamier, noted for her refinement, and of whom he himself said, with his usual coarse ideas of the sphere of woman, that "she was the only woman who united the attractions of pleasure to those of modesty," delighted to be seen with him! At the time of which we are speaking the most celebrated beauties of England were his most ardent supporters. 'The election of 1784, in which he stood and was returned for Westminster, was one of the most famous of the old riotous political demonstrations..... Loving _hazard_ of all kinds for its own sake, Fox had made party hostility a new sphere of gambling, had adopted the character of a demagogue, and at a time when the whole of Europe was undergoing, a great revolution in principles, was welcomed gladly as "The Man of the People." In the beginning, of the year he had been convicted of bribery, but in spite of this his popularity increased.... The election for Westminster, in which Fox was opposed by Sir Cecil Wray, was the most tempestuous of all. There were 20,000 votes to be polled, and the opposing parties resorted to any means of intimidation, or violence, or persuasion which political enthusiasm could suggest. On the eighth day the poll was against the popular member, and he called upon his friends to make a great effort on his behalf. It was then that the "ladies' canvass" began. Lady Duncannon, the Duchess of Devonshire, Mrs Crewe, and Mrs Damer dressed themselves in blue and buff--the colours of the American Independents, which Fox had adopted and wore in the House of Commons--and set out to visit the purlieus of Westminster. Here, in their enthusiasm, they shook the dirty hands of honest workmen, expressed the greatest interest in their wives and families, and even, as in the case of the Duchess of Devonshire and the butcher, submitted their fair cheeks to be kissed by the possessors of votes! At the butcher's shop, the owner, in his apron and sleeves, stoutly refused his vote, except on one condition--"Would her Grace give him a kiss?" The request was granted; and the vote thus purchased went to swell the majority which finally secured the return of "The Man of the People." 'The colouring of political friends, which concealed his vices, or rather which gave them a false hue, has long since faded away. We now know Fox as he _WAS_. In the latest journals of Horace Walpole his inveterate gambling, his open profligacy, his utter want of honour, is disclosed by one of his own opinion. Corrupted ere yet he had left his home, whilst in age a boy, there is, however, the comfort of reflecting that he outlived his vices which seem to have "cropped out" by his ancestral connection in the female line with the reprobate Charles II., whom he was thought to resemble in features. Fox, afterwards, with a green apron tied round his waist, pruning and nailing up his fruit trees at St Ann's Hill, or amusing himself innocently with a few friends, is a pleasing object to remember, even whilst his early career occurs forcibly to the mind.' Peace, then, to the shade of Charles James Fox! The three last public acts which he performed were worthy of the man, and should suffice to prove that, in spite of his terrible failings, he was most useful in his generation. By one, he laboured to repair the outrages of war--to obtain a breathing time for our allies; and, by an extension of our commerce, to afford, if necessary, to his country all the advantages of a renovated contest, without the danger of drying up our resources. By another, he attempted to remove all legal disabilities arising out of religion--to unite more closely _THE INTERESTS OF IRELAND WITH THOSE OF ENGLAND;_ and thus, by an extension of common rights, and a participation of common benefits, wisely to render that which has always been considered the weakest and most troublesome portion of our empire, at least a useful and valuable part of England's greatness among the nations. Queen Elizabeth's Minister, Lord Burleigh, in the presence of the 'Irish difficulty' in his day, wished Ireland at the bottom of the sea, and doubtless many at the present time wish the same; but Fox endeavoured to grapple with it manfully and honestly, and it was not his fault that he did not settle it. The vices of Fox were those of the age in which he lived; had he been reserved for the present epoch, what a different biography should we have to write of him! What a helmsman he might be at the present time, when the ship of Old England is at sea and in peril! It appears from a letter addressed by Lord Carlisle to Lady Holland (Fox's mother) in 1773, that he had become security for Fox to the amount of fifteen or sixteen thousand pounds; and a letter to Selwyn in 1777, puts the ruinous character of their gaming transactions in the strongest light. Lord Ilchester (Fox's cousin) had lost thirteen thousand pounds at one sitting to Lord Carlisle, who offered to take three thousand pounds down. Nothing was paid. But ten years afterwards, when Lord Carlisle pressed for his money, he complained that an attempt was made to construe the offer into a _remission_ of the ten thousand pounds:--'The only way, in honour, that Lord Ilchester could have accepted my offer, would have been by taking some steps to pay the L3000. I remained in a state of uncertainty, I think, for nearly three years; but his taking no notice of it during that time, convinced me that he had no intention of availing himself of it. Charles Fox was also at a much earlier period clear that he never meant to accept it. There is also great injustice in the behaviour of the family in passing by the instantaneous payment of, I believe, five thousand pounds, to Charles, won at the same sitting, without any observations. _At one period of the play I remember there was a balance in favour of one of these gentlemen (but which I protest I do not remember) of about fifty thousand_.' At the time in question Fox was hardly eighteen. The following letter from Lord Carlisle, written in 1771, contains highly interesting information respecting the youthful habits and already vast intellectual pre-eminence of this memorable statesman:--'It gives me great pain to hear that Charles begins to be unreasonably impatient at losing. I fear it is the prologue to much fretfulness of temper, for disappointment in raising money, and any serious reflections upon his situation, will (in spite of his affected spirits and dissipation) occasion him many disagreeable moments.' Lord Carlisle's fears proved groundless in this respect. As before stated, Fox was always remarkable for his sweetness of temper, which remained with him to the last; but it is most painful to think how much mankind has lost through his recklessness. Gibbon writes to Lord Sheffield in 1773, 'You know Lord Holland is paying Charles Fox's debts. They amount to L140,000.'(125) (125) Timbs, _Club Life in London_. His love of play was desperate. A few evenings before he moved the repeal of the Marriage Act, in February, 1772, he had been at Brompton on two errands,--one to consult Justice Fielding on the penal laws, the other to borrow L10,000, which he brought to town at the hazard of being robbed. He played admirably both at Whist and Piquet,--with such skill, indeed, that by the general admission of Brookes' Club, he might have made four thousand pounds a-year, as they calculated, at these games, if he could have confined himself to them. But his misfortune arose from playing games of chance, particularly at Faro. After eating and drinking plentifully, he would sit down at the Faro table, and invariably rose a loser. Once, indeed, and once only, he won about eight thousand pounds in the course of a single evening. Part of the money he paid to his creditors, and the remainder he lost almost immediately. Before he attained his thirtieth year he had completely dissipated everything that he could either command or could procure by the most ruinous expedients. He had even undergone, at times, many of the severest privations incidental to the vicissitudes that attend a gamester's progress; frequently wanting money to defray the common daily wants of the most pressing nature. Topham Beauclerc, who lived much in Fox's society, declared that no man could form an idea of the extremities to which he had been driven to raise money, often losing his last guinea at the Faro table. The very sedan-chairmen, whom he was unable to pay, used to dun him for arrears. In 1781, he might be considered as an extinct volcano,--for the pecuniary aliment that had fed the flame was long consumed. Yet he even then occupied a house or lodgings in St James's Street, close to Brookes', where he passed almost every hour which was not devoted to the House of Commons. Brookes' was then the rallying point or rendezvous of the Opposition, where Faro, Whist, and supper prolonged the night, the principal members of the minority in both Houses met, in order to compare their information, or to concert and mature their parliamentary measures. Great sums were then borrowed of Jews at exorbitant premiums. His brother Stephen was enormously fat; George Selwyn said he was in the right to deal with Shylocks, as he could give them pounds of flesh. Walpole, in 1781, walking up St James's Street, saw a cart at Fox's door, with copper and an old chest of drawers, loading. His success at Faro had awakened a host of creditors; but, unless his bank had swelled to the size of the Bank of England, it could not have yielded a half-penny apiece for each. Epsom too had been unpropitious; and one creditor had actually seized and carried off Fox's goods, which did not seem worth removing. Yet, shortly after this, whom should Walpole find sauntering by his own door but Fox, who came up and talked to him at the coach window, on the Marriage Bill, with as much _sang-froid_ as if he knew nothing of what had happened. Doubtless this indifference was to be attributed quite as much to the callousness of the reckless gambler as to anything that might be called 'philosophy.' It seems clear that the ruling passion of Fox was partly owing to the lax training of his father, who, by his lavish allowances, not only fostered his propensity to play, but had also been accustomed to give him, when a mere boy, money to amuse himself at the gaming table. According to Chesterfield, the first Lord Holland 'had no fixed principles in religion or morality,' and he censures him to his son for being 'too unwary in ridiculing and exposing them.' He gave full swing to Charles in his youth. 'Let nothing be done,' said his lordship, 'to break his spirit, the world will do that for him.' At his death, in 1774, he left him L154,000 to pay his debts; it was all 'bespoke,' and Fox soon became as deeply pledged as before.(126) (126) Timbs, ubi supra. There is a mistake in the anecdote respecting Fox's duel with Mr Adam (not Adams), as related by Mr Timbs in his amusing book of the Clubs. The challenge was in consequence of some words uttered by Fox in parliament, and not on account of some remark on Government powder, to which Fox wittily alluded, after the duel, saying--'Egad, Adam, you would have killed me if it had not been Government powder.' See Gilchrist, Ordeals, Millingen, Hist. of Duelling, ii., and Steinmetz, Romance of Duelling, ii. The following are authentic anecdotes of Fox, as a gambler. Fox had a gambling debt to pay to Sir John Slade. Finding himself in cash, after a lucky run at Faro, he sent a complimentary card to the knight, desiring to discharge the claim. Sir John no sooner saw the money than he called for pen and ink, and began to figure. 'What now?' cried Fox. 'Only calculating the interest,' replied the other. 'Are you so?' coolly rejoined Charles James, and pocketed the cash, adding--'I thought it was a _debt of honour_. As you seem to consider it a trading debt, and as I make it an invariable rule to pay my Jew-creditors last, you must wait a little longer for your money.' Fox once played cards with Fitzpatrick at Brookes' from ten o'clock at night till near six o'clock the next morning--a waiter standing by to tell them 'whose deal it was'--they being too sleepy to know. On another occasion he won about L8000; and one of his bond-creditors, who soon heard of his good luck, presented himself and asked for payment. 'Impossible, sir,' replied Fox; 'I must first discharge my debts of honour.' The bond-creditor remonstrated, and finding Fox inflexible, tore the bond to pieces and flung it into the fire, exclaiming--'Now, sir, your debt to me is a _debt of honour_.' Struck by the creditor's witty rejoinder, Fox instantly paid the money.(127) (127) The above is the version of this anecdote which I remember as being current in my young days. Mr Timbs and others before him relate the anecdote as follows:--'On another occasion he won about L8000; and one of his bond-creditors, who soon heard of his good luck, presented himself and asked for payment.' 'Impossible, sir,' replied Fox 'I must first discharge my debts of honour.' The bond-creditor remonstrated. 'Well, sir, give me your bond.' It was delivered to Fox, who tore it in pieces and threw it into the fire. 'Now, sir,' said Fox, 'my debt to you is a debt of honour;' and immediately paid him. Now, it is evident that Fox could not destroy the document without rendering himself still more 'liable' in point of law. I submit that the version in the text is the true one, conforming with the legal requirement of the case and influencing the debtor by the originality of the performance of the creditor. Amidst the wildest excesses of youth, even while the perpetual victim of his passion for play, Fox eagerly cultivated his taste for letters, especially the Greek and Roman historians and poets; and he found resources in their works under the most severe depressions occasioned by ill-successes at the gaming table. One morning, after Fox had passed the whole night in company with Topham Beauclerc at Faro, the two friends were about to separate. Fox had lost throughout the night, and was in a frame of mind approaching to desperation. Beauclerc's anxiety for the consequences which might ensue led him to be early at Fox's lodgings; and on arriving he inquired, not without apprehension, whether he had risen. The servant replied that Mr Fox was in the drawing-room, when Beauclerc walked up-stairs and cautiously opened the door, expecting to behold a frantic gamester stretched on the floor, bewailing his losses, or plunged in moody despair; but he was astonished to find him reading a Greek Herodotus. On perceiving his friend's surprise, Fox exclaimed, 'What would you have me do? I have lost my last shilling.' Upon other occasions, after staking and losing all that he could raise at Faro, instead of exclaiming against fortune, or manifesting the agitation natural under such circumstances, he would lay his head on the table and retain his place, but, exhausted by mental and bodily fatigue, almost immediately fall into a profound sleep. Fox's best friends are said to have been half ruined in annuities given by them as securities for him to the Jews. L500,000 a-year of such annuities of Fox and his 'society' were advertised to be sold at one time. Walpole wondered what Fox would do when he had sold the estates of his friends. Walpole further notes that in the debate on the Thirty-nine Articles, February 6, 1772, Fox did not shine; nor could it be wondered at. He had sat up playing at Hazard, at Almack's, from Tuesday evening, the 4th, till five in the afternoon of Wednesday, the 5th. An hour before he had recovered L12,000 that he had lost; and by dinner, which was at five o'clock, he had ended losing L11,000! On the Thursday he spoke in the above debate, went to dinner at past eleven at night; from thence to White's, where he drank till seven the next morning; thence to Almack's, where he won L6000; and between three and four in the afternoon he set out for Newmarket. His brother Stephen lost L11,000 two nights after, and Charles L10,000 more on the 13th; so that in three nights the two brothers--the eldest not _twenty-five_ years of age--lost L32,000!(128) (128) Timbs, _ubi supra._ On one occasion Stephen Fox was dreadfully fleeced at a gaming house at the West End. He entered it with L13,000, and left without a farthing. Assuredly these Foxes were misnamed. _Pigeons_--dupes of sharpers at play--would have been a more appropriate cognomen. WILBERFORCE AND PITT. These eminent statesmen were gamesters at one period of their lives. When Wilberforce came to London in 1780, after his return to Parliament, his great success signalized his entry into public life, and he was at once elected a member of the leading clubs--Miles' and Evans', Brookes', Boodle's, White's, and Goosetree's. The latter was Wilberforce's usual resort, where his friendship with Pitt--who played with characteristic and intense eagerness, and whom he had slightly known at Cambridge--greatly increased. He once lost L100 at the Faro table. 'We played a good deal at Goosetree's,' he states, and I well remember the intense earnestness which Pitt displayed when joining in these games of chance. He perceived their increasing fascination, and soon after abandoned them for ever.' Wilberforce's own case is thus recorded by his biographers, on the authority of his private Journal:--'We can have no play to-night,' complained some of the party at the club, 'for St Andrew is not here to keep bank.' 'Wilberforce,' said Mr Bankes, who never joined himself, 'if you will keep it I will give you a guinea.' The playful challenge was accepted, but as the game grew deep he rose the winner of L600. Much of this was lost by those who were only heirs to fortunes, and therefore could not meet such a call without inconvenience. The pain he felt at their annoyance cured him of a taste which seemed but too likely to become predominant. Goosetree's being then almost exclusively composed of incipient orators and embryo statesmen, the call for a gambling table there may be regarded as a decisive proof of the universal prevalence of the vice. 'The first time I was at Brookes',' says Wilberforce, 'scarcely knowing any one, I joined, from mere shyness, in play at the Faro tables, where George Selwyn kept bank. A friend, who knew my inexperience, and regarded me as a victim decked out for sacrifice, called to me--"What, Wilberforce, is that you?" Selwyn quite resented the interference, and, turning to him, said in his most expressive tone, "Oh, sir, don't interrupt Mr Wilberforce, he could not be better employed." Again: 'The very first time I went to Boodle's I won twenty-five guineas of the Duke of Norfolk. I belonged at this time to five clubs--Miles' and Evans', Brookes', Boodle's, White's, and Goosetree's.' SIR PHILIP FRANCIS. Sir Philip Francis, the eminent politician and supposed author of the celebrated 'Letters of Junius,' was a gambler, and the convivial companion of Fox. During the short administration of that statesman he was made a Knight of the Bath. One evening, Roger Wilbraham came up to the Whist table, at Brookes', where Sir Philip, who for the first time wore the ribbon of the Order, was engaged in a rubber, and thus accosted him. Laying hold of the ribbon, and examining it for some time, he said:--'So, this is the way they have rewarded you at last; they have given you a little bit of red ribbon for your services, Sir Philip, have they? A pretty bit of red ribbon to hang about your neck; and that satisfies you, does it? Now, I wonder what I shall have. What do you think they will give me, Sir Philip?' The newly-made knight, who had twenty-five guineas depending on the rubber, and who was not very well pleased at the interruption, suddenly turned round, and looking at him fiercely, exclaimed, 'A halter, and be,' &c. THE REV. CALEB C. COLTON. Unquestionably this reverend gentleman was one of the most lucky of gamesters--having died in full possession of the gifts vouchsafed to him by the goddess of fortune. He was educated at Eton, graduated at King's College, Cambridge, as Bachelor of Arts in 1801, and Master of Arts in 1804, and obtained a fellowship, having also a curacy at Tiverton, held conjointly. Some six years after he appeared in print as a denouncer of a 'ghost story,' and in 1812, as the author of 'Hypocrisy,' a satirical poem, and 'Napoleon,' a poem. In 1818 he was presented by his college to the vicarage of Kew with Petersham, in Surrey. Two years after he established a literary reputation--lasting to the present time--by the publication of a volume of aphorisms or maxims, under the title of 'LACON; or, Many Things in Few Words.' This work is very far from original, being founded mainly on Lord Bacon's celebrated Essays, and Burdon's 'Materials for Thinking,' La Bruyiere, and De la Rochefoucault; still it is highly creditable to the abilities of the writer. It has passed through several editions; and even at the present time its only rival is, 'The Guesses at Truth,' although we have numerous collections of apothegmatic extracts from authors, a class of works which is not without its fascination, if readers are inclined to _THINK._(129) (129) The first work I published was of this kind, and entitled, 'Gems of Genius; or, Words of the Wise, with extracts from the Diary of a Young Man,' in 1838. Two years after he returned to his 'Napoleon,' which he republished, with extensive additions, under the new title of 'The Conflagration of Moscow. It would appear that Colton at this period gave in to the fashionable gaming of the day; at any rate, he dabbled deeply in Spanish bonds, became involved in pecuniary difficulties, and, without investigating his affairs closely--which might have been easily arranged--he absconded. He subsequently made appearance, in order to retain his living; but in 1828 he lost it, a successor being appointed by his college. He then went to the United States of America; what he did there is not on record; but he subsequently returned to Europe, went to Paris, took up his abode in the Palais Royal, and--devoted his talents to the mysteries of the gaming table, by which he was so successful that in the course of a year or two he won L25,000! Oddly enough, one of his 'maxims' in his Lacon runs as follows: 'The gamester, if he die a martyr to his profession, is doubly ruined. He adds his soul to every other loss, and, by the act of suicide, renounces earth, to forfeit heaven.' It has been suggested that this was writing his own epitaph, and it would appear so from the notices of the man in most of the biographies; but nothing could be further from the fact. Caleb Colton managed to _KEEP_ his gambling fortune, and what is more, devoted it to a worthy purpose. Part of his wealth he employed in forming a picture-gallery; and he printed at Paris, for private distribution, an ode on the death of Lord Byron. He certainly committed suicide, but the act was not the gamester's martyrdom. He was afflicted by a disease which necessitated some painful surgical operation, and rather than submit to it, he blew out his brains, at the house of a friend, at Fontainebleau, in 1832.(130) (130) Gent. Mag. New Month. Mag. Gorton's Gen. Biograph. Dict. BEAU BRUMMELL. This singular man was an inveterate gambler, and for some time very 'lucky;' but the reaction came at last; the stakes were too high, and the purses of his companions too long for him to stand against any continued run of bad luck; indeed, the play at Wattier's, which was very deep, eventually ruined the club, as well as Brummell and several other members of it; a certain baronet now living, according to Captain Jesse, is asserted to have lost ten thousand pounds there at _Ecarte_ at one sitting.(131) (131) Life of Beau Brummell. The season of 1814 saw Brummell a winner, and a loser likewise--and this time he lost not only his winnings, but 'an unfortunate ten thousand pounds,' which, when relating the circumstance to a friend many years afterwards, he said was all that remained at his banker's. One night--the fifth of a most relentless run of ill-luck--his friend Pemberton Mills heard him exclaim that he had lost every shilling, and only wished some one would bind him never to play again:--'I will,' said Mills; and taking out a ten-pound note he offered it to Brummell on condition that he should forfeit a thousand if he played at White's within a month from that evening. The Beau took it, and for a few days discontinued coming to the club; but about a fortnight after Mills, happening to go in, saw him hard at work. Of course the thousand pounds was forfeited; but his friend, instead of claiming it, merely went up to him and, touching him gently on the shoulder, said--'Well, Brummell, you may at least give me back the ten pounds you had the other night.' Among the members who indulged in high play at Brookes' Club was Alderman Combe, the brewer, who is said to have made as much money in this way as he did by brewing. One evening whilst he filled the office of Lord Mayor, he was busy at a full Hazard table at Brookes', where the wit and the dice-box circulated together with great glee, and where Beau Brummell was one of the party. 'Come, Mash-tub,' said Brummell, who was the _caster_, 'what do you _set?_' 'Twenty-five guineas,' answered the Alderman. 'Well, then,' returned the Beau, 'have at the mare's pony' (a gaming term for 25 guineas). He continued to throw until he drove home the brewer's twelve ponies running; and then getting up, and making him a low bow, whilst pocketing the cash, he said--'Thank you, Alderman; for the future I shall never drink any porter but yours.' 'I wish, sir,' replied the brewer, 'that every other blackguard in London would tell me the same.'(132) (132) Jesse, _ubi supra_. The following occurrence must have caused a 'sensation' to poor Brummell. Among the members of Wattier's Club was Bligh, a notorious madman, of whom Mr Raikes relates:--'One evening at the Macao table, when the play was very deep, Brummell, having lost a considerable stake, affected, in his farcical way, a very tragic air, and cried out--"Waiter, bring me a flat candlestick and a pistol." Upon which Bligh, who was sitting opposite to him, calmly produced two loaded pistols from his coat pocket, which he placed on the table, and said, "Mr Brummell, if you are really desirous to put a period to your existence, I am extremely happy to offer you the means without troubling the waiter." The effect upon those present may easily be imagined, at finding themselves in the company of a known madman who had loaded weapons about him.' Brummell was at last completely beggared, though for some time he continued to hold on by the help of funds raised on the mutual security of himself and his friends, some of whom were not in a much more flourishing condition than himself; their names, however, and still more, their expectations, lent a charm to their bills, in the eyes of the usurers, and money was procured, of course at ruinous interest. It is said that some unpleasant circumstances, connected with the division of one of these loans, occasioned the Beau's expatriation, and that a personal altercation took place between Brummell and a certain Mr M--, when that gentleman accused him of taking the lion's share. He died in utter poverty, and an idiot, at Caen, in the year 1840, aged 62 years. Brummell had a very odd way of accounting for the sad change which took place in his affairs. He said that up to a particular period of his life everything prospered with him, and that he attributed good luck to the possession of a certain silver sixpence with a hole in it, which somebody had given him years before, with an injunction to take good care of it, as everything would go well with him so long as he did, and the reverse if he happened to lose it. The promised prosperity attended him for many years, whilst he held the sixpence fast; but having at length, in an evil hour, unfortunately given it by mistake to a hackney-coachman, a complete reverse of his previous good fortune ensued, till actual ruin overtook him at last, and obliged him to expatriate himself. 'On my asking him,' says the narrator, 'why he did not advertise and offer a reward for the lost treasure; he said, "I did, and twenty people came with sixpences having holes in them to obtain the promised reward, but mine was not amongst them!" And you never afterwards,' said I, 'ascertained what became of it? "Oh yes," he replied, "no doubt that rascal Rothschild, or some of his set, got hold of it."' Whatever poor Brummell's supernatural tendencies may have generally been, he had unquestionably a superstitious veneration for his lost sixpence. TOM DUNCOMBE. Tom Duncombe graduated and took honours among the greatest gamblers of the day. Like Fox, he was heir to a good fortune--ten or twelve thousand a year--the whole of which he managed to anticipate before he was thirty. 'Tom Duncombe ran Charles Fox close. When Mr Duncombe, sen., of Copgrove, caused his prodigal son's debts to be estimated with a view to their settlement, they were found to exceed L135,000;(133) and the hopeful heir went on adding to them till all possibility of extrication was at an end. But he spent his money (or other people's money), so long as he had any, like a gentleman; his heart was open like his hand; he was generous, cordial, high-spirited; and his expectations--till they were known to be discounted to the uttermost farthing--kept up his credit, improved his social position, and gained friends. "Society" (says his son) "opened its arms to the possessor of a good name and the inheritor of a good estate. Paterfamiliases and Materfamiliases rivalled each other in endeavouring to make things pleasant in their households for his particular delectation, especially if they had grown-up daughters; hospitable hosts invited him to dinner, fashionable matrons to balls; political leaders sought to secure him as a partisan; _DEBUTANTES_ of the season endeavoured to attract him as an admirer; _TRADESMEN THRONGED TO HIS DOORSTEPS FOR HIS CUSTOM_, and his table was daily covered with written applications for his patronage." _Noblesse oblige;_ and so does fashion. The aspirant had confessedly a hard time of it. "He must be seen at Tattersall's as well as at Almack's; be more frequent in attendance in the green-room of the theatre than at a _levee_ in the palace; show as much readiness to enter into a pigeon-match at Battersea Red House, as into a flirtation in May Fair; distinguish himself in the hunting-field as much as at the dinner-table; and make as effective an appearance in the park as in the senate; in short, he must be everything--not by turns, but all at once--sportsman, exquisite, gourmand, rake, senator, and at least a dozen other variations of the man of fashion,--his changes of character being often quicker than those attempted by certain actors who nightly undertake the performance of an entire _dramatis personae_."' (133) It will be remembered that when Fox's debts were in like manner estimated they amounted to L140,000: the coincidence is curious. See ante. Tommy Duncombe was not only indefatigable at Crockford's, but at every other rendezvous of the votaries of fortune; a skilful player withal, and not unfrequently a winner beyond expectation. One night at Crockford's he astonished the house by carrying off sixteen hundred pounds. He frequently played at cards with Count D'Orsay, from whom, it is said, he invariably managed to win--the Count persisting in playing with his pleasant companion, although warned by others that he would never be a match for 'Honest Tommy Duncombe.' Tom Duncombe died poor, but, says his son, 'rich in the memory of those who esteemed him, as Honest Tom Duncombe.' Perhaps the best thing the son could have done was to leave his father's memory at rest in the estimation of 'those who esteemed him;' but having dragged his name once more, and prominently, before a censorious world, he can scarcely resent the following estimate of Tom Duncombe, by a well-informed reviewer in the _Times_. Alluding to the concluding summary of the father's character and doings, this keen writer passes a sentence which is worth preserving:-- 'Much of this would do for a patriot and philanthropist of the highest class--for a Pym, a Hampden, or a Wilberforce; or, we could fancy, a son of Andrew Marvell, vowing over his grave "to endeavour to imitate the virtues and emulate the self-sacrificing patriotism of so estimable a parent, and so good a man." But we can hardly fancy, we cannot leave, a son of Duncombe in such a frame of mind. We cannot say to _HIM_-- Macte nova virtute, puer; sic itur ad astra. "In virtue renewed go on; thus to the skies we go." We are unfeignedly reluctant to check a filial effusion, or to tell disagreeable truths; but there are occasions when a sense of public duty imperatively requires them to be told. 'Why did this exemplary parent die poor? When did he abandon the allurements of a patrician circle? He died poor because he wasted a fine fortune. If he abandoned a patrician circle, it was because he was tired of it, or thought he could make a better thing of democracy. If he conquered his passions, it was, like St Evremond--by indulging them. '"Honest Tom Duncombe!" We never heard him so designated before except in pleasantry. "As honest as any man living, that is an old man, and not honester than I." We cannot go further than Verges; it is a stretch of charity to go so far when we call to mind the magnificent reversion and the French jobs. A ruined spendthrift, although he may have many good qualities, can never, strictly speaking, be termed honest. It is absurd to say of him that he is nobody's enemy but his own--with family, friends, and tradespeople paying the penalty for his self-indulgence. He must be satisfied to be called honourable--to be charged with no transgression of the law of honour; which Paley defines as "a system of rules constructed by people of fashion, and calculated to facilitate their intercourse with one another, _AND FOR NO OTHER PURPOSE_." 'There was one quality of honesty, however, which "honest Tom Duncombe" did possess. He was not a hypocrite. He was not devoid of right feeling. He had plenty of good sense; and it would have given him a sickening pang on his death-bed to think that his frailties were to be perpetuated by his descendants; that he was to be pointed out as a shining star to guide, instead of a beacon-fire to warn. "No," he would have said, if he could have anticipated this most ill-chosen, however well-intentioned, tribute, "spare me this terrible irony. Do not provoke the inevitable retort. Say of me, if you must say anything, that I was not a bad man, though an erring one; that I was kindly disposed towards my fellow-creatures; that I did some good in my generation, and was able and willing to do more, but that I heedlessly wasted time, money, health, intellect, personal gifts, social advantages and opportunities; that my career was a failure, and my whole scheme of life a melancholy mistake."'(134) (134) _Times_, Jan. 7, 1868. This is a terrible rejoinder to a son endeavouring to raise a monument to his beloved and respected parent. But, if we will rake up rottenness from the grave--rottenness in which we are interested--we must take our chance whether we shall find a Hamlet who will say, 'Alas! poor Yorick!' and say _NO MORE_ than the musing Dane upon the occasion. WAS THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON A GAMESTER? A few years after the battle of Waterloo there appeared a French work entitled '_L'Academie des Jeux_, par Philidor,' which was soon translated into English, and here published under the title of 'Rouge et Noir; or, the Academies.' It was a denunciation of gambling in all its varieties, and was, no doubt, well-intentioned. There was, however, in the publication the following astounding statement:-- 'Not long ago the carriage of the heir-apparent to the T***** of England, in going to his B****'s levee, was arrested for debt in the open street. That great captain, who gained, if not laurels, an immense treasure, on the plains of Wa****oo, besides that fortune transmitted to him by the English people, was impoverished in a few months by this ignoble passion.' There can be no doubt that the alleged gambling of the great warrior and statesman was the public scandal of the day, as appears by the duke's own letters on the subject, published in the last volume of his _Dispatches_. Even the eminent counsel, Mr Adolphus, thought proper to allude to the report in one of his speeches at the bar. This called forth the following letter from the duke to Mr Adolphus:-- '17 Sept., 1823. 'The Duke of Wellington presents his compliments to Mr Adolphus, and encloses him the "Morning Chronicle" of Friday, the 12th instant, to which the duke's attention has just been called, in which Mr Adolphus will observe that he is stated to have represented the duke as a person _KNOWN SOMETIMES TO PLAY AT HAZARD, WHO MIGHT BE COMMITTED AS A ROGUE AND VAGABOND_. 'The duke concludes that this paper contains a correct statement of what Mr Adolphus said upon the occasion, and he assures Mr Adolphus that he would not trouble him upon the subject if circumstances did not exist which rendered this communication desirable. 'Some years have elapsed since the public have been informed, _FROM THE VERY BEST AUTHORITY_, that the duke had totally ruined himself at play; and Mr Adolphus was present upon one occasion when a witness swore that he had heard the duke was constantly obliged to sell the offices in the Ordnance himself, instead of allowing them to be sold by others!! The duke has suffered some inconvenience from this report in a variety of ways, and he is anxious that at least it should not be repeated by a gentleman of such celebrity and authority as Mr Adolphus. 'He therefore assures Mr Adolphus that in the whole course of his life he never won or lost L20 at any game, and that he never played at Hazard, or any game of chance, in any public place or club, nor been for some years at all at any such place. 'From these circumstances, Mr Adolphus will see that there is no ground for making use of the duke's name as an example of a person _KNOWN SOMETIMES TO PLAY AT HAZARD, WHO MIGHT BE COMMITTED AS A ROGUE AND VAGABOND_.' _Mr Adolphus to Field-Marshal the Duke of Wellington_. 'Percy Street, 21st Sept., 1823. 'Mr Adolphus has the honour to acknowledge the receipt of a note from his Grace the Duke of Wellington, and would have done so yesterday, but was detained in court till a late hour in the evening. Mr Adolphus is extremely sorry that any expression used by him should have occasioned a moment's uneasiness to the Duke of Wellington. Mr Adolphus cannot deny that the report in the "Chronicle" is accurate, so far as it recites his mere words; but the scope of his argument, and the intended sense of his expression, was, that if the Vagrant Act were to receive the extensive construction contended for, the most illustrious subject of the realm might be degraded to the condition of the most abject and worthless, for an act in itself indifferent--and which, until the times had assumed a character of affected rigour, was considered rather as a proof of good society than as an offence against good order. Mr Adolphus is, however, perfectly sensible that his illustration in his Grace's person was in all respects improper, and, considering the matters to which his Grace has adverted, peculiarly unfortunate Mr Adolphus feels with regret that any public expression of his sentiments on this subject in the newspapers would not abate, but much increase, the evil. Should an opportunity ever present itself of doing it naturally and without affectation, Mr Adolphus would most readily explain, in speaking at the bar, the error he had committed; but it is very unlikely that there should exist an occasion of which he can avail himself with a due regard to delicacy. Mr Adolphus relies, however, on the Duke of Wellington's exalted mind for credit to his assurance that he never meant to treat his name but with the respect due to his Grace's exalted rank and infinitely higher renown.' _To Mr Adolphus_. 'Woolford, 23rd Sept., 1823. 'The Duke of Wellington presents his compliments to Mr Adolphus, and assures Mr Adolphus that he is convinced that Mr Adolphus never intended to reflect injuriously upon him. If the duke had believed that Mr Adolphus could have entertained such an intention he would not have addressed him. The duke troubles Mr Adolphus again upon this subject, as, in consequence of the editor of the "Morning Chronicle" having thought proper to advert to this subject in a paragraph published on the 18th instant, the duke has referred the paper of that date and that of the 12th to the Attorney and Solicitor-general, his counsel, to consider whether the editor ought not to be prosecuted. 'The duke requests, therefore, that Mr Adolphus will not notice the subject in the way he proposes until the gentlemen above mentioned will have decided upon the advice which they will give the duke.'(135) (135) 'Dispatches,' vol. ii. part i. The result was, however, that the matter was allowed to drop, as the duke was advised by his counsel that the paragraph in the "Morning Chronicle," though vile, was not actionable. The positive declaration of the duke, 'that in the whole course of his life he never won or lost L20 at any game, and that he never played at Hazard, or any game of chance, in any public place or club, nor been for some years at all at any such place,' should set the matter at rest. Certainly the duke was afterwards an original member of Crockford's Club, founded in 1827, but, unlike Blucher, who repeatedly lost everything at play, 'The Great Captain,' as Mr Timbs puts it, 'was never known to play deep at any game but war or politics.'(136) (136) Club Life in London. This remarkable deference to private character and public opinion, on the part of the Duke of Wellington, is in wonderful contrast with the easy morality of the Old Bailey advocate, Mr Adolphus, who did not hesitate to declare gambling 'an act in itself indifferent--and which, until the times had assumed a character of _AFFECTED_ rigour, was considered rather as a proof of good society than as an offence against good order.' This averment of so distinguished a man may, perhaps, mitigate the horror we now feel of the gambling propensities of our ancestors; and it is a proof of some sort of advancement in morals, or good taste, to know that no modern advocate would dare to utter such a sentiment. Other great names have been associated with gambling; thus Mr T. H. Duncombe says, speaking of Crockford's soon after its foundation:--'Sir St Vincent Cotton (Lord Combermere), Lord Fitzroy Somerset (Raglan), the Marquis of Anglesey, Sir Hussey Vivian, Wilson Croker, _Disraeli_, Horace Twiss, Copley, George Anson, and George Payne _WERE PRETTY SURE OF BEING PRESENT_, many of them playing high.' Respecting this statement the _Times'_(137) reviewer observes:--'We do not know what the Chancellor of the Exchequer will say to this. Mr Wilson Croker (who affected great strictness) would have fainted away. But the authority of a writer who does not know Sir St Vincent Cotton (the ex-driver of the Brighton coach) from Sir _Stapleton_ Cotton (the Peninsular hero) will go for little in such matters; and as for Copley, Lord Lyndhurst (just then promoted from the Rolls to the Woolsack), why not say at once that he attended the nocturnal sittings at Crockford's in his robes.' (137) Jan. 7, 1868. CHAPTER XII. REMARKABLE GAMESTERS. ----MONSIEUR CHEVALIER. Monsieur CHevalier, Captain of the Grenadiers in the first regiment of Foot Guards, in the time of Charles II. of England, was a native of Normandy. In his younger days he was page to the Duchess of Orleans; but growing too big for that service, he came to England to seek his fortune, and by some good luck and favour became an ensign in the first regiment of Foot Guards. His pay, however, being insufficient to maintain him, he felt compelled to become a gamester, or rather to resort to a practice in which doubtless he had been early initiated at the Court of France; and he managed so well that he was soon enabled to keep up an equipage much above his station. Among the 'bubbles' who had the misfortune to fall into Chevalier's hands, was a certain nobleman, who lost a larger sum to him than he could conveniently pay down, and asked for time, to which Chevalier assented, and in terms so courteous and obliging that the former, a fortnight after, in order to let him see that he remembered his civility, came one morning and told Chevalier that he had a company of Foot to dispose of, and if it was worth his while, it should be at his service. Nothing could be more acceptable to Chevalier, who at once closed for the bargain, and got his commission signed the same day. Besides the fact that it was a time of peace, Chevalier knew well that the military title of Captain was a very good cloak to shelter under. He knew that a man of no employment or any visible income, who appears and lives like a gentleman, and makes gaming his constant business, is always suspected of not playing for diversion only; and, in short, of knowing and practising more than he should do. Chevalier once won 20 guineas from mad Ogle, the Life-guardsman, who, understanding that the former had bit him, called him to account, demanding either his money back, or satisfaction in the field. Chevalier, having always courage enough to maintain what he did, chose the latter. Ogle fought him in Hyde Park, and wounded him through the sword arm, and got back his money. After this they were always good friends, playing several comical tricks, one of which is as follows, strikingly illustrating the manners of the times. Chevalier and Ogle meeting one day in Fleet Street jostled for the wall, which they strove to take of each other, whereupon words arising between them, they drew swords, and pushed very hard at one another; but were prevented, by the great crowd which gathered about them, from doing any mischief. Ogle, seeming still to resent the affront, cried to Chevalier, 'If you are a gentleman, pray follow me.' The French hero accepted the challenge; so going together up Bell Yard and through Lincoln's Inn, with some hundreds of the mob at their heels, as soon as the seeming adversaries were got into Lincoln's Inn Fields, they both fell a running as fast as they could, with their swords drawn, up towards Lord Powis's house, which was then building, and leaped into a saw-pit. The rabble presently ran after them, to part them again, and feared mischief would be done before they could get up to them, but when they arrived at the saw-pit, they saw Chevalier at one side of it and Ogle at the other, sitting together as lovingly as if they had never fallen out at all. And then the mob was so incensed at this trick put upon them, that had not some gentlemen accidentally come by, they would have knocked them both on the head with brickbats. Chevalier had an excellent knack at cogging a die, and such command in the throwing, that, chalking a circle on a table, with its circumference no bigger than a shilling, he would, at above the distance of one foot, throw a die exactly into it, which should be either ace, deuce, trey, or what he pleased. Aubrey de Vere, Earl of Oxford, was a great gambler of the time, and often practised dice-throwing in his shirt during the morning until he fancied himself in luck, when he would proceed to try his fortune with Chevalier; but the dexterity of the latter always convinced the earl that no certainty lies on the good success which may be fancied as likely to result from play in jest. Chevalier won a great deal of money from that peer, 'who lost most of his estate at gaming before he died, and which ought to be a warning to all noblemen.' Chevalier was a skilful sharper, and thoroughly up in the art and mystery of loading dice with quicksilver; but having been sometimes detected in his sharping tricks, he was obliged 'to look on the point of the sword, with which being often wounded, latterly he declined fighting, if there were any way of escape.' Having once 'choused,' or cheated, a Mr Levingstone, page of honour to King James II., out of 50 guineas, the latter gave the captain a challenge to fight him next day behind Montague House--a locality long used for the purpose of duelling. Chevalier seemingly accepted the challenge, and next morning, Levingstone going to Chevalier's lodging, whom he found in bed, put him in mind of what he was come about. Chevalier, with the greatest air of courage imaginable, rose, and having dressed himself, said to Levingstone--'Me must beg de favour of you to stay a few minutes, sir, while I step into my closet dere, for as me be going about one desperate piece of work, it is very requisite for me to say a small prayer or two.' Accordingly Mr Levingstone consented to wait whilst Chevalier retired to his closet to pray; but hearing the conclusion of his prayer to end with these words--'Me verily believe spilling man's blood is one ver' great sin, wherefore I hope all de saints will interced vid de Virgin for my once killing Monsieur de Blotieres at Rochelle,--my killing Chevalier de Cominge at Brest,--killing Major de Tierceville at Lyons,--killing Lieutenant du Marche Falliere at Paris, with half a dozen other men in France; so, being also sure of killing him I'm now going to fight, me hope his forcing me to shed his blood will not be laid to my charge;'--quoth Levingstone to himself--'And are you then so sure of me? But I'll engage you shan't--for if you are such a devil at killing men, you shall go and fight yourself and be ----.' Whereupon he made what haste he could away, and shortly Chevalier coming out of the closet and finding Levingstone not in the room, was very glad of his absence.' Some time after, Chevalier was called to account by another gentleman. They met at the appointed hour in Chelsea Fields, when Chevalier said to his adversary--'Pray, sir, for what do we fight?' The gentleman replied--'For honour and reputation.' Thereupon Chevalier pulling a halter out of his pocket, and throwing it between him and his antagonist, exclaimed--'Begar, sir, we only fight for dis one piece of rope--so e'en _WIN IT AND WEAR IT_.' The effect of this jest was so great on his adversary that swords were put up, and they went home together good friends. Chevalier continued his sharping courses for about fourteen years, running a reckless race, 'sometimes with much money, sometimes with little, but always as lavish in spending as he was covetous in getting it; until at last King James ascending the throne, the Duke of Monmouth raised a rebellion in the West of England, where, in a skirmish between the Royalists and Rebels, he was shot in the back, and the wound thought to be given by one of his own men, to whom he had always been a most cruel, harsh officer, whilst a captain of the Grenadiers of the Foot Guards. He was sensible himself how he came by this misfortune; for when he was carried to his tent mortally wounded, and the Duke of Albemarle came to visit him, he said to his Grace--'Dis was none of my foe dat shot me in the back.' 'He was none of your friend that shot you,' the duke replied. So dying within a few hours after, he was interred in a field near Philip Norton Lane, as the old chronicler says--'much _UN_lamented by all who knew him.'(138) (138) Lucas, _Memoirs of Gamesters and Sharpers_. JOHN HIGDEN. This gambler, who flourished towards the end of the 17th century, was descended from a very good family in the West of England. In his younger days he was a member of the Honourable Society of the Middle Temple, but his inclinations being incompatible with close study of the law, he soon quitted the inns of court and went into the army. He obtained not only a commission in the first regiment of Boot Guards, but a commission of the peace for the county of Middlesex, in which he continued for three or four years as Justice Higden. He was very great at dice; and one night he and another of his fraternity going to a gaming house, Higden drew a chair and sat down, but as often as the box came to him he passed it, and remained only as a spectator; but at last one of the players said to him pertly, 'Sir, if you won't play, what do you sit there for?' Upon which Higden snatched up the dice-box and said, 'Set me what you will and I'll throw at it.' One of the gentlemen set him two guineas, which he won, and then set him four, which he 'nicked' also. The rest of the gentlemen took the part of the loser, and set to Higden, who, by some art and some good luck, won 120 guineas; and presently, after throwing out, rose from the table and went to his companion by the fireside, who asked him how he durst be so audacious as to play, knowing he had not a shilling in his pocket? One of the losers overhearing what was said, exclaimed, 'How's that--you had no money when you began to play?' 'That's no matter,' replied Higden, 'I have enough _NOW;_ and if you had won of me, you must have been contented to have kicked, buffeted, or pumped me, and you would have done it as long as you liked. Besides, sir, I am a soldier, and have often faced the mouths of thundering cannons for _EIGHT SHILLINGS A DAY_, and do you think I would not hazard the tossing of a blanket for the money I have won to-night?' 'All the parties wondered at his confidence, but he laughed heartily at their folly and his good fortune, and so marched off with a light heart and a heavy purse.' Afterwards, 'to make himself as miserable as he could, he turned poet, went to Ireland, published a play or two, and shortly after he died very poor, in 1703.'(139) (139) _ubi supra._ MONSIEUR GERMAIN. This gambler was of low birth, his parents keeping an ordinary in Holland, where he was born, as stated by the old chronicler, 'in the happy Revolution of 1688.' His career is remarkable on account of his connection with Lady Mary Mordaunt, wife of 'the Duke of Norfolk, who, proving her guilty of adultery, was divorced from her. She then lived publicly with Germain.' This Germain was the first to introduce what was called the _Spanish Whist_, stated to be 'a mere bite, performed after this manner:--Having a pack of cards, the four treys are privately laid on the top of them, under them an ace, and next to that a deuce; then, letting your adversary cut the cards, you do not pack them, but deal all of them that are cut off, one at a time, between you; then, taking up the other parcel of cards, you deal more cards, giving yourself two treys and a deuce, and to the other persons two treys and an ace, when, laying the remainder of the cards down--wherein are allowed no trumps, but only the highest cards win--so they are but of the same suit, whilst you are playing, giving your antagonist all you can, as though it is not in your power to prevent him. You seem to fret, and cry you have good _put-cards;_ he, having two treys and an ace, will be apt to lay a wager with you that you cannot have better than he; then you binding the wager, he soon sees his mistake. But in this trick you must observe to put the other three deuces under yours when you deal.' It seems that this Monsieur Germain is not only remarkable for the above precious addition to human knowledge, but also on account of his expertness at the game of _Ombre_, celebrated and so elegantly described by Pope in his 'Rape of the Lock.' He appears to have lived with the Duchess of Norfolk ever after the divorce; and he died a little after Lady Mary, in 1712, aged 46 years.(140) (140) _ubi supra_. TOM HUGHES. This Irishman was born in Dublin, and was the son of a respectable tradesman. Falling into dissipated company, he soon left the city to try his fortune in London, where he played very deep and very successfully. He threw away his gains as fast as he made them, chiefly among the frail sisterhood, at a notorious house in those days, in the Piazza, Covent Garden. He frequented Carlisle House in Soho Square, and was a proprietor of E O tables kept by a Dr Graham in Pall Mall. He had a rencontre, in consequence of a dispute at play, and was wounded. The meeting took place under the Piazza, and his antagonist's sword struck a rib, which counteracted its dangerous effect. Soon afterwards he won L3000 from a young man just of age, who made over to him a landed estate for the amount, and he was shortly after admitted a member of the Jockey Club. His fortune now changed, and falling into the hands of Old Pope, the money-lender, he was not long before he had to transfer his estate to him. After many ups and downs he became an inmate of the spunging-house of the infamous Scoldwell, who was afterwards transported. He actually used his prison as a gaming house, to which his infatuated friends resorted; but his means failed, his friends cooled, and he was removed 'over the water,' from which he was only released by the Insolvent Act, with a broken constitution. Arrest soon restored him to his old habitation, a lock-up house, where he died so poor, a victim to grief, misery, and disease, that he did not leave enough to pay for a coffin, which was procured by his quondam friend, Mr Thornton, at whose cost he was buried. Perhaps more than half a million of money had 'passed through his hands.' ANDREWS, THE GREAT BILLIARD-PLAYER. Andrews was reckoned so theoretically and practically perfect at the game of Billiards that he had no equal except Abraham Carter, who kept the tables at the corner of the Piazza, Russell Street, Covent Garden. He one night won of Colonel W----e about a thousand pounds; and the Colonel appointed to meet him next day to transact for stock accordingly. Going in a hackney-coach to the Bank of England for this purpose, they tossed up who should pay for the coach. Andrews lost--and positively on this small beginning he was excited to continue betting, until he lost the whole sum he had won the night before! When the coachman stopped he was ordered to drive them back again, as they had no occasion to get out! Thus, in a few years, Hazard and other games of chance stripped him of his immense winnings at Billiards, and he had nothing left but a small annuity, fortunately for him so settled that he could not dispose of it--though he made every effort to do so! He afterwards retired in the county of Kent, and was heard to declare that he never knew contentment when wallowing in riches; but that since he was compelled to live on a scanty pittance, he was one of the happiest men in the world. WHIG MIDDLETON. Whig Middleton was a tall, handsome, fashionable man, with an adequate fortune. He one night had a run of ill-luck at Arthur's, and lost about a thousand guineas. Lord Montford, in the gaming phrase, asked him what he would do or what he would not do, to get home? 'My lord,' said he, 'prescribe your own terms.' 'Then,' resumed Lord Montford, 'dress directly opposite to the fashion for ten years. Will you agree to it?' Middleton said that he would, and kept his word. Nay, he died nine years afterwards so unfashionably that he did not owe a tradesman a farthing--left some playing debts unliquidated, and his coat and wig were of the cut of Queen Anne's reign. Lord Montford is said to have died in a very different but quite fashionable manner. CAPTAIN CAMPBELL. Captain Campbell, of the Guards, was a natural son of the Duke of ----. He lost a thousand guineas to a Shark, which he could not pay. Being questioned by the duke one day at dinner as to the cause of his dejection, he reluctantly confessed the fact. 'Sir,' said his Grace, 'you do not owe a farthing to the blackguard. My steward settled with him this morning for _TEN_ guineas, and he was glad to take them, only saying--"I was damned far North, and it was well it was no worse."' WROTHESLY, DUKE OF BEDFORD. Wrothesly, Duke of Bedford, was the subject of a conspiracy at Bath, formed by several first-rate sharpers, among whom were the manager of a theatre, and Beau Nash, master of the ceremonies. After being plundered of above L70,000 at Hazard, his Grace rose in a passion, put the dice in his pocket, and intimated his resolution to inspect them. He then retired into another room, and, flinging himself upon a sofa, fell asleep. The winners, to escape disgrace, and obtain their money, cast lots who should pick his pockets of the loaded dice, and introduce fair ones in their place. The lot fell on the manager of the theatre, who performed his part without discovery. The duke inspected the dice when he awoke, and finding them correct, renewed his party, and lost L30,000 more. The conspirators had received L5000, but disagreed on its division, and Beau Nash, thinking himself ill-used, divulged the fact to his Grace, who saved thereby the remainder of the money. He made Nash a handsome present, and ever after gave him his countenance, supposing that the secret had been divulged through pure friendship. THE DUKE OF NORFOLK. A similar anecdote is told of another gamester. 'The late Duke of Norfolk,' says the author of 'Rouge et Noir,' writing in 1823, 'in one evening lost the sum of L70,000 in a gaming house on the right side of St James's Street: suspecting foul play, he put the dice in his pocket, and, as was his custom when up late, took a bed in the house. The blacklegs were all dismayed, till one of the worthies, who is believed to have been a principal in poisoning the horses at Newmarket, for which Dan Dawson was hanged, offered for L5000 to go to the duke's room with a brace of pistols and a pair of dice, and, if the duke was awake, to shoot him, if asleep to change the dice! Fortunately for the gang, the duke "snored," as the agent stated, "like a pig;" the dice were changed. His Grace had them broken in the morning, when, finding them good, he paid the money, and left off gambling.'(141) (141) Rouge et Noir; the Academicians of 1823. GENERAL OGLE: A BOLD STROKE. A few weeks before General Ogle was to sail for India, he constantly attended Paine's, in Charles Street, St James's Square. One evening there were before him two wooden bowls full of gold, which held L1500 guineas each, and L4000 in rouleaus, which he had won. When the box came to him, he shook the dice and with great coolness and pleasantry said--'Come, I'll either win or lose seven thousand upon this hand. Will any gentleman set on the whole? _SEVEN_ is the main.' Then rattling the dice once more, cast the box from him and quitted it, the dice remaining uncovered. Although the General did not think this too large a sum for one man to risk at a single throw, the rest of the gentlemen did, and for some time the bold gamester remained unset. He then said--'Well, gentlemen, will you make it up amongst you?' One set him 500 guineas, another 500. 'Come,' said he, 'whilst you are making up the money I'll tell you a story.' Here he began--but perceiving that he was at last completely set for the cast, stopt short--laid his hand on the box, saying--'I believe I am completely set, gentlemen?' 'Yes, sir, and Seven is the main,' was the reply. The General threw out, and lost! Seven thousand guineas! Then with astonishing coolness he took up his snuff-box and smiling exclaimed--'Now, gentlemen, if you please, I'll finish my story.' HORACE WALPOLE. There can be no doubt that Horace Walpole was an inveterate gambler, although he managed to keep always afloat and merrily sailing--for he says himself:--'A good lady last year was delighted at my becoming peer, and said--"I hope you will get an Act of Parliament for putting down Faro." As if I could make Acts of Parliament! and could I, it would be very consistent too in me, who for some years played more at Faro than anybody.'(142) (142) Letters, IX. THE EARL OF MARCH. This extraordinary and still famous personage, better known as the Duke of Queensberry, was the 'observed of all observers' almost from his boyhood to extreme old age. His passions were for women and the turf; and the sensual devotedness with which he pursued the one, and the eccentricity which he displayed in the enjoyment of both, added to the observation which he attracted from his position as a man of high rank and princely fortune, rendered him an object of unceasing curiosity. He was deeply versed in the mysteries of the turf, and in all practical and theoretical knowledge connected with the race-course was acknowledged to be the most accomplished adept of his own time. He seems also to have been a skilful gamester and player of billiards. Writing to George Selwyn from Paris in 1763, he says:--'I won the first day about L2000, of which I brought off about L1500. All things are exaggerated, I am supposed to have won at least twice as much.' In 1765 he is said to have won two thousand louis of a German at billiards. Writing to Selwyn, Gilly Williams says of him: 'I did not know he was more an adept at that game than you are at any other, but I think you are both said to be losers on the whole, at least Betty says that her letters mention you as pillaged.' Among the numerous occasions on which the name of the Duke of Queensberry came before the public in connection with sporting matters, may be mentioned the circumstance of the following curious trial, which took place before Lord Mansfield in the Court of King's Bench, in 1771. The Duke of Queensberry, then Lord March, was the plaintiff, and a Mr Pigot the defendant. The object of this trial was to recover the sum of five hundred guineas, being the amount of a wager laid by the duke With Mr Pigot--whether Sir William Codrington or _OLD_ Mr Pigot should die first. It had singularly happened that Mr Pigot died suddenly the _SAME MORNING_, of the gout in his head, but before either of the parties interested in the result of the wager could by any possibility have been made acquainted with the fact. In the contemporary accounts of the trial, the Duke of Queensberry is mentioned as having been accommodated with a seat on the bench; while Lord Ossory, and several other noblemen, were examined on the merits of the case. By the counsel for the defendant it was argued that (as in the case of a horse dying before the day on which he was to be run) the wager was invalid and annulled. Lord Mansfield, however, was of a different opinion; and after a brief charge from that great lawyer, the jury brought in a verdict for the plaintiff for five hundred guineas, and he sentenced the defendant to defray the costs of the suit.(143) (143) Jesse, George Selwyn and his Contemporaries, vol. i. p. 194. This prince of debauchees seems to have surpassed every model of the kind, ancient or modern. In his prime he reproduced in his own drawing-room the scene of Paris and the Goddesses, exactly as we see it in classic pictures, three of the most beautiful women of London representing the divinities as they appeared to Paris on Mount Ida, while he himself, dressed as the Dardan shepherd holding a _GILDED_ apple (it should have been really golden) in his hand, conferred the prize on her whom he deemed the fairest. In his decrepit old age it was his custom, in fine sunny weather, to seat himself in his balcony in Piccadilly, where his figure was familiar to every person who was in the habit of passing through that great thoroughfare. Here (his emaciated figure rendered the more conspicuous from his custom of holding a parasol over his head) he was in the habit of watching every attractive female form, and ogling every pretty face that met his eye. He is said, indeed, to have kept a pony and a servant in constant readiness, in order to follow and ascertain the residence of any fair girl whose attractions particularly caught his fancy! At this period the old man was deaf with one ear, blind with one eye, nearly toothless, and labouring under multiplied infirmities. But the hideous propensities of his prime still pursued him when all enjoyment was impossible. Can there be a greater penalty for unbridled licentiousness? MR LUMSDEN. Mr Lumsden, whose inveterate love of gambling eventually caused his ruin, was to be seen every day at Frascati's, the celebrated gambling house kept by Mme Dunan, where some of the most celebrated women of the _demi-monde_ usually congregated. He was a martyr to the gout, and his hands and knuckles were a mass of chalk-stones. He stuck to the _Rouge et Noir_ table until everybody had left; and while playing would take from his pocket a small slate, upon which he would rub his chalk-stones until blood flowed. 'Having on one occasion been placed near him at the _Rouge et Noir_ table, I ventured,' says Captain Gronow, 'to expostulate with him for rubbing his knuckles against his slate. He coolly answered, "I feel relieved when I see the blood ooze out."' Mr Lumsden was remarkable for his courtly manners; but his absence of mind was astonishing, for he would frequently ask his neighbour _WHERE HE WAS_! Crowds of men and women would congregate behind his chair, to look at 'the mad Englishman,' as he was called; and his eccentricities used to amuse even the croupiers. After losing a large fortune at this den of iniquity, Mr Lumsden encountered every evil of poverty, and died in a wretched lodging in the Rue St Marc.(144) (144) Gronow, _Last Recollections._ GENERAL SCOTT, THE HONEST WINNER OF L200,000. General Scott, the father-in-law of George Canning and the Duke of Portland, was known to have won at White's L200,000, thanks to his notorious sobriety and knowledge of the game of Whist. The general possessed a great advantage over his companions by avoiding those indulgences at the table which used to muddle other men's brains. He confined himself to dining off something like a boiled chicken, with toast and water; by such a regimen he came to the Whist table with a clear head; and possessing as he did a remarkable memory, with great coolness of judgment, he was able honestly to win the enormous sum of L200,000. RICHARD BENNET. Richard Bennet had gone through every walk of a blackleg, from being a billiard sharper at a table in Bell Alley until he became a keeper or partner in all the 'hells' in St James's. In each stage of his journey he had contrived to have so much the better of his competitors, that he was enabled to live well, to bring up and educate a large legitimate family, and to gratify all his passions and sensuality. But besides all this, he accumulated an ample fortune, which this inveterate gamester did actually possess when the terriers of justice overtook and hunted him into the custody of the Marshal of the Court of Queen's Bench. Here he was sentenced to be imprisoned a certain time, on distinct indictments, for keeping different gaming houses, and was ordered to be kept in custody until he had also paid fines to the amount, we believe, of L4000. Bennet, however, after undergoing the imprisonment, managed to get himself discharged without paying the fines. DENNIS O'KELLY. Dennis O'Kelly was the Napoleon of the turf and the gaming table. Ascot was his elysium. His horses occupied him by day and the Hazard table by night. At the latter one night he was seen repeatedly turning over a _QUIRE OF BANK NOTES_, and a gentleman asked him what he was looking for, when he replied, 'I am looking for a _LITTLE ONE_.' The inquirer said he could accommodate him, and desired to know for what sum. Dennis O'Kelly answered, 'I want a FIFTY, or something of _THAT SORT_, just to set the _CASTER_. At this moment it was supposed he had seven or eight _THOUSAND_ pounds in notes in his hand, but not one for less than a _HUNDRED!_ Dennis O'Kelly always threw with great success; and when he held the box he was seldom known to refuse throwing for _ANY SUM_ that the company chose to set him. He was always liberal in _SETTING THE CASTER_, and preventing a stagnation of trade at the _TABLE_, which, from the great property always about him, it was his good fortune very frequently to deprive of its last floating guinea, when the box of course became dormant for want of a single adventurer. It was his custom to carry a great number of bank notes in his waistcoat pocket, twisted up together, with the greatest indifference; and on one occasion, in his attendance at a Hazard table at Windsor, during the races, being a _STANDING_ better and every chair full, a person's hand was observed, by those on the opposite side of the table, just in the act of drawing two notes out of his pocket. The alarm was given, and the hand, from the person behind, was instantly withdrawn, and the notes left sticking out. The company became clamorous for taking the offender before a magistrate, and many attempted to secure him for the purpose; but Captain Dennis O'Kelly very philosophically seized him by the collar, kicked him down-stairs, and exultingly exclaimed, ''Twas a _SUFFICIENT PUNISHMENT_ to be deprived of the pleasure of keeping company with _JONTLEMEN_.' A bet for a large sum was once proposed to this 'Admirable Crichton' of the turf and the gaming table, and accepted. The proposer asked O'Kelly where lay his _ESTATES_ to answer for the amount if he lost?' 'My estates!' cried O'Kelly. 'Oh, if that's what you _MANE_, I've a _MAP_ of them here'--and opening his pocket-book he exhibited bank notes to _TEN TIMES_ the sum in question, and ultimately added the _INQUIRER'S_ contribution to them. Such was the wonderful son of Erin, 'Captain' or 'Colonel' Dennis O'Kelly. One would like to know what ultimately became of him. DICK ENGLAND. Jack Tether, Bob W--r, Tom H--ll, Captain O'Kelly, and others, spent with Dick England a great part of the plunder of poor Clutterbuck, a clerk of the Bank of England, who not only lost his all, but robbed the Bank of an immense sum to pay his 'debts of honour.' A Mr B--, a Yorkshire gentleman, proposed to his brother-in-law, who was with him, to put down ten pounds each and try their luck at the 'Hell' kept by 'the Clerks of the Minster,' in the Minster Yard, next the Church. It was the race-week. There were about thirteen Greeks there, Dick England at their head. Mr B-- put down L10. England then called 'Seven the main--if seven or eleven is thrown next, the Caster wins.' Of course Dick intended to win; but he blundered in his operation; he _LANDED_ at six and the other did not answer his hopes. Yet, with matchless effrontery, he swore he had called _SIX_ and not seven; and as it was referred to the majority of the goodly company, thirteen _HONEST GENTLEMEN_ gave it in Dick England's favour, and with him divided the spoil. A Mr D--, a gentleman of considerable landed property in the North, proposed passing a few days at Scarborough. Dick England saw his carriage enter the town, and contrived to get into his company and go with him to the rooms. When the assembly was over, he prevailed on Mr D-- to sup with him. After supper Mr D-- was completely intoxicated, and every effort to make him play was tried in vain. This was, of course, very provoking; but still something must be done, and a very clever scheme they hit upon to try and 'do' this 'young man from the country.' Dick England and two of his associates played for five minutes, and then each of them marked a card as follows:--'D-- owes me one hundred guineas,' 'D-- owes me eighty guineas;' but Dick marked _HIS_ card--'I owe D--thirty guineas.' The next day, Mr D-- met Dick England on the cliff and apologized for his excess the night before, hoping he had given no offence 'when drunk and incapable.' Having satisfied the gentleman on this point, Dick England presented him with a thirty-guinea note, which, in spite of contradiction, remonstrance, and denial of any play having taken place, he forced on Mr D-- as his _FAIR WINNING_--adding that he had paid hundreds to gentlemen in liquor, who knew nothing of it till he had produced the account. Of course Mr D-- could not help congratulating himself at having fallen in with a perfect gentleman, as well as consoling himself for any head-ache or other inconvenience resulting from his night's potation. They parted with gushing civilities between them. Soon afterwards, however, two other gentlemen came up to Mr D--, whom the latter had some vague recollection of having seen the evening before, in company with Dick England; and at length, from what the two gentlemen said, he had no doubt of the fact, and thought it a fit opportunity to make a due acknowledgment of the gentlemanly conduct of their friend, who had paid him a bet which he had no remembrance of having made. No mood could be better for the purpose of the meeting; so the two gentlemen not only approved of the conduct of Dick, and descanted on the propriety of paying drunken men what they won, but also declared that no _GENTLEMAN_ would refuse to pay a debt of honour won from him when drunk; and at once begged leave to 'remind' Mr D-- that he had lost to them 180 guineas! In vain the astounded Mr D-- denied all knowledge of the transaction; the gentlemen affected to be highly indignant, and talked loudly of injured honour. Besides, had he not received 30 guineas from their friend? So he assented, and appointed the next morning to settle the matter. Fortunately for Mr D--, however, some intelligent friends of his arrived in the mean time, and having heard his statement about the whole affair, they 'smelt a rat,' and determined to ferret it out. They examined the waiter--previously handing him over five guineas--and this man declared the truth that Mr D-- did not play at all--in fact, that he was in such a condition that there could not be any real play. Dick England was therefore 'blown' on this occasion. Mr D-- returned him his thirty guineas, and paid five guineas for his share of the supper; and well he might, considering that it very nearly cost him 150 guineas--that is, having to receive 30 guineas and to pay 180 guineas to the Greeks--profit and loss with a vengeance. Being thus 'blown' at Scarborough, Dick England and his associates decamped on the following morning. He next formed a connection with a lieutenant on half pay, nephew to an Irish earl. With this lieutenant he went to Spa, and realized something considerable; but not without suspicion--for a few dice were missed. Dick England returned to London, where he shortly disagreed with the lieutenant. The latter joined the worthy before described, Captain O'Kelly, who was also at enmity with Dick England; and the latter took an opportunity of knocking their heads together in a public coffee-room, and thrashing them both till they took shelter under the tables. Dick had the strength of an ox, the ferocity of a bull-dog, and 'the cunning of the serpent,' although what the latter is no naturalist has ever yet discovered or explained. The lieutenant determined on revenge for the thrashing. He had joined his regiment, and he 'peached' against his former friend, disclosing to the officers the circumstance of the dice at Spa, before mentioned; and, of course, upset all the designs of Dick England and his associates. This enraged all the blacklegs; a combination was formed against the lieutenant; and he was shot through the head by 'a brother officer,' who belonged to the confraternity. The son of an earl lost forty thousand pounds in play to Dick England; and shot himself at Stacie's Hotel in consequence--the very night before his honourable father sent his steward to pay the 'debt of honour' in full--though aware that his son had been cheated out of it. But the most extraordinary 'pass' of Dick England's career is still to be related--not without points in it which make it difficult to believe, in spite of the evidence, that it is the same 'party' who was concerned in it. Here it is. In the _Gentleman's Magazine_, in Gilchrist's Collection of British Duels, in Dr Millingen's reproduction of the latter, the following account occurs:-- 'Mr Richard England was put to the bar at the Old Bailey, charged with the "wilful murder" of Mr Rowlls, brewer, of Kingston, in a duel at Cranford-bridge, June 18, 1784. 'Lord Derby, the first witness, gave evidence that he was present at Ascot races. When in the stand upon the race-course, he heard Mr England cautioning the gentlemen present not to bet with the deceased, as he neither paid what he lost nor what he borrowed. On which Mr Rowlls went up to him, called him rascal or scoundrel, and offered to strike him; when Mr England bid him stand off, or he would be obliged to knock him down; saying, at the same time--"We have interrupted the company sufficiently here, and if you have anything further to say to me, you know where I am to be found." A further altercation ensued; but his Lordship being at the other end of the stand, did not distinctly hear it, and then the parties retired. 'Lord Dartrey, afterwards Lord Cremorne, and his lady, with a gentleman, were at the inn at the time the duel was fought. They went into the garden and endeavoured to prevent the duel; several other persons were collected in the garden. Mr Rowlls desired his Lordship and others not to interfere; and on a second attempt of his Lordship to make peace, Mr Rowlls said, if they did not retire, he must, though reluctantly, call them impertinent. Mr England at the same time stepped forward, and took off his hat; he said--"Gentlemen, I have been cruelly treated; I have been injured in my honour and character; let reparation be made, and I am ready to have done this moment." Lady Dartrey retired. His Lordship stood in the bower of the garden until he saw Mr Rowlls fall. One or two witnesses were called, who proved nothing material. A paper, containing the prisoner's defence, being read, _the Earl of Derby, the Marquis of Hertford, Sir Whitbread, jun., Colonel Bishopp, and other gentlemen_, were called to his character. They all spoke of him as a man of _decent gentlemanly deportment_, who, instead of seeking quarrels, was studious to avoid them. He had been friendly to Englishmen while abroad, and had rendered some service to the military at the siege of Newport. 'Mr Justice Rooke summoned up the evidence; after which the jury retired for about three quarters of an hour, when they returned a verdict of "manslaughter." 'The prisoner having fled from the laws of his country for twelve years, the Court was disposed to show no lenity. He was therefore sentenced to pay a fine of one shilling, and be imprisoned in Newgate twelve months.' This trial took place in the year 1796, and the facts in evidence give a strange picture of the times. A duel actually fought in the garden of an inn, a noble lord close by in a bower therein, and his lady certainly within _HEARING_ of the shots, and doubtless a spectator of the bloody spectacle. But this is not the point,--the incomprehensible point,--to which I have alluded--which is, how Lord Derby and the other gentlemen of the highest standing could come forward to speak to the character of _DICK ENGLAND_, if he was the same man who killed the unfortunate brewer of Kingston? Here is _ANOTHER_ account of the matter, which warrants the doubt, although it is fearfully circumstantial, as to the certain identity:-- 'Mr William Peter le Rowles, of Kingston, brewer, was habitually fond of play. On one occasion he was induced--when in a state of intoxication--to play with Dick England, who claimed, in consequence, winnings to the amount of two hundred guineas. Mr le Rowles utterly denied the debt, and was in consequence pursued by England until he was compelled to a duel, in which Mr le Rowles fell. Lord Dartrey, afterwards Lord Cremorne, was present at Ascot Heath races on the fatal occasion, which happened in 1784; and his evidence before the coroner's inquest produced a verdict of wilful murder against Dick England, who fled at the time, but returned twelve years afterwards, was tried, and found guilty of manslaughter only. He was imprisoned for twelve months. England was strongly suspected of highway robberies; particularly on one occasion, when his associate, F--, was shot dead by Col. P-- on his return from the Curragh races to the town of Naas. The Marquis of Hertford, Lords Derby and Cremorne, Colonels Bishopp and Wollaston, and Messrs Whitbread, Breton, &c., were evidences in the trial.'(145) (145) _The Gaming Calendar_, by Seymour Harcourt. It may seem strange that such a man as Dick England could procure such distinguished 'witnesses to character.' The thing is easily explained, however. They knew the man only as a turf companion. We can come to no other conclusion,--remembering other instances of the kind. For example, the case of Palmer, convicted for the poisoning of Cooke. Had Palmer been on his trial merely for fighting a fatal duel; there can be no doubt that several noblemen would have come forward to give him a good character. I was present at his trial, and saw him _BOW TO ONE, AT LEAST, OF OUR MOST DISTINGUISHED NOBLEMEN_ when the latter took his seat near the judge, at the trial. There was a _TURF ACQUAINTANCESHIP_ between them, and, of course, all 'acquaintanceship' may be presumed upon, if we lay ourselves open to the degradation. The following is a curious case in point. A gentleman of the highest standing and greatest respectability was accosted by a stranger to whom he said--'Sir, you have the advantage of me.' 'Oh!' rejoined the former, 'don't you remember when we used to meet at certain parties at Bath many years ago?' 'Well, sir,' exclaimed the gentleman, 'you may speak to me should you ever again meet me at certain parties at Bath, but nowhere else.' MAJOR BAGGS. This famous gamester died in 1792, by a cold caught in 'a round-house,' or place of detention, to which he had been taken by Justice Hyde, from a gaming table. When too ill to rise out of his chair, he would be carried in that chair to the Hazard table. He was supposed to have been the utter ruin of above forty persons at play. He fought eleven duels. THE DUC DE MIREFOIX. The Duc de Mirefois was ambassador at the British Court, and was extremely fond of chess. A reverend gentleman being nearly his equal, they frequently played together. At that time the clergyman kept a petty day-school in a small village, and had a living of not more than twenty pounds a-year. The French nobleman made uncommon interest with a noble duke, through whose favour he obtained for his reverend protege a living of about L600 per annum--an odd way of obtaining the 'cure of souls!' A RECLAIMED GAMBLER'S ACCOUNT OF HIS CAREER. 'Some years since I was lieutenant in a regiment, which the alarm and policy of administration occasioned to be quartered in the vicinity of the metropolis, where I was for the first time. A young nobleman of very distinguished family undertook to be my conductor. Alas! to what scenes did he introduce me! To places of debauchery and dens of destruction. I need not detail particulars. From the lures of the courtesan we went to an adjoining gaming room. Though I thought my knowledge of cards superior to those I saw play that night, I touched no card nor dice. From this my conductor, a brother officer, and myself adjourned to Pall Mall. We returned to our lodgings about six o'clock in the morning. 'I could think of nothing but Faro's magic centre, and longed for the next evening, when I determined to enter that path which has led so many to infamy, beggary, and suicide. I began cautiously, and for some time had reason to be satisfied with my success. It enabled me to live expensively. I made golden calculations of my future fortune as I improved in skill. My manuals were treatises on gaming and chances, and no man understood this doctrine better than I did. I, however, did not calculate the disparity of resisting powers--my purse with _FIFTY_ guineas, and the Faro bank with a hundred thousand. It was ruin only which opened my eyes to this truism at last. 'Good meats, good cooking, and good wines, given gratis and plenteously, at these houses, drew many to them at first, for the sake of the society. Among them I one evening chanced to see a clerical prig, who was incumbent of a parish adjoining that in which my mother lived. I was intoxicated with wine and pleasure, when I, on this occasion, entered a haunt of ruin and enterprising avarice in Pall Mall. I played high and lost in proportion. 'The spirit of adventure was now growing on me every day. I was sometimes very successful. Yet my health was impaired, and my temper soured by the alternation of good and bad fortune, and my pity or contempt for those with whom I associated. From the nobleman, whose acres were nightly melting in the dice box, there were adventurers even to the _UNFLEDGED APPRENTICE_, who came with the pillage of his unsuspecting master's till, to swell the guilty bank of Dame N-- and Co. Were the Commissioners of Bankruptcy to know how many citizens are prepared for them at those houses, they would be bound to thank them. 'Many a score of guineas have I won of tradesmen, who seemed only to turn an honest penny in Leadenhall Street, Aldgate, Birchin Lane, Cornhill, Cheapside, Holborn, the Borough, and other eastern spots of industry; but I fleeced them only for the benefit of the Faro bank, which is sure, finally, to absorb the gain of all. Some of the croupiers would call their gold _GIFTS OF THE WISE MEN OF THE EAST;_ others termed their guineas _COCKNEY COUNTERS!_ 'One night I had such a run of luck in the Hazard room, which was rather thinly attended, that I won everything, and with my load of treasure collected from the East and West, nay, probably, some of it from _Finchley Common_ and _Hounslow Heath_, I went, in the flush of success, to attack the Faro bank. 'It was my determination, however, if fortune favoured me through the night, never to tempt her more. For some hours I proceeded in the torture of suspense, alternately agitated by hope and fear--but by five o'clock in the morning I attained a state of certainty similar to that of a wretch ushered into the regions of the damned. I had lost L3500 guineas, which I had brought with me from the Hazard table, together with L2000 which the bank advanced me on my credit. There they stopped; and, with an apathy peculiar to themselves, listened to a torrent of puerile abuse which I vented against them in my despair. 'Two days and two nights I shut myself up, to indulge in the most racking reflections. I was ruined beyond repair, and I had, on the third morning, worked myself up to resort for relief to a loaded pistol. I rang for my servant to bring me some gunpowder, and was debating with myself whether to direct its force to my brain or my heart, when he entered with a letter. It was from Harriet ----. She had heard of my misfortunes, and urged me with the soul and pen of a heroine, to fly the destructive habits of the town, and to wait for nine months, when her minority would expire, and she would come into the uncontrolled possession of L1700. With that small sum she hoped my expenses, talents, and domestic comfort, under her housewifery, would create a state of happiness and independence which millions could not procure in the mad career which I had pursued. 'This was the voice of a guardian angel in the moment of despair. In her next, at my request, she informed me that the channel of her early and minute information was the clerical prig, her neighbour and admirer, who was related to one of the croupiers at ----, and had from him a regular detail of my proceedings. 'Soothed by the magic influence of my virtuous Harriet, instead of calling the croupier to account, I wrote to the proprietors of the bank, stating my ruined condition, and my readiness to sell my commission and pay them what I could. These gentlemen have friends in every department. They completed the transfer of my lieutenancy in two days, and then, in their superabundant humanity, offered me the place of croupier in an inferior house which they kept near Hanover Square. This offer I declined; and after having paid my tradesman's bill, I left London with only eleven guineas in my pocket. I married the best of women, my preserver, and have ever since lived in real comfort and happiness, on an income less than one hundred pounds a year.' A SURPRISE. A stranger plainly dressed took his seat at a Faro table, when the bank was richer than usual. After some little routine play, he challenged the bank, and tossed his pocket-book to the banker that he might be satisfied of his responsibility. It was found to contain bills to an immense amount; and on the banker showing reluctance to accept the challenge, the stranger sternly demanded compliance with the laws of the game. The card soon turned up which decided the ruin of the banker. 'Heaven!' exclaimed an old infirm Austrian officer, who had sat next to the stranger--'the twentieth part of your gains would make me the happiest man in the universe!' The stranger briskly answered--'You shall have it, then;' and quitted the room. A servant speedily returned, and presented the officer with the twentieth part of the bank, adding--'My master requires no answer, sir,' and went out. The successful stranger was soon recognized to be the great King of Prussia in disguise. CHAPTER XIII. THE LOTTERIES AND THEIR BEWILDERMENTS. If we are to believe Pere Menestrier, the institution of Lotteries is to be found in the Bible, in the words--'The _LOT_ causeth contentions to cease, and parteth between the mighty,' Prov. xviii. 18. Be that as it may, it is certain that lotteries were in use among the ancient Romans, taking place during the _Saturnalia_, or festivities in honour of the god Saturn, when those who took part in them received a numbered ticket, which entitled the bearer to a prize. During the reign of Augustus the thing became a means of gratifying the cupidity of his courtiers; and Nero used it as the method of distributing his gifts to the people,--granting as many as a thousand tickets a day, some of them entitling the bearers to slaves, ships, houses, and lands. Domitian compelled the senators and knights to participate in the lotteries, in order to debase them; and Heliogabalus, in his fantastic festivities, distributed tickets which entitled the bearers to camels, flies, and other odd things suggested by his madness. In all this, however, the distinctive character of modern lotteries was totally absent: the tickets were always gratuitous; so that if the people did not win anything, they never lost. In the Middle Ages the same practice prevailed at the banquets of feudal princes, who apportioned their presents economically, and without the fear of exciting jealousy among the recipients, by granting lottery tickets indiscriminately to their friends. The practice afterwards descended to the merchants; and in Italy, during the 16th century, it became a favourite mode of disposing of their wares. The application of lotteries by paid tickets to the service of the state is said to have originated at Florence, under the name of 'Lotto,' in 1530; others say at Genoa, under the following circumstances:--It had long been customary in the latter city to choose annually, by ballot, five members of the Senate (composed of 90 persons) in order to form a particular council. Some persons took this opportunity of laying bets that the lot would fall on such or such senators. The government, seeing with what eagerness the people interested themselves in these bets, conceived the idea of establishing a lottery on the same principle, which was attended with such great success, that all the cities of Italy wished to participate in it, and sent large sums of money to Genoa for that purpose. To increase the revenues of the Church, the Pope also was induced to establish a lottery at Rome; the inhabitants of which place became so fond of this species of gambling, that they often deprived themselves and their families of the necessaries of life, that they might have money to lay out in this speculation. The French borrowed the idea from the Italians. In the year 1520, under Francis I., lotteries were permitted by edict under the name of _Blanques_, from the Italian _bianca carta_, 'white tickets,'-- because all the losing tickets were considered _BLANKS;_--hence the introduction of the word into common talk, with a similar meaning. From the year 1539 the state derived a revenue from the lotteries, although from 1563 to 1609 the French parliament repeatedly endeavoured to suppress them as social evils. At the marriage of Louis XIV. a lottery was organized to distribute the royal presents to the people--after the fashion of the Roman emperor. Lotteries were multiplied during this reign and that of Louis XV. In 1776 the Royal Lottery of France was established. This was abolished in 1793, re-established at the commencement of the Republic; but finally all lotteries were prohibited by law in 1836,--excepting 'for benevolent purposes.' One of the most remarkable of these lotteries 'for benevolent purposes' was the 'Lottery of the Gold Lingots,' authorized in 1849, to favour emigration to California. In this lottery the grand prize was a lingot of gold valued at about L1700. The old French lottery consisted of 90 numbers, that is, from No. 1 to No. 90, and the drawing was five numbers at a time. Five wheels were established at Paris, Lyons, Strasbourg, Bordeaus, and Lille. A drawing took place every ten days at each city. The exit of a single number was called _extrait_, and it won 15 times the amount deposited, and 70 times if the number was determined; the exit of two numbers was called the _ambe_, winning 270 times the deposit, and 5100 times if the number was determined;--the exit of three numbers was called the _terne_, winning 5500 times; the _quaterne_, or exit of four numbers, won 75,000 times the deposit. In all this, however, the chances were greatly in favour of the state banker;--in the _extrait_ the chances were 18 to 15 in his favour, vastly increasing, of course, in the remainder; thus in the _ambe_ it was 1602 against 270; and so on. The first English lottery mentioned in history was drawn in the year 1569. It consisted of 400,000 lots, at 10_s_. each lot. The prizes were plate; and the profits were to go towards repairing the havens or ports of this kingdom. It was drawn at the west door of St Paul's Cathedral. The drawing began on the 10th of January, 1569, and continued incessantly, _DAY AND NIGHT_, till the 6th of May following.(146) Another lottery was held at the same place in 1612, King James having permitted it in favour of 'the plantation of English colonies in Virginia.' One Thomas Sharplys, a tailor of London, won the chief prize, which was '4000 crowns in fair plate.' (146) The printed scheme of this lottery is still in the possession of the Antiquarian Society of London. In 1680, a lottery was granted to supply London with water. At the end of the 17th century, the government being in want of money to carry on the war, resorted to a lottery, and L1,200,000 was set apart or _NAMED_ for the purpose. The tickets were all disposed of in less than six months, friends and enemies joining in the speculation. It was a great success; and when right-minded people murmured at the impropriety of the thing, they were told to hold their tongues, and assured that this lottery was the very queen of lotteries, and that it had just taken Namur!(147) (147) This town was captured in 1695, by William III. At the same time the Dutch gave in to the infatuation with the utmost enthusiasm; lotteries were established all over Holland; and learned professors and ministers of the gospel spoke of nothing else but the lottery to their pupils and hearers. From this time forward the spirit of gambling increased so rapidly and grew so strong in England, that in the reign of Queen Anne private lotteries had to be suppressed as public nuisances. The first _parliamentary_ lottery was instituted in 1709, and from this period till 1824 the passing of a lottery bill was in the programme of every session. Up to the close of the 18th century the prizes were generally paid in the form of terminable, and sometimes of perpetual, annuities. Loans were also raised by granting a bonus of lottery tickets to all who subscribed a certain amount. This gambling of annuities, despite the restrictions of an act passed in 1793, soon led to an appalling amount of vice and misery; and in 1808, a committee of the House of Commons urged the suppression of this ruinous mode of filling the national exchequer. The last public lottery in Great Britain was drawn in October, 1826. The lotteries exerted a most baneful influence on trade, by relaxing the sinews of industry and fostering the destructive spirit of gaming among all orders of men. Nor was that all. The stream of this evil was immensely swelled and polluted, in open defiance of the law, by a set of artful and designing men, who were ever on the watch to allure and draw in the ignorant and unwary by the various modes and artifices of '_insurance_,' which were all most flagrant and gross impositions on the public, as well as a direct violation of the law. One of the most common and notorious of these schemes was the insuring of numbers for the next day's drawing, at a _premium_ which (if legal) was much greater than adequate to the risk. Thus, in 1778, when the just premium of the lottery was only 7_s_. 6_d_., the office-keepers charged 9_s_., which was a certain gain of nearly 30 per cent.; and they aggravated the fraud as the drawing advanced. On the sixteenth day of drawing the just premium was not quite 20_s_., whereas the office-keepers charged L1 4_s_. 6_d_., which clearly shows the great disadvantage that every person laboured under who was imprudent enough to be concerned in the insurance of numbers.(148) (148) Public Ledger, Dec. 3, 1778. In every country where lotteries were in operation numbers were ruined at the close of each drawing, and of these not a few sought an oblivion of their folly ill self-murder--by the rope, the razor, or the river. A more than usual number of adventurers were said to have been ruined in the lottery of 1788, owing to the several prizes continuing long in the wheel (which gave occasion to much gambling), and also to the desperate state of certain branches of trade, caused by numerous and important bankruptcies. The suicides increased in proportion. Among them one person made herself remarkable by a thoughtful provision to prevent disappointment. A woman, who had scraped everything together to put into the lottery, and who found herself ruined at its close, fixed a rope to a beam of sufficient strength; but lest there should be any accidental failure in the beam or rope, she placed a large tub of water underneath, that she might drop into it; and near her also were two razors on a table ready to be used, if hanging or drowning should prove ineffectual. A writer of the time gives the following account of the excitement that prevailed during the drawing of the lottery:--'Indeed, whoever wishes to know what are the "blessings" of a lottery, should often visit Guildhall during the time of its drawing,--when he will see thousands of workmen, servants, clerks, apprentices, passing and repassing, with looks full of suspense and anxiety, and who are stealing at least from their master's time, if they have not many of them also robbed him of his property, in order to enable them to become adventurers. In the next place, at the end of the drawing, let our observer direct his steps to the shops of the pawnbrokers, and view, as he may, the stock, furniture, and clothes of many hundred poor families, servants, and others, who have been ruined by the lottery. If he wish for further satisfaction, let him attend at the next Old Bailey Sessions, and hear the death-warrant of many a luckless gambler in lotteries, who has been guilty of subsequent theft and forgery; or if he seek more proof, let him attend to the numerous and horrid scenes of self-murder, which are known to accompany the closing of the wheels of fortune each year:(149) and then let him determine on "the wisdom and policy" of lotteries in a commercial city.' (149) A case is mentioned of two servants who, having lost their all in lotteries, robbed their master; and in order to prevent being seized and hanged in public, murdered themselves in private. The capital prizes were so large that they excited the eagerness of hope; but the sum secured by the government was small when compared with the infinite mischief it occasioned. On opening the budget of 1788, the minister observed in the House of Commons, 'that the bargain he had this year for the lottery was so very good for the public, that it would produce a gain of L270,000, from which he would deduct L12,000 for the expenses of drawing, &c., and then there would remain a net produce of L258,000.' This result, therefore, was deemed extraordinary; but what was that to the extraordinary mischief done to the community by the authorization of excessive gambling! Some curious facts are on record relating to the lotteries. Until the year 1800 the drawing of the lottery (which usually consisted of 60,000 tickets for England alone) occupied forty-two days in succession; it was, therefore, about forty-two to one against any particular number being drawn the first day; if it remained in the wheel, it was forty-one to one against its being drawn on the second, &;c.; the adventurer, therefore, who could for eight-pence insure the return of a guinea, if a given number came up the first day, would naturally be led, if he failed, to a small increase of the deposit according to the decrease of the chance against him, until his number was drawn, or the person who took the insurance money would take it no longer. In the inquiry respecting the mendicity of London, in 1815, Mr Wakefield declared his opinion that the lottery was a cause of mendicity; and related an instance--the case of an industrious man who applied to the Committee of Spitalfields Soup Society for relief; and when, on being asked his profession, said he was a '_Translator_'--which, when _TRANSLATED_, signifies, it seems, the art of converting old boots and shoes into wearable ones; 'but the lottery is about to draw, and,' says he, 'I have no sale for boots or shoes during the time that the lottery draws'--the money of his customers being spent in the purchase of tickets, or the payment of 'insurances.' The 'translator' may have been mistaken as to the cause of his trade falling off; but there can be no doubt that the system of the lottery-drawing was a very infatuating mode of gambling, as the passion was kept alive from day to day; and though, perhaps, it did not create mendicity, yet it mainly contributed, with the gin-shops, night-cellars, obscure gambling houses, and places of amusement, to fill the _PAWNBROKERS_' shops, and diminish the profits of the worthy 'translator of old shoes.'(150) (150) This term is still in use. I recently asked one of the craft if he called himself a translator. 'Yes, sir, not of languages, but old boots and shoes,' was the reply. This reasoning, however, is very uncertain. The sixteenth of a lottery ticket, which is the smallest share that can be purchased, has not for many years been sold under thirty shillings, a sum much too large for a person who buys old shoes 'translated,' and even for the 'translator' himself, to advance; we may therefore safely conclude that the purchase of tickets is not the mode of gambling by which Crispin's customers are brought to distress. A great number of foreign lotteries still exist in vigorous operation. Some are supported by the state, and others are only authorized; most of them are flourishing. In Germany, especially, lotteries are abundant; immense properties are disposed of by this method. The 'bank' gains, of course, enormously; and, also of course, a great deal of trickery and swindling, or something like it, is perpetrated. Foreign lottery tickets are now and then illegally offered in England. A few years ago there appeared an advertisement in the papers, offering a considerable income for the payment of one or two pounds. Upon inquiry it was found to be the agency of a foreign lottery! These tempting offers of advertising speculators are a cruel addition to the miseries of misfortune. The Hamburg lottery seems to afford the most favourable representation of the system--as such--because in it all the money raised by the sale of tickets is redistributed in the drawing of the lots, with the exception of 10 per cent. deducted in expenses and otherwise; but nothing can compensate for the pernicious effects of the spirit of gambling which is fostered by lotteries, however fairly conducted. They are an unmitigated evil. In the United States lotteries were established by Congress in 1776, but, save in the Southern States, heavy penalties are now imposed on persons attempting to establish them. I need scarcely say that lotteries, whether foreign or British, are utterly forbidden by law, excepting those of Art Unions. The operations of these associations were indeed suspended in 1811; but in the following year an act indemnified those who embarked in them for losses which they had incurred by the arrest of their proceedings; and since that time they have been _TOLERATED_ under the eye of the law without any express statute being framed for their exemption. It is thought, however, that they tend to keep up the spirit of gambling, and therefore ought not to be allowed even on the specious plea of favouring 'art.' _PRIVATE_ lotteries are now illegal at Common Law in Great Britain and Ireland; and penalties are also incurred by the advertisers of _FOREIGN_ lotteries. Some years ago it became common in Scotland to dispose of merchandise by means of lotteries; but this is specially condemned in the statute 42 Geo. III. c. 119. An evasion of the law has been attempted by affixing a prize to every ticket, so as to make the transaction resemble a legal sale; but this has been punished as a fraud, even where it could be proved that the prize equalled in value the price of the ticket. The decision rested upon the plea that in such a transaction there was no definite sale of a specific article. Even the lotteries; for Twelfth Cakes, &c., are illegal, and render their conductors liable to the penalties of the law. Decisive action has been taken on this law, and the usual Christmas lotteries have been this year (1870) rigorously prohibited throughout the country. It is impossible to doubt the soundness of the policy that strives to check the spirit of gambling among the people; but still there may be some truth in the following remarks which appeared on the subject, in a leading journal:-- 'We hear that the police have received directions to caution the promoters of lotteries for the distribution of game, wine, spirits, and other articles of this description, that these schemes are illegal, and that the offenders will be prosecuted. These attempts to enforce rigidly the provisions of the 10 and 11 William III., c. 17, 42 George III., c. 119, and to check the spirit of speculation which pervades so many classes in this country may possibly be successful, but as a mere question of morality there can be no doubt that Derby lotteries, and, in fact, all speculations on the turf or Stock Exchange, are open to quite as much animadversion as the Christmas lotteries for a little pig or an aged goose, which it appears are to be suppressed in future. Is it not also questionable policy to enforce every law merely because it is a law, unless its breach is productive of serious evil to the community? If every old Act of Parliament is rummaged out and brought to bear upon us, we fear we shall find ourselves in rather an uncomfortable position. We cannot say whether or not the harm produced by these humble lotteries is sufficient to render their forcible suppression a matter of necessity. They certainly do produce an amount of indigestion which of itself must be no small penalty to pay for those whose misfortune it is to win the luxuries raffled for, but we never yet heard of any one being ruined by raffling for a pig or goose; and if our Government is going to be paternal and look after our pocket-money, we hope it will also be maternal and take some little interest in our health. The sanitary laws require putting into operation quite as much as the laws against public-house lotteries and skittles.' No 'extenuating circumstances,' however, can be admitted respecting the notorious racing lotteries, in spite of the small figure of the tickets; nay this rather aggravates the danger, being a temptation to the thoughtless multitude. One of these lotteries, called the Deptford Spec., was not long ago suppressed by the strong arm of the law; but others still exist under different names. In one of these the law is thought to be evaded by the sale of a number of photographs; in another, a chance of winning on a horse is secured by the purchase of certain numbers of a newspaper struggling into existence; but the following is, perhaps, the drollest phase of the evasion as yet attempted: 'Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding _count the number of the beast_.'--Rev., chap. xiii. 'NICKOLAS REX.--"LUCKY" BANQUETS. 'HIS SATANIC MAJESTY purposes holding a series of Banquets, Levees, and DRAWING ROOMS at Pandemonium during the ensuing autumn, to each of which about 10,000 of his faithful disciples will be invited. H. S. M. will, at those drawing-rooms and receptions, _NUMBER_ a lot of beasts, and distribute a series of REWARDS, varying in value from L100 to 10_s_. of her Britannic Majesty's money. 'Tickets One Shilling each, application for which must be made _BY LETTER_ to His S. Majesty's Chamberlain, &c. &c. The LAST _DRAWING-ROOM_ of this season will be held a few days before the Feast of the CROYDON STEEPLECHASES, &c. &c. CHAPTER XIV. THE LAWS AGAINST GAMING IN VARIOUS COUNTRIES. 1. ANCIENT ROME. In ancient Rome all games of chance, with the exception of five which had relation to bodily vigour, were absolutely prohibited in public or private. The loser could not be sued for moneys lost, and could recover what he might have paid, such right being secured to his heirs against the heirs of the winner, even after the lapse of 30 years' prescription. During 50 years after the loss, should the loser or his heirs neglect their action, it was open to any one that chose to prosecute, and chiefly to the municipal authorities, the sum recovered to be expended in that case for public purposes. No surety for the payment of money for gambling purposes was bound. The betting on lawful games was restricted to a certain amount, beyond which the loser could recover moneys paid, and could not be sued for the amount. A person in whose house gambling had taken place, if struck or injured, or if robbed on the occasion thereof, was denied redress; but offences of gamblers among themselves were punishable. Blows or injuries might be inflicted on the gambling house keeper at any time and anywhere without being penal as against any person; but theft was not exempted from punishment, unless committed at the time of gambling--and not by a gambler. Children and freedmen could recover their losses as against their parents and patrons. Cicero, in his second Philippic, speaks of a criminal process (_publicum judicium_) then in force against gamblers. The laws of ancient Rome were, therefore, very stringent on this subject, although, there can be no doubt, without much effect. 2. FRANCE. At the time of the French Revolution warlike games alone conferred the right of action, restricted, however, in cases of excessive losses; games of strength and skill generally were lawful, but were considered as not giving any right of action; games of mere chance were prohibited, but minors alone were allowed to recover moneys lost. By the present law of France no judicial action is allowed for gambling debts and wagers, except in the case of such games as depend upon bodily skill and effort, foot, horse, and chariot races, and others of the like nature: the claim may be rejected if the court considers it excessive; but moneys paid can never be recovered unless on the ground of fraud. The keepers of gaming houses, their managers or agents, are punishable with fine (100 to 6000 francs) and imprisonment (two to six months), and may be deprived of most of their civil rights. 3. PRUSSIA. By the Prussian Code all games of chance, except when licensed by the state, are prohibited. Gaming debts are not the subjects of action; but moneys paid cannot be sued for by losers. Wagers give a right of action when the stakes consist of cash in the hands of a third person; they are void if the winner had a knowledge of the event, and concealed it. Moneys lent for gambling or betting purposes, or to pay gambling or betting debts, cannot be sued for. Gaming house keepers and gamblers are punishable with fine; professed gamblers with imprisonment. Occasional cheating at play obliges to compensation; professed swindlers at play are punishable as for theft, and banished afterwards. Moneys won from a drunken man, if to a considerable amount, must be returned, and a fine paid of equal value. 4. AUSTRIA. In Austria no right of action is given either to the winner or the loser. All games of chance are prohibited except when licensed by the state. Cheating at play is punished with imprisonment, according to the amount of fraudulent gain. Playing at unlawful games, or allowing such to take place in one's house, subjects the party to a heavy fine, or in default, to imprisonment. 5. ITALY. The provisions of the Sardinian Civil Code are similar to those of the French, giving an action for moneys won at games of strength or skill--when not excessive in amount; but not allowing the recovery of moneys lost, except on the ground of fraud or _MINORITY_, a provision taken from the _OLD_ French law. 6. BAVARIA. By the Bavarian Code games of skill, and of mixed skill and chance, are not forbidden. The loser cannot refuse to pay, nor can he recover his losses, provided the sport be honestly conducted, and the stakes not excessive, having regard to the rank, character, and fortune of the parties. In cases of fraudulent and excessive gaming, and in all games of mere chance, the winner cannot claim his winnings, but must repay the loser on demand. In the two latter cases (apparently) both winner and loser are liable to a fine, equal in amount,--for the first time of conviction, to one-third of the stakes; for the second time, to two-thirds; and for the third time, to the whole: in certain cases the bank is to be confiscated. Hotel and coffee-house keepers, &c., who allow gambling on their premises, are punished for the first offence by a fine of 50 florins; for the second, with one of 100 florins; for the third, with the loss of the license. The punishment of private persons for the like offence is left to the discretion of the judge. _UNLAWFUL_ games may be _LEGALIZED_ by authority; but in such case, fraud or gross excess disables the winner from claiming moneys won, renders him liable to repayment, and subjects him to arbitrary punishment. _IMMORAL_ wagers are void; and _EXCESSIVE_ wagers are to be reduced in amount. Betting on indifferent things is not prohibited, nor even as to a known and certain thing--when there is no deception. No wager is void on account of mere disparity of odds. Professed gamblers, who also cheat at play, and their accomplices, and the setters-up and collectors of fictitious lotteries, are subject to imprisonment, with hard labour, for a term of from four to eight years. Although, therefore, cheating gamblers are liable to punishment in Bavaria, it is evident that gambling is there tolerated to the utmost extent required by the votaries of Fortune. 7. SPAIN. Wagers appear to be lawful in Spain, when not in themselves fraudulent, or relating to anything illegal or immoral. 8. ENGLAND. In England some of the forms of gambling or gaming have been absolutely forbidden under heavy penalties, whilst others have been tolerated, but at the same time discouraged; and the reasons for the prohibition were not always directed against the impropriety or iniquity of the practice in itself;--thus it was alleged in an Act passed in 1541, that for the sake of the games the people neglected to practise _ARCHERY_, through which England had become great--'to the terrible dread and fear of all strange nations.' The first of the strictly-called Gaming Acts is one of Charles II.'s reign, which was intended to check the habit of gambling so prevalent then, as before stated. By this Act it was ordered that, if any one shall play at any pastime or game, by gaming or betting with those who game, and shall lose more than one hundred pounds on credit, he shall not be bound to pay, and any contract to do so shall be void. In consequence of this Act losers of a less amount--whether less wealthy or less profligate--and the whole of the poorer classes, remained unprotected from the cheating of sharpers, for it must be presumed that nobody has a right to refuse to pay a fair gambling debt, since he would evidently be glad to receive his winnings. No doubt much misery followed through the contrivances of sharpers; still it was a salutary warning to gamesters of the poorer classes--whilst in the higher ranks the 'honour' of play was equally stringent, and, I may add, in many cases ruinous. By the recital of the Act it is evident that the object was to check and put down gaming as a business profession, 'to gain a living;' and therefore it specially mulcted the class out of which 'adventurers' in this line usually arise. The Act of Queen Anne, by its sweeping character, shows that gaming had become very virulent, for by it not only were all securities for money lost at gaming void, but money actually paid, if more than L10, might be recovered in an action at law; not only might this be done, within three months, by the loser himself, but by any one else--together with treble the value--half for himself, and half for the poor of the parish. Persons winning, by fraudulent means, L10 and upwards at any game were condemned by this Act to pay five times the amount or value of the thing won, and, moreover, they were to 'be deemed infamous, and suffer such corporal punishment as in cases of wilful perjury.' The Act went further:--if persons were suspected of getting their living by gaming, they might be summoned before a magistrate, required to show that the greater portion of their income did not depend upon gaming, and to find sureties for their good behaviour during twelve months, or be committed to gaol. There were, besides, two curious provisions;--any one assaulting or challenging another to a duel on account of disputes over gaming, should forfeit all his goods and be imprisoned for two years; secondly, the royal palaces of St James's and Whitehall were exempted from the operation of this statute, so long as the sovereign was actually resident within them--which last clause probably showed that the entire Draconian enactment was but a farce. It is quite certain that it was inoperative, and that it did no more than express the conscience of the legislature--in deference to _PRINCIPLE_, 'which nobody could deny.' After the lapse of many years--the evil being on the increase--the legislature stirred again during the reign of George II., and passed several Acts against gaming. The games of Faro, Basset, Hazard, &c., in fact, all games with dice, were proscribed under a penalty of L200 against the provider of the game, and L50 a time for the players. Roulette or Roly Poly, termed in the Act 'a certain pernicious game,' was interdicted, under the penalty of five times the value of the thing or sum lost at it. Thus stood the statute law against gaming down to the year 1845, when, in consequence of the report of the select committee which sat on the subject, a new enactment was promulgated, which is in force at the present time. It was admitted that the laws in force against gaming were 'of no avail to prevent the mischiefs which may happen therefrom;' and the lawgivers enacted a comprehensive measure on the subject. Much of the old law--for instance, the prohibition of games which interfered with the practice of _ARCHERY_--was repealed; also the Acts of Charles II., of Queen Anne, and a part of that of George II.--Gaming houses, in which a bank is kept by one or more of the players, or in which the chances of play are not alike favourable to the players--being declared unlawful, as of old. Billiards, bagatelle, or 'any game of the kind' (open, of course, to legal discussion), may be played in private houses, or in licensed houses; but still, in the case of licensed houses of public resort, the police may enter at any time to see that the law is complied with. 'Licensed for Billiards' must be legibly printed on some conspicuous place near the door and outside a licensed house. Billiards and like games may not be played in public rooms after one, and before eight, o'clock in the morning of any day, nor on Sundays, Christmas Day, Good Friday, nor on any public fast or thanksgiving. Publicans whose houses are licensed for billiards must not allow persons to play at any time when public-houses are not allowed to be open. 'In order to constitute the house a common gaming house, it is not necessary to prove that any person found playing at any game was playing for any money, wager, or stake. The police may enter the house on the report of a superintendent, and the authority of a commissioner, without the necessity of an allegation of two householders; and if any cards, dice, balls, counters, tables, or other instruments of gaming be found in the house, or about the person of any of those who shall be found therein, such discovery shall be evidence against the establishment until the contrary be made to appear. Those who shall appear as witnesses, moreover, are protected from the consequences of having been engaged in unlawful gaming.'(151) (151) Chambers's Cyclopaedia, Art. Gambling. The penalty of cheating at any game is liability to penal servitude for three years--the delinquent being proceeded against as one who obtains money under false pretences. Wagers and bets are not recoverable by law, whether from the loser or from the wager-holder; and money paid for bets may be recovered in an action 'for money received to the defendant's use.' All betting houses are gaming houses within the meaning of the Act, and the proprietors and managers of them are punishable accordingly. The existing law on the gaming of horse-racing is as follows. Bets on horse-races are illegal; and therefore are not recoverable by law. In order to prevent the nuisance which betting houses, disguised under other names, occasioned, a law was passed in 1853, forbidding the maintenance of any house, room, or other place, for betting; and by the new Metropolitan Traffic Regulation Act, now in force, any three persons found betting in the street may be fined five pounds each 'for obstructing the thoroughfare'--a very odd reason, certainly, since it is the _BETTING_ that we wish to prevent, as we will not permit it to be carried on in any house, &c. These _LEGAL_ reasons are too often sadly out of place. Any constable, however, may, without a warrant, arrest anybody he may see in the act of betting in the street. The laws relating to horse-racing have undergone curious revisions and interpretations. 'The law of George II.'s reign, declaring horse-racing to be good, as tending to promote the breed of fine horses, exempted horse-races from the list of unlawful games, provided that the sum of money run for or the value of the prize should be fifty pounds and upwards, that certain weights only might be used, and that no owner should run more than one horse for the same prize, under pain of forfeiting all horses except the first. Newmarket, and Black Hambledon in Yorkshire, are the only places licensed for races in this Act, which, however, was also construed to legalize any race at any place whatever, so long as the stakes were worth fifty pounds and upwards, and the weights were of the regulated standard. An Act passed five years afterwards removed the restrictions as to the weights, and declared that any one anywhere might start a horse-race with any weights, so long as the stakes were fifty pounds or more. The provision for the forfeiture of all horses but one belonging to one owner and running in the same race was overlooked or forgotten, and owners with perfect impunity ran their horses, as many as they pleased, in the same race. In 1839, however, informations were laid against certain owners, whose horses were claimed as forfeits; and then everybody woke up to the fact that this curious clause of the Act of George II. was still unrepealed. The Legislature interfered in behalf of the defendants, and passed an Act, repealing in their eagerness not merely the penal clauses of the Act, but the Act itself, so far as it related to horse-racing. Now, it was supposed that upon the Act of the thirteenth of George II. depended the whole legality of horse-racing, that the Act of the eighteenth of George II. was merely explanatory of that statute, which, being repealed, brought the practice again within the old law, according to which it was illegal. By a judgment of the Court of Common Pleas it was decided, however, that the words of the eighteenth of George II. were large enough to legalize all races anywhere for fifty pounds and upwards, and that the Act was not merely an explanatory one. Upon this basis rests the existing law on the subject of horse-racing. Bets, however, as before stated, on horse-races are still as illegal as they are on any of the forbidden games--that is to say, they are outside the law; the law will not lend its assistance to recover them.'(152) (152) _Ubi Supra_. The extent to which gambling has been carried on in the street by boys was shown by the following summary laid before the Committee of the House of Commons on Gaming, in 1844:-- Boys apprehended for gaming in the streets-- Convicted. Discharged. 1841.... 305.... 68.... 237 1842.... 245.... 66.... 179 1813.... 329.... 114.... 185 ---- ---- ---- 879 278 601 Only recently has any effectual check been put to this pernicious practice. It is however enacted by the New Gaming Act, that--'Every person playing or betting by way of wagering or gaming in any street, road, highway, or other open and public place to which the public have or are permitted to have access, at or with any table or instrument of gaming, or any coin, card, token, or other article used as an instrument of gaming or means of such wagering or gaming, at any game or pretended game of chance, shall be deemed a rogue and vagabond within the true intent and meaning of the recited Act, and as such may be punished under the provision of that Act.' On this provision a daily paper justly remarks:--'A statute very much needed has come into force. Persons playing or betting in the streets with coins or cards are now made amenable to the 5th George IV., c. 83, and may be committed to gaol as rogues and vagabonds. The statutes already in force against such rogues and vagabonds subject them, we believe, not only to imprisonment with hard labour, but also to corporal punishment. In any case the New Act should, if stringently administered, speedily put a stop to the too common and quite intolerable nuisance of young men and boys sprawling about the pavement, or in corners of the wharves by the waterside, and playing at "pitch-and-toss," "shove-halfpenny," "Tommy Dodd," "coddams," and other games of chance. Who has not seen that terrible etching in Hogarth's "Industry and Idleness," where the idle apprentice, instead of going devoutly to church and singing out of the same hymn-book with his master's pretty daughter, is gambling on a tombstone with a knot of dissolute boys? A watchful beadle has espied the youthful gamesters, and is preparing to administer a sounding thwack with a cane on the shoulders of Thomas Idle. But the race of London beadles is now well-nigh extinct; and the few that remain dare not use their switches on the small vagabonds, for fear of being summoned for assault. It is to be hoped that the police will be instructed to put the Act sharply in force against the pitch-and-toss players; and, in passing, we might express a wish that they would also suppress the ragged urchins who turn "cart-wheels" in the mud, and the half-naked girls who haunt the vicinity of railway stations and steamboat piers, pestering passengers to buy cigar-lights.' END OF VOL. I. 
19569	----	THE GUESTS OF HERCULES BOOKS BY C. N. and A. M. WILLIAMSON The Golden Silence The Motor Maid Lord Loveland Discovers America Set in Silver The Lightning Conductor The Princess Passes My Friend the Chauffeur Lady Betty Across the Water Rosemary in Search of a Father The Princess Virginia The Car of Destiny The Chaperon [Illustration: "MARY WAS A GODDESS ON A GOLDEN PINNACLE. THIS WAS LIFE; THE WINE OF LIFE"] The Guests of Hercules BY C. N. and A. M. WILLIAMSON ILLUSTRATED BY M. LEONE BRACKER & ARTHUR H. BUCKLAND GARDEN CITY NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1912 Copyright, 1912, by C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSON All rights reserved, including that of translation into Foreign Languages, including the Scandinavian TO THE LORD OF THE GARDEN ILLUSTRATIONS "Mary was a goddess on a golden pinnacle. This was life; the wine of life" . . . . . . . Frontispiece Mary Grant . . . . . . . . FACING PAGE 22 "'I can't promise!' she exclaimed. 'I've never wanted to marry.'" . 286 "'It was Fate brought you--to give you to me. Do you regret it?'" . 398 I THE GUESTS OF HERCULES Long shadows of late afternoon lay straight and thin across the garden path; shadows of beech trees that ranged themselves in an undeviating line, like an inner wall within the convent wall of brick; and the soaring trees were very old, as old perhaps as the convent itself, whose stone had the same soft tints of faded red and brown as the autumn leaves which sparsely jewelled the beeches' silver. A tall girl in the habit of a novice walked the path alone, moving slowly across the stripes of sunlight and shadow which inlaid the gravel with equal bars of black and reddish gold. There was a smell of autumn on the windless air, bitter yet sweet; the scent of dying leaves, and fading flowers loth to perish, of rose-berries that had usurped the place of roses, of chrysanthemums chilled by frost, of moist earth deprived of sun, and of the green moss-like film overgrowing all the trunks of the old beech trees. The novice was saying goodbye to the convent garden, and the long straight path under the wall, where every day for many years she had walked, spring and summer, autumn and winter; days of rain, days of sun, days of boisterous wind, days of white feathery snow--all the days through which she had passed, on her way from childhood to womanhood. Best of all, she had loved the garden and her favourite path in spring, when vague hopes like dreams stirred in her blood, when it seemed that she could hear the whisper of the sap in the veins of the trees, and the crisp stir of the buds as they unfolded. She wished that she could have been going out of the garden in the brightness and fragrance of spring. The young beauty of the world would have been a good omen for the happiness of her new life. The sorrowful incense of Nature in decay cast a spell of sadness over her, even of fear, lest after all she were doing a wrong thing, making a mistake which could never be amended. The spirit of the past laid a hand upon her heart. Ghosts of sweet days gone long ago beckoned her back to the land of vanished hours. The garden was the garden of the past; for here, within the high walls draped in flowering creepers and ivy old as history, past, present, and future were all as one, and had been so for many a tranquil generation of calm-faced, dark-veiled women. Suddenly a great homesickness fell upon the novice like an iron weight. She longed to rush into the house, to fling herself at Reverend Mother's feet, and cry out that she wanted to take back her decision, that she wanted everything to be as it had been before. But it was too late to change. What was done, was done. Deliberately, she had given up her home, and all the kind women who had made the place home for her, from the time when she was a child eight years old until now, when she was twenty-four. Sixteen years! It was a lifetime. Memories of her child-world before convent days were more like dreams than memories of real things that had befallen her, Mary Grant. And yet, on this her last day in the convent, recollections of the first were crystal clear, as they never had been in the years that lay between. Her father had brought her a long way, in a train. Something dreadful had happened, which had made him stop loving her. She could not guess what, for she had done nothing wrong so far as she knew: but a few days before, her nurse, a kind old woman of a comfortable fatness, had put her into a room where her father was and gently shut the door, leaving the two alone together. Mary had gone to him expecting a kiss, for he was always kind, though she did not feel that she knew him well--only a little better, perhaps, than the radiant young mother whom she seldom saw for more than five minutes at a time. But instead of kissing her as usual, he had turned upon her a look of dislike, almost of horror, which often came to her afterward, in dreams. Taking the little girl by the shoulder not ungently, but very coldly, and as if he were in a great hurry to be rid of her, he pushed rather than led her to the door. Opening it, he called the nurse, in a sharp, displeased voice. "I don't want the child," he said. "I can't have her here. Don't bring her to me again without being asked." Then the kind, fat old woman had caught Mary in her arms and carried her upstairs, a thing that had not happened for years. And in the nursery the good creature had cried over the "poor bairn" a good deal, mumbling strange things which Mary could not understand. But a few words had lingered in her memory, something about its being cruel and unjust to visit the sins of others on innocent babies. A few days afterward Mary's father, very thin and strange-looking, with hard lines in his handsome brown face, took her with him on a journey, after nurse had kissed her many times with streaming tears. At last they had got out of the train into a carriage, and driven a long way. At evening they had come to a tall, beautiful gateway, which had carved stone animals on high pillars at either side. That was the gate of the Convent of Saint Ursula-of-the-Lake, the gate of Mary's home-to-be: and in a big, bare parlour, with long windows and a polished oak floor that reflected curious white birds and dragons of an escutcheon on the ceiling, Reverend Mother had received them. She had taken Mary on her lap; and when, after much talk about school and years to come, the child's father had gone, shadowy, dark-robed women had glided softly into the room. They had crowded round the little girl, like children round a new doll, petting and murmuring over her: and she had been given cake and milk, and wonderful preserved fruit, such as she had never tasted. Some of those dear women had gone since then, not as she was going, out into an unknown, maybe disappointing, world, but to a place where happiness was certain, according to their faith. Mary had not forgotten one of the kind faces--and all those who remained she loved dearly; yet she was leaving them to-day. Already it was time. She had wished to come out into the garden alone for this last walk, and to wear the habit of her novitiate, though she had voluntarily given up the right to it forever. She must go in and dress for the world, as she had not dressed for years which seemed twice their real length. She must go in, and bid them all goodbye--Reverend Mother, and the nuns, and novices, and the schoolgirls, of whose number she had once been. She stood still, looking toward the far end of the path, her back turned toward the gray face of the convent. "Goodbye, dear old sundial, that has told so many of my hours," she said. "Goodbye, sweet rose-trees that I planted, and all the others I've loved so long. Goodbye, dear laurel bushes, that know my thoughts. Goodbye, everything." Her arms hung at her sides, lost in the folds of her veil. Slowly tears filled her eyes, but did not fall until a delicate sound of light-running feet on grass made her start, and wink the tears away. They rolled down her white cheeks in four bright drops, which she hastily dried with the back of her hand; and no more tears followed. When she was sure of herself, she turned and saw a girl running to her from the house, a pretty, brown-haired girl in a blue dress that looked very frivolous and worldly in contrast to Mary's habit. But the bushes and the sundial, and the fading flowers that tapestried the ivy on the old wall, were used to such frivolities. Generations of schoolgirls, taught and guarded by the Sisters of Saint Ursula-of-the-Lake, had played and whispered secrets along this garden path. "Dearest Mary!" exclaimed the girl in blue. "I begged them to let me come to you just for a few minutes--a last talk. Do you mind?" Mary had wanted to be alone, but suddenly she was glad that, after all, this girl was with her. "You call me 'Mary'!" she said. "How strange it seems to be Mary again--almost wrong, and--frightening." "But you're not Sister Rose any longer," the girl in blue answered. "There's nothing remote about you now. You're my dear old chum, just as you used to be. And will you please begin to be frivolous by calling me Peter?" Mary smiled, and two round dimples showed themselves in the cheeks still wet with tears. She and this girl, four years younger than herself, had begun to love each other dearly in school days, when Mary Grant was nineteen, and Mary Maxwell fifteen. They had gone on loving each other dearly till the elder Mary was twenty-one, and the younger seventeen. Then Molly Maxwell--who named herself "Peter Pan" because she hated the thought of growing up--had to go back to her home in America and "come out," to please her father, who was by birth a Scotsman, but who had made his money in New York. After three gay seasons she had begged to return for six months to school, and see her friend Mary Grant--Sister Rose--before the final vows were taken. Also she had wished to see another Mary, who had been almost equally her friend ("the three Maries" they had always been called, or "the Queen's Maries"); but the third of the three Maries had disappeared, and about her going there was a mystery which Reverend Mother did not wish to have broken. "Peter," Sister Rose echoed obediently, as the younger girl clasped her arm, making her walk slowly toward the sundial at the far end of the path. "It does sound good to hear you call me that again," Molly Maxwell said. "You've been so stiff and different since I came back and found you turned into Sister Rose. Often I've been sorry I came. And now, when I've got three months still to stay, you're going to leave me. If only you could have waited, to change your mind!" "If I had waited, I couldn't have changed it at all," Sister Rose reminded her. "You know----" "Yes, I know. It was the eleventh hour. Another week, and you would have taken your vows. Oh, I don't mean what I said, dear. I'm glad you're going--thankful. You hadn't the vocation. It would have killed you." "No. For here they make it hard for novices on purpose, so that they may know the worst there is to expect, and be sure they're strong enough in body and heart. I wasn't fit. I feared I wasn't----" "You weren't--that is, your body and heart are fitted for a different life. You'll be happy, very happy." "I wonder?" Mary said, in a whisper. "Of course you will. You'll tell me so when we meet again, out in my world that will be your world, too. I wish I were going with you now, and I could, of course. Only I had to beg the pater so hard to let me come here, I'd be ashamed to cable him, that I wanted to get away before the six months were up. He wouldn't understand how different everything is because I'm going to lose you." "In a way, you would have lost me if--if I'd stayed, and--everything had been as I expected." "I know. They've let you be with me more as a novice than you could be as a professed nun. Still, you'd have been under the same roof. I could have seen you often. But I _am_ glad. I'm not thinking of myself. And we'll meet just as soon as we can, when my time's up here. Father's coming back to his dear native Fifeshire to fetch me, and I'll make him take me to you, wherever you are, or else you'll visit me; better still. But it seems a long time to wait, for I really _did_ come back here to be a 'parlour boarder,' a heap more to see you than for any other reason. And, besides, there's another thing. Only I hardly know how to say it, or whether I dare say it at all." Sister Rose looked suddenly anxious, as if she were afraid of something that might follow. "What is it?" she asked quickly, almost sharply. "You must tell me." "Why, it's nothing to _tell_--exactly. It's only this: I'm worried. I'm glad you're not going to be a nun all your life, dear; delighted--enchanted. You're given back to me. But--I worry because I can't help feeling that I've got something to do with the changing of your mind so suddenly; that if ever you should regret anything--not that you will, but if you should--you might blame me, hate me, perhaps." "I never shall do either, whatever happens," the novice said, earnestly and gravely. She did not look at her friend as she spoke, though they were so nearly of the same height as they walked, their arms linked together, that they could gaze straight into one another's eyes. Instead, she looked up at the sky, through the groined gray ceiling of tree-branches, as if offering a vow. And seeing her uplifted profile with its pure features and clear curve of dark lashes, Peter thought how beautiful she was, of a beauty quite unearthly, and perhaps unsuited to the world. With a pang, she wondered if such a girl would not have been safer forever in the convent where she had lived most of her years. And though she herself was four years younger, she felt old and mature, and terribly wise compared with Sister Rose. An awful sense of responsibility was upon her. She was afraid of it. Her pretty blond face, with its bright and shrewd gray eyes, looked almost drawn, and lost the fresh colour that made the little golden freckles charming as the dust of flower-pollen on her rounded cheeks. "But I _have_ got something to do with it, haven't I?" she persisted, longing for contradiction, yet certain that it would not come. "I hardly know--to be quite honest," Mary answered. "I don't know what I might have done if you hadn't come back and told me things about your life, and all your travels with your father--things that made me tingle. Maybe I should never have had the courage without that incentive. But, Peter, I'll tell you something I couldn't have told you till to-day. Since the very beginning of my novitiate I was never happy, never at rest." "Truly? You wanted to go, even then, for two whole years?" "I don't know what I wanted. But suddenly all the sweet calm was broken. You've often looked out from the dormitory windows over the lake, and seen how a wind springing up in an instant ruffles the clear surface. It's just like a mirror broken into a thousand tiny fragments. Well, it was so with me, with my spirit. And after all these years, when I'd been so contented, so happy that I couldn't even bear, as a schoolgirl, to go away for two or three days to visit Lady MacMillan in the holidays, without nearly dying of homesickness before I could be brought back! As a postulant I was just as happy, too. You know, I wouldn't go out into the world to try my resolve, as Reverend Mother advised. I was so sure there could be no home for me but this. Then came the change. Oh, Peter, I hope it wasn't the legacy! I pray I'm not so mean as that!" "How long was it after your novitiate began that the money was left you?" Peter asked: for this was the first intimate talk alone and undisturbed that she had had with her old school friend since coming back to the convent three months ago. She knew vaguely that a cousin of Mary's dead father had left the novice money, and that it had been unexpected, as the lady was not a Roman Catholic, and had relations just as near, of her own religion. But Peter did not quite know when the news had come, or what had happened then. "It was the very next day. That was odd, wasn't it? Though I don't know, exactly, why it should have seemed odd. It had to happen on some day. Why not that one? I was glad I should have a good dowry--quite proud to be of some use to the convent. I didn't think what I might have done for myself, if I'd been in the world--not then. But afterward, thoughts crept into my head. I used to push them out again as fast as they crawled in, and I told myself what a good thing I had a safe refuge, remembering my father, what he wrote about himself, and my mother." For a moment she was silent. There was no need to explain, for Peter knew all about the terrible letter that had come from India with the news of Major Grant's death. It had arrived before Mary resolved to take vows, while she was still a fellow schoolgirl of Peter's, older than most of the girls, looked up to and adored, and probably it had done more than anything else to decide her that she had a "vocation." Mary had told about the letter at the time, with stormy tears: how her father in dying wrote down the story of the past, as a warning to his daughter, whom he had not loved; told the girl that her mother had run away with one of his brother officers; that he, springing from a family of reckless gamblers, had himself become a gambler; that he had thrown away most of his money; and that his last words to Mary were, "You have wild blood in your veins. Be careful: don't let it ruin your life, as two other lives have been ruined before you." "Then," Mary went on, while Peter waited, "for a few weeks, or a few days, I would be more peaceful. But the restlessness always came again. And, after the end of the first year, it grew worse. I was never happy for more than a few hours together. Still I meant to fight till the end. I never thought seriously of giving it up." "Until after I came?" Peter broke in. "Oh, I was happier for a while after you came. You took my mind off myself." "And turned it to _my_self, or, rather, to the world I lived in. I'm glad, yes, I'm glad, I was in time, and yet--oh, Mary, you _won't_ go to Monte Carlo, will you?" Mary stopped short in her walk, and turned to face Peter. "Why do you say that?" she asked, sharply. "What can make you think of Monte Carlo?" "Only, you seemed so interested in hearing me tell about staying with father at Stellamare, my cousin's house. You asked me such a lot of questions about it and about the Casino, more than about any other place, even Rome. And you looked excited when I told you. Your cheeks grew red. I noticed then, but it didn't matter, because you were going to live here always, and be a nun. Now----" "Now what does it matter?" the novice asked, almost defiantly. "Why should it occur to me to go to Monte Carlo?" "Only because you were interested, and perhaps I may have made the Riviera seem even more beautiful and amusing than it really is. And besides--if it should be true, what your father was afraid of----" "What?" "That you inherit his love of gambling. Oh, I couldn't bear it, darling, to think I had sent you to Monte Carlo." "He didn't know enough about me to know whether I inherited anything from him or not. I hardly understand what gambling means, except what you've told me. It's only a word like a bird of ill omen. And what you said about the play at the Casino didn't interest me as other things did. It didn't sound attractive at all." "It's different when you're there," Peter said. "I don't think it would be for me. I'm almost sure I'm not like that--if I can be sure of anything about myself. Perhaps I can't! But you described the place as if it were a sort of paradise--and all the Riviera. You said you would go back in the spring with your father. You didn't seem to think it wicked and dangerous for yourself." "Monte Carlo isn't any more wicked than other places, and it's dangerous only for born gamblers," Peter argued. "I'm not one. Neither is my father, except in Wall Street. He plays a little for fun, that's all. And my cousin Jim Schuyler never goes near the Casino except for a concert or the opera. But _you_--all alone there--you who know no more of life than a baby! It doesn't bear thinking of." "Don't think of it," said Mary, rather dryly. "I have no idea of going to Monte Carlo." "Thank goodness! Well, I only wanted to be sure. I couldn't help worrying. Because, if anything had drawn you there, it would have been my fault. You would hardly have heard of Monte Carlo if it hadn't been for my stories. A cloistered saint like you!" "Is that the way you think of me in these days?" The novice blushed and smiled, showing her friendly dimples. "I wish I felt a saint." "You are one. And yet"--Peter gazed at her with sudden keenness--"I don't believe you were _made_ to be a saint. It's the years here that have moulded you into what you are. But, there's something different underneath." "Nothing very bad, I hope?" Mary looked actually frightened, as if she did not know herself, and feared an unfavourable opinion, which might be true. "No, indeed. But different--quite a different _You_ from what any of us, even yourself, have ever seen. It will come out. Life will bring it out." "You talk," said Mary, "as if you were older than I." "So I am, in every way except years, and they count least. Oh, Mary, how I do wish I were going with you!" "So do I. And yet perhaps it will be good for me to begin alone." "You won't be alone." "No. Of course, there will be Lady MacMillan taking me to London. And afterward there'll be my aunt and cousin. But I've never seen them since I was too tiny to remember them at all, except that my cousin Elinor had a lovely big doll she wouldn't let me touch. It's the same as being alone, going to them. I shall have to get acquainted with them and the world at the same time." "Are you terrified?" "A little. Oh, a good deal! I think now, at the last moment, I'd take everything back, and stay, if I could." "No, you wouldn't, if you had the choice, and you saw the gates closing on you--forever. You'd run out." "I don't know. Perhaps. But how I shall miss them all! Reverend Mother, and the sisters, and you, and the garden, and looking out over the lake far away to the mountains." "But there'll be other mountains." "Yes, other mountains." "Think of the mountains of Italy." "Oh, I do. When the waves of regret and homesickness come I cheer myself with thoughts of Italy. Ever since I can remember, I've wanted Italy; ever since I began to study history and look at maps, and even to read the lives of the saints, I've cared more about Italy than any other country. When I expected to spend all my life in a convent, I used to think that maybe I could go to the mother-house in Italy for a while some day. You can't realize, Peter--you, who have lived in warm countries--how I've pined for warmth. I've _never_ been warm enough, never in my life, for more than a few hours together. Even in summer it's never really hot here, never hot with the glorious burning heat of the sun that I long to feel. How I do want to be warm, all through my veins. I've wanted it always. Even at the most sacred hours, when I ought to have forgotten that I had a body, I've shivered and yearned to be warm--warm to the heart. I shall go to Italy and bask in the sun." "Marie used to say that, too, that she wanted to be warm," Peter murmured in an odd, hesitating, shamefaced way. And she looked at the novice intently, as she had looked before. Mary's white cheeks were faintly stained with rose, and her eyes dilated. Peter had never seen quite the same expression on her face, or heard quite the same ring in her voice. The girl felt that the different, unknown self she had spoken of was beginning already to waken and stir in the nun's soul. "Marie!" Sister Rose repeated. "It's odd you should have spoken of Marie. I've been thinking about her lately. I can't get her out of my head. And I've dreamed of seeing her--meeting her unexpectedly somewhere." "Perhaps she's been thinking of you, wherever she is, and you feel her mind calling to yours. I believe in such things, don't you?" "I never thought much about them before, I suppose because I've had so few people outside who were likely to think of me. No one but you. Or perhaps Marie, if she ever does think of old times. I wish I could meet her, not in dreams, but really." "Queerer things have happened. And if you're going to travel you can't tell but you may run across each other," said Peter. "I've sometimes caught myself wondering whether I should see her in New York, for there it's like London and Monte Carlo--the most unexpected people are always turning up." "Is Monte Carlo like that?" Mary asked, with the quick, only half-veiled curiosity which Peter had noticed in her before when relating her own adventures on the Riviera. "Yes. More than any other place I've ever been to in the world. Every one comes--anything can happen--there. But I don't want to talk about Monte Carlo. You really wouldn't find it half as interesting as your beloved Italy. And I shouldn't like to think of poor Marie drifting there, either--Marie as she must be now." "I used to hope," Mary said, "that she might come back here, after everything turned out so dreadfully for her, and that she'd decide to take the vows with me. Reverend Mother would have welcomed her gladly, in spite of all. She loved Marie. So did the sisters; and though none of them ever talk about her--at least, to me--I feel sure they haven't forgotten, or stopped praying for her." "Do you suppose they guess that we found out what really happened to Marie, after she ran away?" Peter wanted to know. "I hardly think so. You see, we couldn't have found out if it hadn't been for Janet Churchill, the one girl in school who didn't live in the convent. And Janet wasn't a bit the sort they would expect to know such things." "Or about anything else. Her stolidity was a very useful pose. You'd find it a useful one, too, darling, 'out in the world,' as you call it; but you'll never be clever in that way, I'm afraid." "In what way?" "In hiding things you feel. Or in not feeling things that are uncomfortable to feel." "Don't frighten me!" Mary exclaimed. They had walked to the end of the path, and were standing by the sundial. She turned abruptly, and looked with a certain eagerness toward the far-off façade of the convent, with its many windows. On the leaded panes of those in the west wing the sun still lingered, and struck out glints as of rubies in a gold setting. All the other windows were in shadow now. "We must go in," Mary said. "Lady MacMillan will be coming soon, and I have lots to do before I start." "What have you to do, except to dress?" "Oh!--to say goodbye to them all. And it seems as if I could never finish saying goodbye." Peter did not meet her friend again after they had gone into the house until Mary had laid away the habit of Sister Rose the novice and put on the simple gray travelling frock in which Mary Grant was to go "out into the world." Peter had been extremely curious to see her in this, for it was three years ago and more since she had last had a sight of Mary in "worldly dress." That was on the day when Molly Maxwell had left the convent as a schoolgirl, to go back to America with her father; and almost immediately Mary Grant had given up such garments, as she thought forever, in becoming a postulant. Not since then had Peter seen Mary's hair, which by this time would have been cut close to her head if she had not suddenly discovered, just in time, that she had "lost her vocation." Mary had beautiful hair. All the girls in school had admired it. Peter had hated to think of its being cut off; and lately, since the sudden change in Mary's mind, the American girl had wondered if the peculiar, silvery blond had darkened. It would be a pity if it had, for her hair had been one of Mary's chief beauties, and if it had changed she would not be as lovely as of old, particularly as she had lost the brilliant bloom of colour she had had as a schoolgirl, her cheeks becoming white instead of pink roses. It seemed to Peter that she could not remember exactly what Mary had been like, in those first days, for the novice's habit had changed her so strangely, seeming to chill her warm humanity, turning a lovely, glowing young girl into a beautiful marble saint. But under the marble, warm blood had been flowing, and a hot, rebellious heart throbbing, after all. Peter delighted in knowing that this was true, though she was anxious about the statue coming to life and walking out of its sheltered niche. When she was called to say goodbye formally, with other friends who had loved Mary as schoolgirl and novice, Peter's own heart was beating fast. The instant she caught sight of the tall, slight, youthful-looking figure in gray, the three years fell away like a crumbling wall, and gave back the days of the "three Maries." No, the silvery blond hair had not faded or lost its sparkle. Mary Grant, in her short gray skirt and coat, with her lovely hair in an awkwardly done clump at the nape of a slender neck, looked a mere schoolgirl. She was twenty-four, and nearing her twenty-fifth birthday. Of late, she had had anxieties and vigils, and the life of a novice of Saint Ursula-of-the-Lake was not lived on down or roses: but the tranquil years of simple food, of water-drinking, of garden-work, of quiet thinking and praying had passed over her like the years in dreams, which last no longer than moments. They had left her a child, with a child's soft curves and a child's rose-leaf skin. Yet she looked to Peter very human now, and no saint. Her large eyes, of that golden gray rimmed with violet, called hazel, seemed to be asking, "What is life?" [Illustration: MARY GRANT] Peter thought her intensely pathetic; and somehow the fact that new shoes had been forgotten, and that Mary still wore the stubby, square-toed abominations of her novitiate, made her piteous in her friend's eyes. The American girl hotly repented not writing to her father in New York and telling him that she must leave the convent with Mary Grant. Probably he would not have consented, but she might have found some way of persuading him to change his mind. Or she could have gone without his consent, and made him forgive her afterward. Even now she might go; but dimly and sadly she felt that Mary did not really wish for her superior knowledge of the world to lean upon; Mary longed to find out things for herself. Peter did not sleep well that night, and when she did sleep she dreamed a startling dream of Mary at Monte Carlo. "She'll go there!" the girl said to herself, waking. "I know she'll go. I don't know why I know it, but I do." Trying to doze again, she lay with closed eyes; and a procession of strange, unwished-for thoughts busily pushed sleep away from her brain. She seemed to see people hurrying from many different parts of the world, with their minds all bent on the same thing: getting to Monte Carlo as soon as possible. She saw these people, good and bad, mingling their lives with Mary's life; and she saw the Fates, like Macbeth's witches, laughing and pulling the strings which controlled these people's actions toward Mary, hers toward them, as if they were all marionettes. II Lady MacMillan of Linlochtry Castle, who was a devout Catholic, came often from her place in the neighbourhood to see her half-sister, Mother Superior at the Convent of St. Ursula-of-the-Lake. Mary Grant's only knowledge of the world outside the convent had been given her by Lady MacMillan, with whom when a schoolgirl she had sometimes spent a few days, and might have stopped longer if she had not invariably been seized by pangs of homesickness. Lady MacMillan's household, to be sure, did not afford many facilities for forming an opinion of the world at large, though a number of carefully selected young people had been entertained for Mary's benefit. Its mistress was an elderly widow, and had been elderly when the child saw her first: but occasionally, before she became a postulant, Mary had been taken to Perth to help Lady MacMillan do a little shopping; and once she had actually stayed from Saturday to Tuesday at Aberdeen, where she had been to the theatre. This was a memorable event; and the sisters at the convent had never tired of hearing the fortunate girl describe her exciting experiences, for theirs was an enclosed order, and it was years since most of them had been outside the convent gates. Lady MacMillan was a large, very absent-minded and extremely near-sighted lady, like her half-sister, Mary's adored Reverend Mother; but neither so warm-hearted nor so intelligent. Still, Mary was used to this old friend, and fond of her as well. It was not like going away irrevocably from all she knew and loved, to be going under Lady MacMillan's wing. Still, she went weeping, wondering how she had ever made up her mind to the step, half passionately grateful to Reverend Mother for not being angry with her weakness and lack of faith, half regretful that some one in authority had not thought it right to hold her forcibly back. There was no railway station within ten miles of the old convent by the lake. Lady MacMillan came from her little square box of a castle still farther away, in the old-fashioned carriage which she called a "barouche," drawn by two satin-smooth, fat animals, more like tightly covered yet comfortable brown sofas than horses. It was a great excitement for Lady MacMillan to be going to London, and a great exertion, but she did not grudge trouble for Mary Grant. Not that she approved of the girl's leaving the convent. It was Reverend Mother who had to persuade her half-sister that, if Mary had not the vocation, it was far better that she should read her own heart in time, and that the girl was taking with her the blessings and prayers of all those who had once hoped to keep their dear one with them forever. Still it was the greatest sensation the convent had known, that Mary should be going; and Reverend Mother would not let her half-sister even mention, in that connection, the name of the other Mary--or Marie--Grant, who also had gone away sensationally. The eldest of the "three Maries," the three prettiest, most remarkable girls in the convent school, had left mysteriously, in a black cloud of disgrace. She had run off to join a lover who had turned out to be a married man, unable to make her his wife, even if he wished; and sad, vague tidings of the girl had drifted back to the convent since, as spray from the sea is blown a long way on the wind. Reverend Mother would not hear Lady MacMillan say, "Strange that the two Mary Grants should be the only young women to leave you, except in the ordinary way," the ordinary way being the end of school days for a girl, or the end of life for a nun. "I want dear Mary to be happy in the manner that's best for her," answered the good woman, whose outlook was very wide, though her orbit was limited, "If it had been best for Mary to stay with us, she would have stayed; or else some day, when she has learned enough to know that the world can be disappointing, she will return. If that day ever comes, she'll have a warm welcome, and it will be a great joy to us all; but the next best thing will be hearing that she is happy in her new life; and she promises to write often." Then the clever lady proceeded to ask advice about Mary's wardrobe. Should the girl do such shopping as she must do in Aberdeen, or should she wait and trust to the taste of Mrs. Home-Davis, the widowed aunt in London, who had agreed to take charge of her? The question had fired Lady MacMillan to excitement, as Reverend Mother knew it would. Lady MacMillan believed that she had taste in dress. She was entirely mistaken in this idea; but that was not the point. Nothing so entranced her as to give advice, and the picture of an unknown aunt choosing clothes for Mary was unbearable. She made up her mind at once that she would escort her young friend to London, and stay long enough at some quiet hotel in Cromwell Road to see Mary "settled." Mrs. Home-Davis lived in Cromwell Road; and it was an extra incentive to Lady MacMillan that she would not be too far from the Oratory. It was evening when the two arrived at King's Cross Station, after the longest journey Mary had ever made. There was a black fog, cold and heavy as a dripping fur coat. Out of its folds loomed motor-omnibuses, monstrous mechanical demons such as Mary had never seen nor pictured. The noise and rush of traffic stunned her into silence, as she drove with her old friend in a four-wheeled cab toward Cromwell Road. There, she imagined, would be peace and quiet; but not so. They stopped before a house, past which a wild storm of motor-omnibuses and vans and taxicabs and private cars swept ceaselessly in two directions. It seemed impossible to Mary that people could live in such a place. She was supposed to stay for a month or two in London, and then, if she still wished to see Italy, her aunt and cousin would make it convenient to go with her. But, before the dark green door behind Corinthian pillars had opened, the girl was resolving to hurry out of London somehow, anyhow, with or without her relatives. She decided this with the singular, silent intensity of purpose that she did not even know to be characteristic of herself, though it had carried her through a severe ordeal at the convent; for Mary had never yet studied her own emotions or her own nature. The instant that the Home-Davises, mother and daughter, greeted her in their chilly drawing-room, she lost all doubt as to whether she should leave London with or without them. It would be without them that she must go. How she was to contrive this, the girl did not know in the least, but she knew that the thing would have to be done. She could not see Italy in the company of these women. Suddenly Mary remembered them both quite well, though they had not met since a visit the mother and daughter had made to Scotland when she was seven years old, before convent days. She recalled her aunt's way of holding out a hand, like an offering of cold fish. And she remembered how the daughter was patterned after the mother: large, light eyes, long features of the horse type, prominent teeth, thin, consciously virtuous-looking figure, and all the rest. They had the sort of drawing-room that such women might be expected to have, of the coldest grays and greens, with no individuality of decoration. The whole house was the same, cheerless and depressing even to those familiar with London in a November fog, but blighting to one who knew not London in any weather. Even the servants seemed cold, mechanical creatures, made of well-oiled steel or iron; and when Lady MacMillan had driven off to a hotel, Mary cried heartily in her own bleak room, with motor-omnibuses roaring and snorting under her windows. At dinner, which was more or less cold, like everything else, there was talk of the cousin who had left Mary a legacy of fifty thousand pounds; and it was easy to divine in tone, if not in words, that the Home-Davises felt deeply aggrieved because the money had not come to them. This cousin had lived in the Cromwell Road house during the last invalid years of her life, and had given them to understand that Elinor was to have almost, if not quite, everything. The poor lady had died, it seemed, in the room which Mary now occupied, probably in the same bed. Mary deeply pitied her if she had been long in dying. The wall-paper was atrocious, with a thousand hideous faces to be worried out of it by tired eyes. The girl had wondered why the money had been left entirely to her, but now she guessed in a flash why the Home-Davises had had none of it. The years in this Cromwell house had been too long. "We've always imagined that Cousin Katherine must have been in love with your father, Uncle Basil, before he married," said Elinor, when they had reached the heavy stage of sweet pudding; "and when the will was read, we were sure of it. For, of course, mother was just as nearly related to her as uncle Basil was." It was difficult for Mary to realize that this Aunt Sara could be a sister of the handsome, dark-faced man with burning eyes whose features had remained cameo-clear in her memory since childhood. But Mrs. Home-Davis was the ugly duckling of a handsome and brilliant family, an accident of fate which had embittered her youth, and indirectly her daughter's. "How shall I get away from them?" Mary asked herself, desperately, that night. But fate was fighting for her in the form of a man she had never seen, a man not even in London at the moment. In a room below Mary's Elinor was asking Mrs. Home-Davis how they could get rid of the convent cousin. "She won't do," the young woman said. "She reminds me of her mother," remarked Mrs. Home-Davis. "I thought she would grow up like that." "Yet there's a look in her eyes of Uncle Basil," Elinor amended, brushing straight hair of a nondescript brown, which she admired because it was long. "With such a combination of qualities as she'll probably develop, she'd much better have stayed in her convent," the elder woman went on. "I wish to goodness she had," snapped Elinor. "You are--er--thinking of Doctor Smythe, dear?" "Ye-es--partly," the younger admitted, reluctantly; for there was humiliation to her vanity in the admission. "Not that Arthur'd care for that type of girl, particularly, or that he'd be disloyal to me--if he were let alone. But you can see for yourself, mother--_is_ she the kind that will let men alone? At dinner she made eyes even at the footman. I was watching her." "She can't have met any men, unless at that old Scotchwoman's house," replied Mrs. Home-Davis. "Perhaps even their Romish consciences would have forced them to show her a few, before she took her vows--Catholic young men, of course." "Perhaps one of them decided her to break the vows." "She hasn't really broken them, you know, Elinor. We must be just." "Well, anyhow, she hasn't the air of an engaged person. And if she's here when Arthur gets back to London, I feel in my bones, mother, there'll be ructions." "Arthur" was Doctor Smythe, a man not very young, whom Elinor Home-Davis had known for some time; but it was only lately that she had begun to hope he might ask her to marry him. She valued him, for he was the one man she had ever succeeded in attracting seriously, and though she knew he would not think of proposing if she had not some money which would be helpful in his career, she was eager to accept him. Had she realized sooner that there was a chance with Arthur Smythe, she would not have let her mother make that promise concerning Italy, for she could not be left alone in London all winter. Arthur Smythe would think that too strange; yet now she would not go out of England for anything. He was in Paris attending a medical congress, and planned afterward to visit the châteaux country with a friend; but he would be back in two or three weeks. Now that Elinor had seen Mary, she felt that changes must be made quickly. In other circumstances, it would have been pleasant to loiter about Italy, stopping at the best hotels at Mary's expense, on money that ought to have been the Home-Davises; but as it was, Elinor could think of nothing better to do than to send Mary off by herself, in a hurry. Or, as Mrs. Home-Davis said, "some one suitable" might be travelling at the right time, and they could perhaps find an excuse for stopping at home themselves. "You can be ill, if necessary," suggested Elinor. "Yes, I can be ill, if necessary--or you can," replied her mother. Mary had not known that there could be such noise in the world as the noise of London. She did not sleep that night; and the fog was blacker than ever in the morning. Shopping had to be put off for three days; and then Lady MacMillan was too near-sighted and too absent-minded to be of much use. She was telegraphed for from her box of a castle, at the end of the week, because her housekeeper was ailing--an old woman who was almost as much friend as servant. Mary would have given anything to return with her, even if to go back must mean retiring into the convent forever; but the gate of the past had gently shut behind her. She could not knock upon it for admittance, at least not until she had walked farther along the path of the future. When Lady MacMillan had gone, Mrs. Home-Davis and Elinor showed no interest in the convent cousin. They went about their own concerns as if she did not exist, leaving her to go about hers, if she chose. They were both interested, they explained, in the Suffragist movement; also they had charities to look after. There was no time to bother with Mary's shopping, but of course she could have their maid, Jennings, to go out with: in fact, she must not attempt to go alone. Consequently, Mary bought only necessaries, in the big, confusing shops that glared white in the foggy twilight, for Jennings as a companion was more depressing than the cold. She was middle-aged, very pinched and respectable in appearance, with a red nose, always damp at the end; and she disapproved of lace and ribbons on underclothing. Mrs. Home-Davis and Miss Elinor would never think of buying such things as Miss Grant admired. Jennings would have pioneered Miss Grant to the British and South Kensington museums if Miss Grant had wished to go, but Mary had no appetite for museums in the dark and forbidding November, which was the worst that London had known for years. Her aunt never suggested a theatre, or the opera, or anything which Mary was likely to find amusing, for a plan decided upon with Elinor was being faithfully carried out. The convent cousin was to be disgusted with Cromwell Road, and bored with London, so that she might be ready to snatch at the first excuse to get away. And once away, Mrs. Home-Davis promised Elinor to find some pretext for refusing to receive her back again. The plan succeeded perfectly, though, had the ladies but guessed, no complicated manoeuvres would have been necessary, Mary having determined upon escape in the moment of arrival. She was shut up in her room for a few days with a cold, after she had been a week in Cromwell Road, and when she was let out, after all danger of infection for her relatives had passed, she dared to propose Italy as a cure for herself. "I know you have important engagements," Mary said, hastily, "and of course you couldn't go with me at such short notice; but I don't feel as if I could wait. I may be ill on your hands. I feel as if I should be, unless I run away where it's warm and bright." Mrs. Home-Davis, much as she wanted to take the girl at her word, could not resist retorting: "It's not very bright and warm in Scotland at this time of year, yet you don't seem to have been ill there." Mary could have replied that in the convent she had had the warmth and brightness of love, but she merely mumbled that she had often taken cold in the autumn. "It will be impossible for us to leave home at present," her aunt went on. "If you're determined to go, I must get you some one to travel with, or you must have an elderly maid-companion. Perhaps that would be best. One can't always find friends travelling at the time they're wanted." "Mary isn't such a baby that she ought to need looking after," said Elinor. "She's nearly twenty-five--as old as I am--and you don't mind my going to Exeter alone." Elinor was twenty-eight. When she was a child she had assumed airs of superiority on the strength of her age, Mary remembered, but now she and her cousin seemed suddenly to match their years. Mary was glad of this, however, and bolstered Elinor's argument by admitting her own maturity. "I don't want a companion-maid, please," she said, with the mingling of meekness and violent resolution which had ended her novitiate. "It will be better for my Italian, to get one in Italy. I shall be safe alone till I arrive. You see, Reverend Mother has given me a letter to the Superior in the mother-house, and other letters, too. I shall have friends in Florence and Rome, and lots of places." "But it wouldn't look well for you to travel alone," Mrs. Home-Davis objected. "Nobody will be looking at me. Nobody will know who I am," Mary argued. Then, desperately, "Rather than you should find me a companion, Aunt Sara, I won't go to Italy at all. I----" She could have chosen no more efficacious threat; though if she had been allowed to finish her sentence, she would have added, "I'll go back to Scotland to Lady MacMillan's, or stay in the convent." Thus the sting would have lost its venom for the Home-Davises, but Elinor, fearing disaster, cut the sentence short. "Oh, for mercy's sake, mother, let Mary have her own way," she broke in. "You can see she means to in the end, so why disturb yourself? Nothing can happen to her." Elinor's eyes anxiously recalled to her mother a letter that had come from Doctor Smythe that morning announcing his return at the end of the week. It was providential that Mary should have proposed going, as it would have been awkward otherwise to get her out of the house in time; and Elinor was anxious that she should be taken at her word. "It's more of appearances than danger that I'm thinking," Mrs. Home-Davis explained, retiring slowly, face to the enemy, yet with no real desire to win the battle. "Perhaps if I write Mrs. Larkin in Florence--a nice, responsible woman--to find a family for you to stay with, it may do. Only in that case, you mustn't stop before you get to Florence. I'll buy your ticket straight through, by the Mont Cenis." "No, please," Mary protested, mildly. "Not that way. I've set my heart on going along the Riviera, not to stop anywhere, but to see the coast from the train. It must be so lovely: and after this blackness to see the blue Mediterranean, and the flowers, and oranges, and the red rocks that run out into the sea; it's a dream of joy to think of it. I've a friend who has been twice with her father. She told me so much about the Riviera. It can't be much farther than the other way." So it was settled, after some perfunctory objections on the part of Mrs. Home-Davis, who wished it put on record that she had been overruled by Mary's obstinacy. If undesirable incidents should happen, she wanted to say, "Mary _would_ go by herself, without waiting for me. She's of age, and I couldn't coerce her." III Mary felt like an escaped prisoner as the train began to move out of Victoria Station--the train which was taking her toward France and Italy. It was like passing through a great gray gate, labeled "This way to warmth and sunshine and beauty." Already, though the gate itself was not beautiful, Mary seemed to see through it, far ahead, vistas of lovely places to which it opened. She sat calmly, as the moving carriage rescued her from Aunt Sara and Elinor on the platform, but her hands were locked tightly inside the five-year-old squirrel muff, which would have been given away, with everything of hers, if Sister Rose had not changed a certain decision at the eleventh hour. She was quivering with excitement and the wild sense of freedom which she had not tasted in London. In leaving the convent she had not felt this sense of escaping, for the convent had been "home," the goodbyes had drowned her in grief, and she had often before driven off with Lady MacMillan, in the springy barouche behind the fat horses. Even the journey to London had not given her the thrill she hoped for, as rain had fallen heavily, blotting out the landscape. Besides, she had even then regarded her stay in London with the Home-Davises only as a stage on the journey which was eventually to lead her into warmth and sunlight. This train, with the foreign-looking people who rushed about chattering French and German, Italian and Arabic on the platform and in the corridors, seemed to link London mysteriously with other lands. Even the strong, active porters, who sprang at huge trunks piled on cabs, and carried them off to the weighing-room, were different from other porters, more important, part of a great scheme, and their actions added to her excitement. She liked the way that an alert guard put her into her compartment, as if he were posting a letter in a hurry, and had others to post. Then the great and sudden bustle of the train going out made her heart beat. Mary had been brought to the station early, for Elinor had been nervous lest she might miss the train, and Doctor Smythe was coming at four o'clock that afternoon. But others who were to share the compartment were late. It was violently exciting to have them dash in at the last moment, and dispose of bags and thick rugs in straps to be used on the Channel. They were two, mother and daughter perhaps; a delicate birdlike girl and a plump middle-aged woman with an air of extreme self-satisfaction. In themselves they did not appear interesting, but Mary was interested, and wondered where they were going. When they took out fashion-papers and sixpenny novels, however, she felt that they were no longer worth attention. How could they read, when they were saying goodbye to England, and when each minute the windows framed charming pictures of skimming Kentish landscape? The strangely shaped oast-houses puzzled Mary. She longed to ask what they were, but the woman and the girl seemed absorbed in their books and papers. Mary thought they must be dull and stupid; but suddenly it came to her that to many people, these among others, maybe, this journey was a commonplace, everyday affair. Even going to France or Italy might not be to them a high adventure. Extraordinary to reflect that all over the world men and women were travelling, going to wonderful new places, seeing wonderful new things, and taking it as a matter of course! She had never seen the sea; and when the billowing fields and neat hedges changed to chalky downs, a sudden whiff of salt on the air blowing through a half-open window made her heart leap. She nearly cried, "The sea!" but controlled herself because of her prim fellow-passengers. Mary would have been surprised if she had known their real feelings toward her, which were not as remote as she supposed. She looked, they both thought, like a schoolgirl going abroad for her Christmas holidays, only it was early for holidays: but if she were a schoolgirl it was strange that she should be travelling alone. Her furs were old-fashioned and inexpensive, her gray tweed dress plain and without style, her hat had a home-made air, but from under the short skirt peeped smart patent-leather shoes with silver buckles and pointed toes, and there was a glimpse of silk stockings thin as a mere polished film. A schoolgirl would not be allowed to have such shoes and stockings, which, in any case, were most unsuited to travelling. (Poor Mary had not known this, in replacing the convent abominations which had struck Peter as pathetic; and Mrs. Home-Davis had not troubled to tell her); nor would a schoolgirl be likely to have delicate gray suède gloves, with many buttons, or a lace handkerchief like a morsel of seafoam. These oddities in Mary's toilet, due to her inexperience and untutored shopping, puzzled her companions; and often, while she supposed them occupied with the fashions, they were stealing furtive glances at her clear, saintly profile, the full rose-red lips which contradicted its austerity, and the sparkling waves of hair meekly drawn down over the small ears. Her rapt expression, also, piqued their curiosity. They were inclined to believe it a pose, put on to attract attention; and though they could not help acknowledging her beauty, they were far from sure that she was a person to be approved. At one instant the mother of the birdlike girl fancied her neighbour a child. The next, she was sure that the stranger was much more mature than she looked, or wished to look. And when, on leaving the train at Dover, Mary spoke French to a young Frenchman in difficulties with an English porter, the doubting hearts of her fellow-travellers closed against the offender. With an accent like that, this was certainly not her first trip abroad, they decided. With raised eyebrows they telegraphed each other that they would not be surprised if she had an extremely intimate knowledge of Paris and Parisian ways. Even the Frenchman she befriended was ungrateful enough not to know quite what to think of Mary. He raised his hat, and gave her a look of passionate gratitude, in case anything were to be got by it: but the deep meaning of the gaze was lost on the lately emancipated Sister Rose. She blushed, because it happened to be the first time she had ever spoken to a young man unchaperoned by Lady MacMillan: but she was regarding him as a fellow-being, and remembering that she had been instructed to seize any chance of doing a kindness, no matter how small. She had never been told that it was not always safe for a girl to treat a Frenchman as a fellow-being. Afterward, on the boat, when a porter had placed her in a sheltered deck-seat with a curved top, the fellow-being ventured again to thank the English Mees for coming to his rescue. It was a pleasure to Mary to speak French, which had been taught her by Sister Marie-des-Anges, a French nun from Paris; and she and the young man plunged into an animated conversation. Her travelling companions had chairs on deck not far off, and they knew what to think of the mystery now. They were on the way to Mentone, but as they intended stopping a day in Paris, and going on by a cheaper train than the _train de luxe_, Mary did not see them again during the journey. She was unconscious of anything in her appearance or conduct to arouse disapproval. Her one regret concerning the thin silk stockings and delicate shoes (which she had bought because they were pretty) was that her ankles were cold. She had no rug; but the Frenchman insisted on lending her his, tucking it round her knees and under her feet. Then she was comfortable, and even more grateful to him than he had been to her for translating him to the porter. He was dark and thin, cynically intelligent looking, of a type new to Mary; and she thanked him for being disappointed that she could not stop in Paris. He inquired if, by chance, she were going to Monte Carlo. When she said no, she was passing on much farther, he was again disappointed, because, being an artist, he often ran down to Monte Carlo himself in the winter, and it would have been a great privilege to renew acquaintance with so charming an English lady. Mary had feared that she might be ill in crossing the Channel, as she had never been on the water before, and could not know whether she were a good or a bad sailor. Aunt Sara and Elinor had told her unpleasant anecdotes of voyages; but when Dover Castle on its gray height, and white Shakespeare Cliff with its memories of "Lear," had faded from her following eyes, still she would hardly have known that the vessel was moving. The purring turbines scarcely thrilled the deck; and presently Mary ate sandwiches and drank a decoction of coffee, brought by her new friend. He laughed when she started at a mournful hoot of the siren, and was enormously interested to hear that she had never set eyes upon the sea until to-day. Mademoiselle, for such an ingenue, was very courageous, he thought, and looked at Mary closely; but her eyes wandered from him to the phantom-shapes that loomed out of a pale, wintry mist: tramps thrashing their way to the North Sea: a vast, distant liner with tiers of decks one above the other: a darting torpedo-destroyer which flashed by like a streak of foam. Everything was so interesting that Mary would far rather not have had to talk, but she had been brought up in a school of old-fashioned courtesy. To her, a failure in politeness would have been almost a crime: and as the sisters had never imagined the possibility of her talking with a strange young man, they had not cautioned her against doing so. She had meant to scribble a few notes of her impressions during the journey, for the benefit of Reverend Mother and the nuns, posting her letter in Paris; but as the Frenchman appeared surprised at her travelling alone, and everybody else seemed to be with friends, she decided not to write until Florence. There, when she could say that she had reached her journey's end safely, she might confess that she had left London without her relatives or even the companion-maid they advised. "If Reverend Mother saw Aunt Sara, even for five minutes," Mary said to herself, "she couldn't blame me." As it happened, there had been such a rush at the last, after the great decision was made, that Mary had not written to the convent. She had only telegraphed: "Leaving at once for Florence. Will write." She was hoping that Reverend Mother would not scold her for what she had done, when suddenly another cliff, white as the cliffs of Dover, glimmered through the haze. Then she forgot her sackcloth, for, according to the Frenchman, this was old Grisnez, pushing its inquiring nose into the sea; and beyond loomed the tall lighthouse of Calais. It was absurdly wonderful on landing at Calais to hear every one talking French. Of course, Mary had known that it would be so, but actually to hear it, and to think that these people had spoken French since they were babies, was ridiculously nice. She felt rewarded for all the pains she had taken to learn verbs and acquire exactly the right accent; and she half smiled in a friendly way at the dark porters in their blue blouses, and at the toylike policemen with their swords and capes. Her porter was a cross-looking, elderly man, but at the smile she had for him he visibly softened; and, with her dressing-bag slung by a strap over his broad shoulder, made an aggressive shield of his stout body to pilot her through the crowd. Now she left behind the two Englishwomen and her French acquaintance, for she was a passenger in the _luxe_, which started earlier than the ordinary first-class train for Paris. The Frenchman hoped and believed that she would regret his society, but she forgot him before the train went out, having no premonition of any future meeting. This, then, was what they called a _wagon lit_! She was delighted with her quarters, supposing, as the compartment seemed small, that it was entirely for her use during the journey. She had been told that she would be provided with a bed, and she wondered how it was to be arranged. Darkness fell over France, but Mary felt that she could see through the black veil, away to the south, where roses were budding in warm sunshine. She was whole-heartedly glad, for the first time, to be out of the convent. If it had not been winter and night, she would perhaps have longed to stop in Paris, but the sight of the great bleak Gare du Nord chilled her. The ordeal of the _douane_ had to be gone through there, and Mary was glad when it was over, and she could go on again, though she was once more protected by a gallant porter; and a youngish official of the customs, after a glance at her face, quickly marked crosses on her luggage without opening it. Other women, older and not attractive, saw this favouritism, and swelled with resentment, as Elinor Home-Davis had when saying: "_Is_ she the kind who can ever let men alone? She makes eyes at the footman!" Mary had never heard of "making eyes." One did not use these vulgar expressions at the convent. But Peter would have known what Elinor meant; and even Reverend Mother knew instinctively that, if Mary Grant went out into the world, she would unconsciously influence all sorts and conditions of men with whom she came in contact, as the moon influences the tides. And Reverend Mother would have felt it safer for just such creatures as Mary to live out their lives in the shelter of a convent. But Mary thought only how kind Frenchmen even of the lower classes were, and wondered if those of other nations were as polite. Slowly the train took her round Paris, and, after what seemed a long time, stopped in another huge station, which shivered under a white, crude flood of electric light. Its name--Gare du Lyon--sounded warm, however, and sent her fancy flying southward again. She was growing impatient to get on when, to her surprise, a porter hovering in the corridor with a large dressing-bag plumped it into the rack beside her own. Mary started. Could it be possible that any one else had a right to come in with her? The question was answered by the appearance of a marvellous lady who followed the porter. "Which of us is here?" she asked. "Oh, it's you, Mrs. Collis! That's your bag, I think." She spoke like an Englishwoman, yet there was a faint roll of the "r" suggestive of foreign birth or education. Mary had never seen any one like her before. She was unusually tall, as tall as a man of good height, and her figure was magnificent. Evidently she was not ashamed of her stature, for her large black hat had upstanding white wings, and her heels were high. Her navy blue cloth dress braided with black that had threads of gold here and there was made to show her form to the best advantage. Mary had not known that hair could be as black as the heavy waves which melted into the black velvet of the hat. The level brows over the long eyes were equally black, and so were the thick short lashes. Between these inky lines the eyes themselves were as coldly gray and empty as a northern sea, yet they were attractive, if only by an almost sinister contrast. The skin was extraordinarily white, and it did not occur to Mary that Nature alone had not whitened it, or reddened the large scarlet mouth. Women did not paint at the convent, nor did Lady MacMillan's guests. Mary did not know anything about paint. She thought the newcomer very handsome, yet somehow formidable. In a moment other people trooped into the corridor and grouped round the door of Mary's compartment. There was a wisp of a woman with neat features and sallow complexion, who looked the essence of respectability combined with a small, tidy intelligence. She was in brown from head to foot, and her hair was brown, too, where it was not turning gray. Evidently she was Mrs. Collis, for she took a lively interest in the bag, and said she must have it down, as the stupid people had put it wrong side up. She spoke like an American, though not with the delicately sweet drawl that Peter had. Behind her stood a pretty girl whose features were neatly cut out on somewhat the same design, and whose eyes and hair were of the same neutral brown. She had a waist of painful slenderness, and she reminded Mary of a charming wren. Behind her came another girl, older and of a different type, with hair yellow as a gold ring, round eyes of opaque, turquoise blue, without expression, and complexion of incredible pink and white. Her lips, too, were extremely pink, and her brows and lashes almost as black as those of the tall woman. She wore pale purple serge, with a hat to match, and had a big bunch of violets pinned on a fur stole which was bobbing and pulsing with numberless tiny, grinning heads of dead animals. On her enormous muff were more of these animals, and tucked under one arm appeared a miniature dog with a ferocious face. In the wake of these ladies who surged round the door and sent forth waves of perfume, presently arrived a man who joined them as if reluctantly, and because he could think of nothing else to do. He was much taller than the woman who had come first, and must have been well over six feet. His clean-shaven, aquiline face was of a dead pallor. There were dark shadows and a disagreeable fulness under his gray, wistful eyes, which seemed to appeal for help without any hope of receiving it. He walked wearily and slouchingly, stooping a little, as if he were too tired or bored to take the trouble of throwing back his shoulders. The ladies talked together, very fast, all but the tall one, who, though she talked also, did not chatter as the others did, but spoke slowly, in a low tone which must be listened to, or it could not be heard. The four laughed a good deal, and when the tall woman smiled she lost something of her fascination, for she had large, slightly prominent eye-teeth which went far to spoil her handsome red mouth. The others paid great attention to her, and to the big man with the sad eyes. In loud voices, as if they wished people to hear, they constantly addressed these two as Lord and Lady Dauntrey. "I--are you quite sure that you're to be here?" Mary ventured, when Mrs. Collis had whisked into the compartment, and was ringing for some one to take down her bag, after the train had started. "I thought--I had this place to myself." "Why, if you have, there must be a mistake," replied the American. "Have you taken both berths?" "No," said Mary. "Only one. Are there two?" "My, yes, of course. In some there are four. But this is one of the little ones. I expect"--and she smiled--"that you haven't made many long journeys?" "I haven't travelled at all before," Mary answered, blushing under the eyes turned upon her. "Well, you'll find it's all right, what I say," the American lady went on. "But"--and she lost interest in Mary--"aren't we silly? Miss Wardrobe had better come in here, where there's only one place, and my daughter and I'll take a compartment together, as the car seems pretty full." "Please don't call me Miss Wardrobe!" exclaimed the golden-haired girl. "That's the eighth time. I've counted." As she spoke, her tiny dog yapped in a thin voice at the offender, its round eyes goggling. "I hope you'll excuse me, I'm sure," returned the American, acidly. "I must say, I really don't think mamma's had occasion to mention your name as many times as eight since we first had the pleasure of meeting," the charming wren flew to her mother's rescue. "But you've got such a difficult name." "Anyhow, it isn't like everybody else's, which is _something_," retorted the girl who had been called "Miss Wardrobe." Mary began to be curious to know what the real name was. But perhaps she would find out later, as the young woman was to share her little room. It would be interesting to learn things about this odd party, yet she would rather have been alone. Soon after Paris there was dinner in the dining-car not far away, and Mary had opposite her the girl with the queer name. No one else was at the table. At first they did not speak, and Mary remembered the training of her childhood, never to seem observant of strangers; but she could not help looking sometimes at her neighbour. The first thing the latter did on sitting down was to draw off her gloves, and roll them inside out. She then opened a chain bag of platinum and gold, which looked rather dirty, and taking out, one after another, eight jewelled rings, slipped them on affectionately. Several fingers were adorned with two or three, each ring appearing to have its recognized place. When all were on, their wearer laid a hand on either side of her plate, and regarded first one, then the other, contentedly, with a slight movement causing the pink manicured nails to glitter, and bringing out deep flashes from diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. Glancing up suddenly, with self-conscious composure, the young woman saw that her neighbour's eyes appreciated the exhibition. She smiled, and Mary smiled too. "If I didn't think my stable-companion was all right, I wouldn't have dared put them on," remarked "Miss Wardrobe." "But I do feel so--well, undressed almost, without my rings; don't you?" "I haven't any," Mary confessed. "Why--don't you like rings?" "Yes, on other people. I love jewels. But for myself, I've never thought of having any--yet." "I've thought more about it than about anything else," remarked the girl, smiling a broad, flat smile that showed beautiful white teeth. She looked curiously unintelligent when she smiled. "Perhaps I shall begin thinking more about it now." "That sounds interesting. What will start your mind to working on the subject? Looking at my rings?" She had an odd, persistent accent which irritated Mary's ears. If it was like anything the convent-bred girl had heard, it resembled the accent of a housemaid who "did" her bedroom in Cromwell Road. This maid had said that she was a London girl. And somehow Mary imagined that, if she had rings, she would like taking them out of a gold bag and putting them on at the dinner-table. Because Mary had never had for a companion any girl or woman not a lady, she did not know how to account for peculiarities which would not have puzzled one more experienced. "Perhaps," she answered, smiling. "Maybe you mean to win a lot of money at Monte, and buy some?" "At Monte--does that mean Monte Carlo? Oh, no, I'm going to Florence. But some money has been left to me lately, so I can do and have things I shouldn't have thought of before." Mary explained all this frankly, yet without any real wish to talk of her own affairs. The four others of the party were at a table opposite; and as there was a moment's lull in the rush of waiters and clatter of plates for a change of courses, now and then a few words of conversation at one table reached another. As Mary mentioned the legacy Lady Dauntrey suddenly flashed a glance at her, and though the long pale eyes were turned away immediately, she had the air of listening to catch the rest of the sentence. By this time the little quarrel over "Miss Wardrobe's" name had apparently been forgotten. The five were on good terms, and talked to each other across the gangway. Again the title of the two leading members of the party was called out conspicuously, and people at other tables turned their heads or stretched their necks to look at this party who advertised the "jolly time" they were having. They chattered about "Monte," and about celebrities supposed to have arrived there already, though it was still early in the season. Lady Dauntrey told anecdotes of the "Rooms," as if to show that she was not ignorant of the place; but Lord Dauntrey said nothing unless he were addressed, and then answered in as few words as possible. Nevertheless he had something of that old-world courtesy which Mary had been taught, and she felt an odd, instinctive sympathy with him. She even found herself pitying the man, though she did not know why. A man might be taciturn and tired-looking yet not unhappy. They sat a long time at dinner before they were allowed to pay and go. Lord Dauntrey's party smoked, and the girl at Mary's table offered her a cigarette from a gold case with the name "Dodo" written across it in diamonds. Mary thanked her, and refused. She had heard girls at school say that they knew women who smoked, but she had never seen a woman smoking. It seemed odd that no one looked surprised. Her neighbour, whom she now heard addressed as Miss Wardropp, did not come into their compartment at once, but stopped in another of the same size, where she, with Lord and Lady Dauntrey and Miss Collis, played a game with a little wheel which they turned. When Mary stood in the corridor, while the beds were being made, she saw them turning this wheel, and wondered what the game could be. They had a folding board with yellow numbers on a dark green ground, and they were playing with ivory chips of different colours. Mary had the lower berth, but when she realized how much pleasanter it would be to sleep in the upper one, she could not bring herself to take it. She felt that it would be selfish to be found there when Miss Wardropp came to undress; and when the latter did appear, toward midnight, it was to see the lower berth left free. "Why, but you were below. Didn't you know that?" she inquired rather sharply, as if she expected her room mate to insist on changing. "Yes," Mary replied meekly. "But I--I left it for you, and your little dog." "Well, I do think that's about the most unselfish thing I ever heard of any one doing!" exclaimed Miss Wardropp. "Thank you very much, I'm sure. No good my refusing now, as you're already in?" "No, indeed," Mary laughed. "I wish you were going with us to the Villa Bella Vista," said the other. "From what I can see, we don't seem likely to get much unselfishness there, from anybody." Then, as she undressed, showing exquisite underclothing, she followed her ambiguous remark by pouring out information concerning herself, her companions, and their plans. She was from Australia, and intimated that her father, lately dead, had left plenty of money. She had met Lord and Lady Dauntrey a month ago in Brighton at the Metropole. Where the Dauntreys had "picked up the Collises," Dodo Wardropp did not know, but they were "late acquisitions." "Lord and Lady Dauntrey have taken a furnished villa at Monte for the season," she went on, "a big one, so they can have lots of guests. I and the Collises are the first instalment, but they're expecting others: two or three men with titles." She said this as if "titles" were a disease, like measles. As she rubbed off the day's powder and paint with cold cream, there was a nice smell in the little room of the _wagon lit_, like the scent of a theatrical dressing-room. "I suppose you're looking forward to a delightful winter," Mary ventured, from her berth, as Dodo hid a low-necked lace nightgown under a pink silk kimono embroidered with gold. "I hope!" exclaimed Miss Wardropp. "I pay for it, anyhow. I don't mind telling, as you aren't going to Monte, and won't know any of them, that we're sort of glorified paying-guests. The Collises haven't said to me they're that, and I haven't said what I am; but we know. I'm paying fourteen guineas a week for my visit, and I've a sneaking idea her ladyship's saving up the best room for other friends who'll give more. I could live at the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo, I expect, for that price, but you see the catch is that Lord and Lady Dauntrey can introduce their guests to swell people. I wouldn't meet the right kind if I lived in a hotel, even with a first-rate chaperon. I know, for I came to Monte Carlo with an Australian friend, for a few days on my way to England. It's no use being at a resort if you don't get into the smart set, is it?" "I suppose not," said Mary. "But I think I care more about places than people." "I don't understand that feeling. I want to get in with the best. And though Lord Dauntrey's poor, and I imagine disappointed in expectations of money with her, he must be acquainted with a lot of important titled people. He's a viscount, you know, and that's pretty high up." "I didn't know," Mary confessed. "I don't know anything about society." "You seem to have led a retired sort of life," Miss Wardropp remarked, though without much curiosity, for she was not really interested in any woman except herself, or those connected with her affairs. "Surely you read about their wedding in South Africa last Spring?" "No. I have never read newspapers." "I don't bother either, except society news and fashion pages. But there were pictures of them both everywhere. I expect she got the photographs in, for he doesn't seem a man to like that sort of thing. Lord Dauntrey was out in South Africa for years, trying to make his fortune, but it didn't appear to come off. Friends of mine I knew at Brighton, who took me there, a rich Jew and his wife who'd lived in Africa, said when the Dauntreys turned up at the Metropole that he'd been at a pretty low ebb out there. I believe he studied for a doctor, but I don't know if he ever practised. Nobody can say exactly who Lady Dauntrey was originally, but she was a widow when he married her, and supposed to have money. He doesn't seem to care for society, but she's ambitious to be some one. She's so good-looking she's sure to succeed. I expect to know everybody smart at Monte. That's what I've been promised, and Lady Dauntrey'll entertain a good deal. If that doesn't amuse her husband he can shoot pigeons, and gamble at the Casino. He's got a system at roulette that works splendidly on his little wheel. We were playing it this evening. But I expect I'm boring you. You look sleepy. I'll turn in, and go bye-bye with Diablette." For the rest of the night all was silence in the compartment, save for the gobbling noises made in her sleep by the griffon Diablette. Mary lay awake in her upper berth, longing to look out, and thrilling to musical cries of big baritone voices at the few stops the train made: "Di-jon-n, cinq minutes d'arrêt! Ma-con-n, cinq minutes d'ar-rêt! Ly-on, dix minutes d'a-rr-êt!" It was wonderful to hear the names ring like bells out of the mystery and darkness of night, names she had known all her life since she had been old enough to study history or read romance. She thought that the criers must have been chosen for their resonant voices, and in her mind she pictured faces to match, dark and ruddy, with great southern eyes; for now the train was booming toward Provence: and though Mary began to be drowsy, she held herself awake on purpose to hear "Avignon" shouted through the night. Very early, almost before it was light, she arose noiselessly, bathed as well as she could, and dressed, so as to be able to look out at Marseilles. Miss Wardropp was asleep, and as the train slowed into the big station in the pale glimmer of the winter morning, Mary walked to the end of the car. The stop would be twenty minutes, and as the train gave its last jerk Mary jumped on to the platform. The sky was of a faint, milky blue, like the blue that moves under the white cloud in a moonstone, and the first far down ray of morning sun, coming up with the balmy wind from still, secret places where the youth of the world slept, shimmered golden as a buttercup held under the pearly chin of a child. This was only Marseilles, but already the smell of the south was in the air, the scent of warm salt sea, of eucalyptus logs burning, and pine trees and invisible orange groves. On the platform, osier baskets packed full of flowers sent out wafts of perfume; and as Mary stood gazing over the heads of the crowd at the lightening sky, she thought the dawn rushed up the east like a torchbearer, bringing good news. Just for a moment she forgot everybody, and could have sung for joy of life--a feeling new to her, though something deep down in herself had whispered that it was there and she might know it if she would. It was such faint whisperings as this which, repeated often, had driven her from the convent. "How young I am!" she thought, for once actively self-conscious. "How young I am, and how young the world is!" She let her eyes fall from the sky and plunge into the turmoil of the station, turmoil of people getting in and out of trains, of porters running with luggage, of restaurant employés wheeling stands of food through the crowd, piled oranges and mandarines, and white grapes, decorated with leaves and a few flowers; soldiers arriving or saying goodbye, jolly dark youths in red and blue; an Arab trying to sell scarfs from Algiers; a Turkish family travelling; English men and women newly landed, with P. & O. labels large on their hand-bags; French _bonnes_ wearing quaint stiff caps and large floating ribbons; Indian ayahs wrapped in shawls. Mary gazed at the scene as if it were a panorama, and scarcely dwelt upon individuals until her eyes were drawn by the eyes of a man. It was when she had mounted the steps of her own car, and turned once more before going in. So she looked down at the man looking up. She blushed under the eyes, for there was something like adoration in them, romantic admiration such as a man may feel for the picture of a lovely saint against a golden background, or the poetic heroine of a classic legend. They were extraordinarily handsome eyes, dark and mysterious as only Italian eyes can be, though Mary Grant did not know this, having gazed into few men's eyes, and none that were Italian. "Looking up so, his face is like what Romeo's must have been," she said to herself with an answering romantic impulse. "Surely he is Italian!" And he, looking up at her, said, "What a picture of Giulietta on the balcony! Is she French, Italian, Russian?" The man was a Roman, whose American mother had not robbed him of an ardent temperament that leaned toward romance; and he had just come back to the west across the sea, from a romantic mission in the east. He had not exchanged words with a woman for months, in the desert where he had been living. For this reason, perhaps, he was the readier to find romance in any lovely pair of eyes; but it seemed to him that there never had been such eyes as these. For always, in a man's life, there must be one pair of eyes which are transcendent stars, even if they are seen but once, then lost forever. This was not his train, for the _luxe_ does not take local passengers, in the season when every place is filled between Paris and Nice; but because of Mary's face, he wished to travel with her, and look into her eyes again, in order to make sure if they really held the magic of that first glance. He found a train-attendant and spoke with him rapidly, in a low voice, making at the same time a suggestive chinking of gold and silver with one hand in his pocket. IV Under the golden sunshine, the _luxe_ steamed on: after Toulon no longer tearing through the country with few pauses, but stopping at many stations. For the first time Mary saw olive trees, spouting silver like great fountains, and palms stretching out dark green hands of Fatma against blue sky and bluer sea. For the first time she saw the Mediterranean that she had dreamed of in her cold, dim room at the convent. This was like the dreams and the stories told by Peter, only better; for nothing could give a true idea of the glimmering olive groves. Under the silvery branches delicate as smoke-wreaths, and among the gnarled gray trunks, it seemed that at any moment a band of nymphs or dryads might pass, streaming away in fear from the noises of civilization. At St. Raphael and Fréjus colossal legs of masonry strode across the green meadows, and Mary knew that they had been built by Romans. Pine trees like big, open umbrellas were black against a curtain of azure. Acres of terraces were planted with rows of flowers like straightened rainbows: young roses, carnations, pinky white stock and blue and purple hyacinths; and over the coral or gamboge painted walls of little railway stations bougainvillea poured cataracts of crimson. By and by, the train ran close to the sea, and miniature waves blue as melted turquoise curled on amber sands, shafts of gilded light glinting through the crest of each roller where the crystal arch was shattered into foam. Then came the wonderful red rocks which Peter had described; ruddy monsters of incredible shapes which had crawled down to drink, and lay basking in the clear water, their huge rounded backs bright as copper where the westerly sun smote them; for by this time it was afternoon. At Cannes, yachts sat high in the quaint harbour like proud white swans: mysterious islands slept on the calm surface of the sea, dreaming of their own reflections; and a company of blue-clad mountains, strangely crowned, were veiled below their foreheads like harem women with delicate fabric of cloud, thin as fine muslin. After Cannes, appeared Antibes, with its peninsula of palms and pines, its old harbour, town, and white lighthouse; and at last, Nice. Many people whose faces Mary had seen at dinner the night before, and again at luncheon, left the train at Nice; and on the platforms, waiting for local trains, she saw girls in flowery hats, and white or pale tinted serge dresses, such as they might wear on a cool day of an English summer. They could not be travelling far, in such frocks and hats, and Mary wondered where they were going, with their little plump hand-bags of netted gold or embroidered velvet. By and by a train moved in, also on its way to Monte Carlo. Women and men suddenly surged together in a compact wave, and struggled with each other at the doors of the corridor carriages. Fat men had no hesitation in pushing themselves in front of thin women; robust females dashed little men aside, and mounted triumphantly. All were eager, and bent upon some object in which they refused to be thwarted. The beauty of the coast was dreamlike to Mary, who had lived ever since she could remember in the north of Scotland, among moorland and hills whose only intrinsic brilliance of colour came at the time of heather. She had loved the browns and cloudy grays, and the deep blue of the lake and the pensive violet shadows; but this was like a burst of gorgeous day after an existence in sweet, pale twilight. She rejoiced that she had persisted in seeing the Riviera before passing into Italy. It seemed that, after Nice, each stopping-place was prettier and more flowery than the one before. She had no one to admire them with her, for since luncheon, which Mary had taken early, Miss Wardropp had been in another compartment playing the game with the little wheel and spinning ivory ball. But after passing Villefranche harbour, Beaulieu drowned in olives, and Eze under its old hill-village on a horn of rock, the Australian girl came back, to exchange a cap of purple suède for her cartwheel of a hat. "The next station where the train stops will be Monaco," she announced. "Oh, then you'll be getting out almost at once?" And Mary prepared to say goodbye. "Not yet. The station after Monaco: Monte Carlo--darling place! But the principality begins at Monaco of course. I told you how I stayed three days before I went to England. Almost everybody who lands at Marseilles wants to run on to Monte for a flutter, in season or out." Miss Wardropp put away a novel, and dusted a little powder over her face, with the aid of a gold vanity-box. The train plunged through a tunnel or two, and flashed out, giving a glimpse of Monaco's high red rock with the Prince's palace half girdled by ruinous gray walls and towers of ancient feudal days. Dodo was ready to go. She bade her companion goodbye, and good luck in Florence. "Too bad you're not getting out here!" she said, as they shook hands. And then Mary forgot her in gazing at the Rock of Hercules, the red rock crowned with walls as old as history, and jewelled with flowers. Close to shore the water was green and clear as beryl, and iridescent blue as a peacock's breast where the sea flowed past the breakwater. In the harbour were yachts large and small, a trading ship or two, and fishing boats drawn up on a narrow strip of beach. Across from the Rock, and joined to it by the low-lying Condamine, was Monte Carlo, with the white Casino towers pointing high above roofs and feathery banks of trees, like the horns of a great animal crouched basking in the gay sunlight. Mary remembered how Peter had told her the tale of Hercules landing here: how he had come in a small boat, and claimed the rock and the lovely semi-circle of coast for his own. "The guests of Hercules, going to pay him a visit," she said to herself now, as passengers began to push their way along the corridor, in order to be the first ones down. The girl's heart began suddenly to beat very fast, she did not know why. "What is there to be excited about?" she asked herself. No answer came. Yet the fact remained. She was intensely excited. "If I were getting out, like all these other people," she thought, "there'd be an excuse. But as it is----" Then, far down within herself, a tiny voice said: "Why shouldn't you get out--now, quickly, while there's time?" It was a voice which seemed quite separate from herself, and she could feel it as if her body were a cage in which a tiny bird sang a small song in a sweet voice that must be listened to intently. There was no strong reason, when she came to think of it, why she should not listen, although to listen gave her a sensation of childish guilt. She was her own mistress. She had never promised Peter, nor any one else, not to come to Monte Carlo. Peter had advised her against coming, that was all. And Peter, though dear and kind, had no right---- Why not obey the bird voice, and get out quickly while there was time? It was beautiful here, and this was the best season. Florence could be very cold, people said, and so could Rome. But on the Riviera, in December, roses and a thousand flowers were in bloom. To dash out of the train unexpectedly, as a surprise to herself, would be a great adventure. To come another time, according to a plan, would not be an adventure at all. Never in her whole past life had she had an adventure. What fun to land at Monte Carlo with only hand-luggage! The rest would go on to Florence, but somehow she could retrieve it sooner or later, and meanwhile how amusing to spend a little part of her legacy in fitting herself out with new things, clothes which would give her a place in the picture! And she needn't stay long. What were a few days more or less? There was only a minute to make up her mind. The train was slowing into the station, a large attractive station, adorned with posters of dream-places painted in rich dream-colours, like those of stained glass. On the platform, to the left of the station building, stood a boy twelve or fourteen years old, dressed in livery. He had a bullet head, with hair so black as to seem more like a thick, shining coat of varnish than hair. His eyes were very large and expressed a burning energy, as if he were nerving himself to a great feat, and the moment of action had arrived. Mary watched him, in a sudden flash of curious interest, as if she must at all costs see what he was going to do, and then make her decision. This was a ridiculous idea, but she could not take her eyes off the child, as the train slowly approached him on its way into the station. He drew in a great breath, which empurpled the brown of his face, and then emitted a single word, "As-cen-s-e-u-r!" in a singing roar, into which he threw his whole soul, as a young tiger does. As the train passed the boy, Mary, gazing out of the corridor window, looked straight down the deep round tunnel that was his open mouth, and caught his strained eye. He suddenly looked self-conscious, and broke into a foolish yet pleasant smile. Mary smiled too, like a child, showing her dimples. Then she knew that she would get out at Monte Carlo no matter what happened. At this instant, as the train stopped with a slight jerk, the attendant in his neat brown uniform whisked past Mary into her compartment, to snatch Miss Wardropp's bag and earn his fee. By this time the passengers who were alighting at Monte Carlo had pressed down the corridor in a procession, treading on each others' heels. "If I should get out here, could I use my ticket afterward on to Florence?" Mary hastily inquired in French. But whatever the answer might be, her mind was obstinately set on the adventure she wanted. "But yes, certainly, Mademoiselle," replied the man. "Then will you take my bag, too, please?" The porter's tired eyes dwelt on her for an instant understandingly, sympathetically, even pityingly. Perhaps he had seen other passengers make up their minds at the last minute to stop at Monte Carlo. He said nothing, but seized the bag; and with her heart beating as if this decision had changed the whole face of the world, Mary hurried after the stout brown figure, and joined the end of the procession as it poured from the _wagon lit_ on to the platform. V Mary followed the other people who had left the train. Lord and Lady Dauntrey, with their party, were far ahead, and she could not have spoken to them if she had wished, without running to catch them up; but she did not wish to speak. She had taken no dislike to them; on the contrary, she was interested, but she did not feel inclined to ask advice, or attach herself to any one. She enjoyed the idea of a wonderful new independence. The sunshine made her feel energetic, and full of courage and enterprise, which had been crushed out of her in London by the chilly manner of her relatives, and the weight of the black fog. Passing through the station, after having part of her ticket torn from its book, she reached the front of the building, where a great many hotel omnibuses and a few private motors were in waiting. A station porter was following her now, with the one dressing-bag which remained of her abandoned luggage. "Quel hôtel, Mademoiselle?" he inquired. Mary hesitated, her eyes roaming over the omnibuses. One was conspicuous, drawn by four splendid horses, driven by a big man with a shining conical hat, and a wide expanse of scarlet waistcoat. No other omnibus looked quite so important. On it, in gold letters, Mary read "Hôtel de Paris." The name sounded vaguely familiar. Where had she lately heard this hotel mentioned! Oh, yes! by Miss Wardropp. "Hôtel de Paris, s'il vous plaît," she answered. In another moment her bag was in the omnibus, and she was climbing in after it in the wake of other persons, enough to fill the roomy vehicle. As she settled into her corner she saw a man walk slowly by at a distance. He was not looking at her for the moment, and she had no more than a glimpse of a dark, clearly drawn profile; yet she received a curious impression that he had just turned away from looking at her; and she was almost sure it was the man she had noticed at Marseilles. Now her Romeo idea of him struck her as sentimental. She wondered why she had connected such a thought with a man in modern clothes, in a noisy railway station. The morning and its impressions seemed long ago. She felt older and more experienced, almost like a woman of the world, as the big horses trotted up a hill, leaving all the other omnibuses behind. From under the large hat of a large German lady, she peered eagerly, to lose no detail in approaching Monte Carlo. High at the right rose a terrace like a hanging garden, attached to a huge white hotel. In front of the building, and also very high, ran a long covered gallery where there appeared to be restaurants and shops. At the left were gardens; and then in a moment more, coming out into an open square, all Monte Carlo seemed made of gardens with extraordinary, ornate white buildings in their midst, sugar-cake buildings made for pleasure and amusement, all glass windows and plaster figures and irrelevant towers, the whole ringed in by a semi-circle of high, gray mountains. It was a fantastic fairyland, this place of palms and bosky lawns, with grass far too green to seem real, and beds of incredibly brilliant flowers. One section of the garden ran straight and long, like a gayly patterned carpet, toward a middle background of climbing houses with red roofs; and it began to spread almost from the steps of the cream white building with jewelled and gilded horns, which Mary had seen in Peter's Riviera snapshots: the Casino. As the omnibus swung round a generous half circle, slowly now to avoid loitering groups of people, Mary saw many men and women arriving in motors or on foot, to go up the shallow flight of carpeted marble steps which led into the horned building. She thought again of an immense animal face under these erect, glittering horns; a face with quantities of intelligent, bright glass eyes that watched, and a wide-open, smiling mouth into which the figures walked confidently. It looked a kind, friendly animal basking in the gardens, and the big clock above its forehead, round which pigeons wheeled, added to its air of comfortable good nature. Mary was suddenly smitten with a keen curiosity to see exactly what all these people would see who allowed themselves to be swallowed by the mouth which smiled in receiving them. Most of the women were smartly dressed and had gold or embroidered bags in their hands, like those she had seen at Nice station. They went in looking straight ahead, and men ran up the steps quickly. Surely this was more than a mere building. There was something alive and vital and mysteriously attractive about it, though it was not beautiful at all architecturally, only rich looking and extraordinary, with its bronze youths sitting on the cornice and plaster figures starting out of the walls, laughing and beckoning. It had a personality which subtly contrived to dominate and make everything else in the little fairyland of flowers subservient to it, almost as if the emotions and passions of thousands and tens of thousands of souls from all over the world had saturated the materials of its construction. As this fancy came to Mary's mind, the sun in its last look over the gray Tête de Chien struck her full in the eyes as with a flung golden gauntlet, then dropped behind the mountain, setting the sky on fire. An unreal light illumined the buildings in the fairy gardens, and Mary became conscious of an invisible tide of burning life all around her which caught her in its rushing flood. She was impelled to float on a swift and shining stream which she knew was carrying many others besides herself in the same direction toward an unseen but definite end. She was like a leaf snatched from a quiet corner by the wind and forced to join the whirl of its fellow-dancers. It was a feeling that warmed her veins with excitement, and made her reckless. The omnibus passed the Casino, and a little farther on stopped in front of the Hôtel de Paris. It too was fantastically ornate, surely the most extraordinary hotel on earth, with a high roof of a gray severity which ironically frowned down upon gilded balconies and nude plaster women who supported them, robustly voluptuous creatures who faded into foliage below the waist, like plump nymphs escaping the rude pursuit of gods. Their bareness and boldness startled the convent-bred girl, even horrified her. She was the last to leave the omnibus, and then, instead of pushing in with her fellow-passengers to secure a room before others could snap up everything, she lingered a moment on the steps. Still that magical light illumined the _Place_, under the sky's rosy fire. The long glass façade of the restaurant sent out diamond flashes. The pigeons strutting in the open space in front of the Casino were jewels moving on sticks of coral. As they walked, tiny purple shadows followed them, as if their little red legs were tangled in pansies. Across the _Place_, on the other side of the garden and opposite the hotel, was an absurd yet gay collection of bubbly Moorish domes, and open or glassed-in galleries, evidently a café. Music was playing there, and in front of the balconies were many chairs and little tables where people drank tea and fed the strutting pigeons. Beyond the bubbly domes shimmered a panorama of beauty which by force of its magnificence redeemed the frivolous fairyland from vulgarity, rather than rebuked it. Under the rain of rose and gold, as if seen through opaline gauze, shone sea and hills and distant mountains. On a green height a ruined castle and its vassal rock-village seemed to have fallen from the top and been arrested by some miracle halfway down. Beneath, a peninsula of pines silvered with olives floated on a sea of burnished gold; and above soared mountains that went billowing away to the east and to Italy, deep purple-red in the wine of sunset. Mary forgot that people do not come to hotels for the sole purpose of standing on the steps to admire a view. It was a liveried servant who politely reminded her of her duty by holding the glass door open and murmuring a suggestion that Mademoiselle should give herself the pain of entering. Then, slightly dazed by new impressions and the magnitude of her independence, Mary walked humbly into an immense hall, marble paved and marble columned. She had never seen anything half so gorgeous, and though she did not know yet whether she liked or disliked the bewildering decorations of mermaids and sea animals and flowers, she was struck by their magnificent audacity into a sense of her own insignificance. Before she could dare to walk here as by right, or seat herself in one of those great gilded and brocaded chairs, she must buy clothes which suited Monte Carlo as all this florid splendour of ornamentation suited it. She did not put this in words, but like all women possessed of "temperament," had in her something of the chameleon, and instinctively wished to match her tints with her environment. Suddenly she recalled a solemn warning from Mrs. Home-Davis that some hotels refused to receive women travelling alone, and her heart was inclined to fail as she asked for a room. But fortunately this was not one of those cruel hotels Aunt Sara had heard about. Mary was received civilly and without surprise. A view of the sea? Certainly Mademoiselle could have a room with a view of the sea. It would be at the price of from thirty to fifty francs a day. Mary said that she would like to see a room for thirty francs, and felt economical and virtuous as she did so. She had been brought up to consider economy a good thing in the abstract, but she knew practically nothing of the value of money, as she had never bought anything for herself until she went to London. It seemed to her now that, with fifty thousand pounds, she was so rich that she could have anything she wanted in the world, but she had nebulous ideas as to what to want. A pretty little pink and gray room was shown her, so pretty that it seemed cheap until she heard that food and everything else was "extra"; but the view decided her to take it. The large window looked southwest, with the harbour and rock of Monaco to the right, and to the left an exquisite group of palms on the Casino terrace, which gave an almost mysterious value to a background of violet sky melting into deeper violet sea. As she stood looking out, silver voices of bells chimed melodiously across the water, from the great Byzantine cathedral on the Rock. It was all beautiful and poetic. Mary would have taken the room if it had been a hundred instead of a paltry thirty francs a day. But she could not afford to stop and look at the violet sea, still haunted by the red wreckage of sunset. She had her shopping to do, for she must somehow find exactly the right hat and dress, ready to put on, or she would have to dine in her room, and that would be imprisonment on the first night at Monte Carlo. She ran quickly downstairs again, not in the least tired after her journey, and changed a thousand-franc note, which perhaps inspired official confidence in the young English lady with only a hand-bag for luggage. Also, she inquired where she could buy the prettiest things to wear, and was directed to the Galerie Charles Trois, which turned out to be that covered gallery with shops and restaurants that she had noticed when driving up the hill. By this time, though it was not yet dark, lights gleamed everywhere like great diamonds scintillating among the palms, or stars shining on the hills. The grass and trees and flowers in the _Place_ of the Casino looked twice as unreal as before, all theatrically vivid in colour, and extraordinarily flat, as if cut out of painted cardboard against a background of gauze. The ruined castle and old rock-town tumbling down the far-off hillside still smouldered in after-sunset fire, windows glittering like the rubies in some lost crown, dropped by a forgotten king in battle. But the red of the sky was paling to hyacinth, a strange and lovely tint that was neither rose nor blue. As Mary went to buy herself pretty things, walking through a scene of beauty beyond her convent dreams, she murmured a small prayer of thanksgiving that she had been guided to this heavenly place. She must write to Reverend Mother and Peter, she thought, explaining why she was here, and how glad she was that she had happened to come. Then it struck her suddenly, though more humorously than disagreeably, that it would be rather difficult to explain, especially in a way to satisfy Peter. Perhaps dear Reverend Mother would be anxious for her safety, if Peter said any of those rather silly things of Monte Carlo which at the last she had said to her--Mary. After all, maybe it would be better to keep to the first plan and not write until she could date a letter Florence. Then she put the little worry out of her mind and gave her soul to the shop-windows in the Galerie Charles Trois. It was a fascinating gallery, where lovely ladies walked, wonderfully dressed, pointing out dazzling jewellery in plate glass windows, to slightly bored men who were with them. Nearly everybody who passed sent out wafts of peculiarly luscious perfume. Mary walked the length of the gallery, so as to see all the shops there were to see, before deciding upon anything. She passed brilliantly lighted restaurants where people were having tea, some of them at little tables out of doors, protected by glass screens; and as she walked, people stared at her a good deal, especially the men who were with the lovely ladies; and the bored look went out of their eyes. Mary noticed that she was stared at, and was uncomfortable, because she imagined that her gray tweed and travelling hat drew unfavourable attention. But she intended to change all this. She would soon be as well dressed as anybody, and no one would stare any more. In one window there were displayed, not only gowns, but hats and cloaks, and exquisite furs, all shown on wax models with fashionably dressed hair and coquettish faces. One pink and white creature with a startlingly perfect figure wore a filmy robe of that intense indigo just taken on by the sea. Underneath a shadowlike tunic of dark blue chiffon there was a glint of pale gold, a sort of gold and silver sheath which encased the form of the waxen lady. "My hair is that colour," Mary thought, and imagined herself in the dress. The next thing was to walk in and ask a very agreeable Frenchwoman if the gown were likely to fit her without alteration. "I must have something at once," Mary explained. "My luggage has gone to Italy." The agreeable Frenchwoman was sympathetic. But yes, the dress would fit to perfection, not a doubt of it, for Mademoiselle had the ideal figure for model robes. And if, unfortunately, the trunks had all gone, Mademoiselle would want not only one dress but several? And hats? Yes, naturally. Other things also, of the same importance. The house made a speciality of trousseaux. Had Mademoiselle but the time to look? She need not buy anything, or fear giving trouble. Then Madame added a few compliments against which Mary, unaccustomed to such food, was not proof. She bought the blue chiffon over pale gold, which was hastily tried on behind a gilded screen; and the wax lady was robbed of gold embroidered stockings and golden shoes to match. There was a hat of dark blue with a crown of silver-threaded golden gauze, which was indispensable with the dress. To wear over this a long cloak of white satin with a wide collar of swansdown, was the _dernier cri_ of Paris, Madame assured her customer. There were other dresses and hats too, for morning and afternoon, and even more extravagant _dessous_ than those Jennings had tabooed in London. After the first, Mary forgot to ask prices. She was lost in a delirium of buying, and ordered whatever she liked, until her brain was tired. She then thanked Madame charmingly for her politeness and asked to have the things sent home at once. But yes, they should go on the moment. And would Mademoiselle pay now, or at her hotel? Mary laughed at herself, because she had forgotten about paying. It might as well be now, as she wished to go farther and get some gloves. Deftly Madame made out the account. It came to three thousand eight hundred and ninety francs. When Mary had mentally turned francs into pounds she was a little startled; but luckily, against her aunt's advice, she had come away with a good deal of ready money, English, French, and Italian. It took nearly all she had to settle the bill, but, as Madame remarked gayly, Mademoiselle had left herself enough for an evening game at the Casino. This was, of course, true, as more could somehow be obtained to-morrow. For the moment Mary had forgotten her curiosity about the pleasant, basking animal in the garden, but she decided that, after dinner--which she must have soon, as she was already beginning to be hungry--she would walk into the monster's smiling mouth. VI Prince Giovanni Della Robbia, known to his friends in Rome as Vanno, went down early to dinner at the Paris. This, not because he was hungry, but having come to the hotel because he knew that his Juliet of Marseilles was there, he had no intention of missing a chance to look at her. If she did not appear early, he would go on dining until it was late, no matter how late. Such a resolution, and just such an adventure as this into which he had flung himself with characteristic impulsiveness and passion, were strange for Prince Vanno, because since a first unhappy love, when he was a mere boy, he had avoided women. Adventure and romance were in his blood, the Italian blood of his father, the Irish-American blood of his beautiful mother. But his adventures had not been love adventures, since that first agony had driven him for comfort to the silence of the desert. Since then he had gone back to the desert for desire of great empty spaces, and the fire of eastern stars, needing comfort no longer for a lost love. That had passed out of his heart years ago, leaving no scar of which he was conscious. He had just come back from the desert now, and an Arab astrologer who was a friend of his had told him that December of this year would be for him a month of good luck and great happenings, the star of his birth being in the ascendant. Almost it began to look as if there might be something in the prophecy; and Prince Vanno, laughing at himself (with the dry sense of humour that came from the Irish-American side of his parentage), was half inclined to be superstitious. Astronomy was his love at present, not astrology, and last year he had discovered a small blue planet which had been named after him and whose sapphire beauty had been much admired. Still, because he had always had a passion for the stars, and went to the east to see them at their brightest, he was tolerant of those who believed in their influence upon earth-dwellers; therefore he was ready to yield with confident ardour to sudden impulses in this the month of his star. Mary Grant's eyes had looked to him like stars, and he had followed them. Already he had had one stroke of luck in the adventure, for he had been bound to Monte Carlo from Marseilles, before he saw her, not to try his fortune at the tables, but to meet his elder brother and sister-in-law who were to finish their honeymoon close by, at Cap Martin, and to stay for an aviation week at Nice, when an invention of his would be tried for the first time. But if Mary had gone on beyond Monte Carlo, he too would have gone on. Having plunged into the adventure, for a pair of eyes, he was prepared to pursue it to the end wherever the end might be, even if he missed the flying week and broke an engagement with the bride and bridegroom. But it was luck that she should be getting out at the place where he had meant to stop for his own reasons. He supposed, of course, that she was travelling with relatives or friends. Although he had seen her mounting the steps of a _wagon lit_ apparently alone, this did not argue that some one who belonged to her was not inside. And when, from the window of the train whence he leaned at every station, he saw her again at Monte Carlo, she was surrounded by a crowd. One of the ladies shoulder to shoulder with her might be a mother or aunt, one of the men a father or uncle; and it had been the same when he followed, just in time to see her get into the Hôtel de Paris omnibus. Already the vehicle was full. She was the last in. His idea was that, being the youngest of her party, she had waited for them to be placed before taking a seat herself. He knew of her now, having examined the visitors' book at the Paris, that she was "Miss M. Grant"; that the name was written in a very pretty, rather old-fashioned hand; that after it came "London" in the same writing. He was sure the name must be hers, because it was last on the page before he wrote his own; and she had gone in last, after everybody else, leaving the people she was with to do their name-signing before her. Also, the other women on the page were all "Madame" or "Frau" or "Mrs." He was rather surprised, somehow, to learn that she was English. In spite of her unusually fair hair he had fancied that she would turn out to be French, her type was so _spirituelle_, yet so suggestive of "temperament." If he had not been following a pair of eyes, Prince Vanno would have gone to a quiet hotel in the Condamine, to be near the aviation ground, for, being utterly unsnobbish, like all Italians of great families, he rather disliked "smart" crowds, rich food, and gorgeous decorations. But the only way not to lose the stars he followed was to keep near them. He would not for a great deal have questioned the hotel people about "Miss M. Grant," otherwise he might have learned for how long a time her room was engaged, and, incidentally, that she was alone. But as it was, he had to find out things for himself, and to do this must be in the same hotel. It was only seven o'clock when he came down from his little room at the top of the house, not nearly as expensive as Mary's, and stopped at the foot of the marble stairs, which he liked better than the lift, to look round the big hall. There was no great crowd, for most people who had come in from the Casino were dressing for dinner, and Prince Vanno saw at a glance that Miss M. Grant was not there. He went on slowly through the Louis Seize tea-room, to the gorgeous restaurant with its domed and gilded ceiling, its immense wall paintings, and glass front. At one of these window tables--a very small one--sat a lovely creature, alone. A good many heads were turning to look at her, so probably she had not long ago arrived. For an instant Vanno's eyes were fixed upon the glittering figure, and the bowed face shadowed by an eccentric hat, without recognizing it. But it was only for an instant. Then, with a shock of surprise which was almost horror, he realized that this lovely, low-necked bird of Paradise creature was the same gentle girl he had followed. "Dio!" he said to himself, and bit his lip. He felt the blood rush up to his face, as if some one had given him an insulting blow, which he could not avenge because his hands were tied. There were two or three other young and beautiful women alone, dressed with equal extravagance, their gowns as low, their hats as big; only she, his Juliet, was more beautiful than any. That was the difference between them. But was it the only difference? The young man, whose eyes still reflected the golden light of vast desert spaces, asked himself the question with a sick sinking of the heart. He had followed an angel, and found her--what? Because about those two or three others there was no question at all. And why was she here alone, dressed like them, if--but he would not finish the sentence in his mind. He resolved to study the girl, and give her the full benefit of the doubt, so long as there was a ray of hope. Vanno had not gone so far as to fall in love at first sight; yet coming back from the desert with his heart open to beauty and romance, he had been willing to let himself go to the brink, or over it, if it were worth while, else he would not have followed Juliet's eyes. But he wished to have nothing to do with the white angel if she were a fallen angel. Such a one would be easy to know, to walk with and talk with, whereas he might have found it difficult to make the acquaintance of a conventionally brought up girl. Some men might have been glad to find the heroine of a romantic adventure dining alone at a fashionable hotel at Monte Carlo, in a sheath-like, low-cut dress and a hat of to-morrow's fashion. But Prince Vanno Della Robbia was sick at heart, and dazed as by a blow. His father, Duca di Rienzi, had a strain of stern asceticism in his nature, and even the impulsive, warm-hearted American mother could not wholly redeem from gloom the cold palace in Rome and the dark fourteenth century castle at Monte Della Robbia. Each of these natures had given something to Vanno, and the differences were so strongly marked that his elder brother had said, "to know Vanno was like knowing two men of entirely opposite characters, each struggling for mastery over the other." But even in his asceticism he was ardent. Whatever he did, he did with passion and fervour, which he could laugh at as if from a distance sometimes, but could not change. And his ideas of the right life for women were not unlike the ideas of eastern men. Women should be guarded, kept apart from all that was evil or even unpleasant. So the lovely American mother had been guarded, somewhat against her will, by the Duke, and she had died while she was still young. She had never talked to Vanno of women's life and girls' life in her own country, for she had gone to the unseen land while he was still a boy. If she had stayed, perhaps he would not have had to go to the desert for comfort, when he at twenty loved a woman of twenty-eight, who flirted with him until he was half mad, and then married an American millionaire. The table nearest Mary was not engaged, for it was too early in the evening for a crowd in the Paris restaurant. Vanno signified to a waiter his desire for this table, and was taken to it. He sat down facing Mary, and pretended to study the menu. He hardly knew what he ordered. A waiter was bringing the girl a small bottle of champagne, in an ice-pail. The man cut the wires, and extracted the cork neatly, but with a slight popping sound. Mary started a little, and glancing up at the waiter smiled at him gayly, with a dimple in each cheek. Her big hat was placed jauntily on one side, and the deep blue velvet brim, with the gauzy gold of the soft crown, was extremely striking on the silver-gold waves of her hair. In her wonderful dress, which showed a good deal of white neck, she looked so fashionably sophisticated that Vanno feared the start she gave at the popping of the cork might be affected. He gazed across at her with mingled disapproval and admiration which gave singular intensity to his deep-set, romantic eyes as Mary met them. She was in a mood to be delighted with everything that happened, and it seemed a charming happening that the handsome young man from Marseilles should have chanced to come to this hotel. It did not occur to her that his coming might not be an accident, and she was pleased to see him again. Her bringing up, in all that concerned her treatment of men, had been neglected; rather, it had not been given at all. As a schoolgirl she had never met any men except a few mild youths when visiting Lady MacMillan, and then she had never seen them alone. She had thought herself a child, and had behaved as a child, in those days. Then had come her years as a postulant and as a novice. Men had ceased to exist as influences in her life. It had not been necessary to teach her what to do when in their society, for it had seemed improbable that she ever would be. When, at the last moment, she had decided that after all she "had not the vocation," there had been little or no time to prepare her for the world. And she had come out of the convent with no social wisdom except the wisdom of kindness and courtesy to all fellow-beings. Man was decidedly a fellow-being, and Mary, to whom he was interesting because entirely new, was inclined to be very kind to him, especially when he had the handsome, almost tragic dark face of a Romeo or a young Dante, and eyes like wells of ink into which diamonds had fallen. She was feeling childishly pleased with herself in her new dress, for she loved beautiful things, and knew next to nothing of suitability, provided the colours were right. By day, one had blouses and skirts, and high-necked frocks. At night, if one were in the world, one wore low gowns. She had learned this from Peter and other girls at school, and also from Lady MacMillan. When there were entertainments at the convent for the pupils, as there were several times each year, the girls put on their prettiest clothes. They had low-necked gowns for the dances, at which their partners were, of course, invariably girls, and they said that, when they "came out," they would have their dresses cut lower and made more fashionably. Of this, the sisters quite approved for their girls, whom they trusted never to do, never to wear, anything immodest. At Lady MacMillan's, Mary had worn simple evening dress, before she resolved to become a nun; and in London even Aunt Sara and Elinor, with their thin necks, had considered it necessary to display more than their collarbones each night at dinner. Mary, having little money in her schoolgirl days, had never owned anything very pretty, and now she thought it right and pleasant to make up for lost time. The "Madame" of the shop in the Galerie Charles Trois had earnestly recommended this gown and this hat for dinner and the Casino; therefore Mary was sure that her costume must be as suitable as it was beautiful, and that she was quite "in the picture," in this magnificent room. She admired the lovely, perfumed ladies with wonderful complexions and clothes, at neighbouring tables, and was thankful that she looked not too unlike them. She hoped that she might become acquainted with at least one or two of the prettiest before long, because it must be pleasant to make friends in hotels with other people who were alone like one's self. Peter also had admired the lovely ladies with wonderful complexions and clothes who chose to live in the best hotels at Monte Carlo; but she admired them in a different way, with a kind of fearful fascination. And she had never talked of them to Mary. One did not talk to Sister Rose of such things. Mary was glad that the Dante young man (she began to call him thus, for his profile really was like the poet's, and after all too stern for Romeo) could see her in this dress and hat, after having a sight of her first in the tweed, which she had now grown to detest. It really did seem as if he remembered, for he looked at her with a straight look, almost as if he were asking a grave, important question. She was afraid that he must be unhappy, for certainly his eyes were tragic, if they were not reproachful; and of course they couldn't be reproachful, as he didn't know her, and had nothing to be reproachful about. The waiter who served her was a charming person, with delightful manners, almost like those of the Frenchman who had been kind to her on the way to Paris. He recommended things on the menu, which turned out to be exquisite. They were the most expensive, also, but Mary did not know that. It seemed quite odd that one should have to pay for food at all, for always it had appeared to come as a matter of course, like the air one breathed. When he advised her sympathetically to try a little champagne, refreshed with ice, she would have been grieved to hurt his feelings by refusing, even if she had not rather wanted to know what champagne was like. People in books drank it when they wished to be merry and enjoy themselves, and it made their eyes bright and their cheeks red. Mary had had the chance of reading very few novels, but she recalled this bit of useful knowledge concerning champagne. She tasted it, and found it nice, deliciously cold and sparkling. No wonder it made the eyes bright! But after all, she could not drink much, though it seemed a shame to waste anything so good. "You can have the rest," she said to the waiter, when she had finished her first glass. He was surprised, for most ladies, he noticed, could finish two or three glasses, or even more. Again the man with the profile of a young Dante was looking at her with the grave, anxious look that puzzled her. She met his eyes for the third or fourth time, and was so sorry for his apparent unhappiness where every one else seemed merry, that she half smiled, very sweetly and gently, as one would smile at a gloomy child. The man did not return her kindness. An angry flash lit his eyes, and he looked extremely haughty and unapproachable, no longer a lonely figure needing sympathy, but a high personage. Mary lowered her lashes, abashed; and when she did this Vanno, who was on the point of hating her because she was not the white angel he had thought, doubted again, and was more bewildered than ever. Her friendly smile had been sweet, and he, who was here only because of her, had quenched its light! He regretted passionately his own ungraciousness, no matter what the girl might be. And she looked so young, her eyes so full of sea and heaven! On what errand had she come alone to this place? He determined that he would know, and soon. VII Mary ordered coffee in the hall, because something of her delight in the gay restaurant had been crushed out by Vanno's snub. She was no longer at peace under his eyes, and wished to avoid meeting them again, so it was pleasanter to go away. But even in the hall she could not forget him, as she had forgotten him after Marseilles. When he too came out from the restaurant, not long after, she saw him, though he was at a distance, saw him without even turning her eyes; and she thought how tall he was, and how much a man, although slender to the point of leanness. He sat on a sofa in the hall, and ordered coffee. Mary knew, though she did not look at him again, and interested herself instead in other people. All those who came from dinner, except the Prince, drank their coffee and went out. Some went by the front door, taking the direction of the Casino. Others disappeared into an unknown part of the hotel; and so many chose this way, that Mary inquired of a passing waiter where they were all going. "To the Casino, Mademoiselle, by the underground passage, to avoid the night air," the servant answered. To the Casino. Everybody was going to the Casino. It was time that Mary should go to the Casino, too. She had brought down her new white cloak with the swansdown collar, and asked a liveried man to put it aside for her while she dined. Now she claimed it again, and having no fear of the "night air," walked out into the azure flood which had overflowed the fantastic fairyland like deep, blue water. The gardens lay drowned in this translucent, magic sea, and the coolness of the sunset hour had been mysteriously followed by a balmy warmth, like the temperature of a summer night in England. There were as many people in the _Place_ as there had been in the afternoon, and all those who were not sitting on garden seats looking at the Casino were walking toward the Casino, or just coming out of the Casino. The eyes of the big, horned animal were blazing with light, and glared in the blue dusk with the hard, bright stare of the gold eyes in a peacock's tail. Windows of the Riviera Palace on the hill above were like orange-coloured lanterns hung against an indigo curtain; and in the _Place_ itself bunches of vivid yellow lights, in globes like illuminated fruit set on tall lamp posts, lit the foreground of the strange picture with unnatural brilliance. Grass and trees were a vivid, arsenical green, almost vicious yet beautiful, and the flowers gleamed like resting butterflies. The summer warmth of the air had a curiously tonic and exciting quality. It seemed to have gathered into its breath the sea's salt, the luscious sweetness of heavy white datura bells dangling among dark leaves in the gardens, an aromatic tang of pepper trees and eucalyptus, and a vague, haunting perfume of women's hair and laces. These mingling odours, suggested to the senses rather than apprehended by them, mounted to Mary's brain, and set her heartstrings quivering with unknown emotions sweet as pleasure and keen as pain. As she went slowly down the hotel steps to walk across the _Place_ her eyes held a new expression. When she had first told herself that she could not stay at the convent, they had asked, looking toward the world, "What is life?" Now they said, "I have begun to live, and I will go on, on, no matter where, because I must know what life means." Her cheeks were burning still from the first champagne she had ever tasted, and the sweet air cooled them pleasantly. Seeing a number of people on benches opposite the Casino, she decided to sit down for a few minutes before going in. None of these benches was empty, but one was unoccupied save for a young man and a girl, who sat at one end. Mary rather timidly took the other corner, but the couple, after giving her a long stare, returned to their conversation as if she were no more than a shadow. "This is the last, last straw!" the man grumbled, in English. "I thought there was one missing." "They never forget to add it to the rest," said the girl. "Not they," he echoed. "And I wasn't doing so badly at one time. I've a mind to apply for the _viatique_." "I shouldn't have the courage." "Oh, I should. I'd like to get something out of them. I hate the Riviera, anyhow. There's too much scenery all over the place. No rest for the eye." "But supposing you change your mind, and want come back and try your luck? You couldn't, if you'd taken the _viatique_." "Yes I could--when I'd paid it back. It's supposed to be a loan, you know, which you have to repay before you're allowed to play again." "Oh, I didn't know!" A group of young men walked past, laughing. "Never saw such a run of luck," said one. "Seventeen on red and I was on it from the first. Glorious place, Monte! Let's drink its health!" They turned, stared with interest at Mary, and passed on, lowering their voices. She caught the words "something new," but there was no sense in them for her ears. She saw the Dauntreys hurrying to the Casino, with Mrs. Collis and her daughter, and Dodo Wardropp. Two men were with them, both young, and one rather distinguished looking. All were too deeply absorbed in themselves and each other to notice her. The ladies were charmingly dressed, and so were most of the women who passed, all going quickly like the figures of a cinematograph; but some were of the strangest possible types. Mary said to herself that they must be infinitely more interesting in their own secret selves than lookers on could ever know. The hidden realities in all these passionately egotistic selves came to her as she sat watching, in attractive or repellent flashes of light. Then she lost the secret again, and they became mere puppets in a moving show. The only real thing was the Casino, and she began to study the large bright face of it. Although Mary had never travelled till now, she knew something of architecture from beautiful pictures of ancient Greece and Rome, and Egypt, and of the world's noblest cathedrals, which decorated the schoolroom walls at St. Ursula's-of-the-Lake. This building, it seemed to her, was of no recognized type of architecture. It was neither classic nor Gothic: not Renaissance, Egyptian, nor Moorish. It gave the impression of being a mere fantastic creation of a gay and irresponsible brain. If a confectioner accustomed to work in coloured sugars were to dream of a superlative masterpiece, his exalted fancy might take some such shape as this. The irregular, cream-coloured façade was broken up into many separate parts by pillars and frenzied ornaments of plaster, and there had been addition after addition, stretching away long and low to the left. A row of large windows, discreetly veiled so that no shadows could be cast from within, glowed with warm yellow light. Their refusal to betray any hint of what passed on the other side suggested a hidden crowd busy with some exciting, secret pleasure. Along the cornice of the newer portions at the left of the original Casino were perched bronze youths with golden wings, their hands holding aloft bunches of golden flowers. Two towers meretriciously mosaiced with coloured tiles balanced the centre of the higher and middle building, and a portico of iron and glass, ornate yet banal as the architecture of a railway station, protected the carpeted steps and the three large doors which were grouped closely together, doors through which people constantly passed in and out like bees at the entrance to a hive. In the pensive sweetness of the semi-tropical night, this fantastic erection in plaster and gilding and coloured ornaments seemed an outrage, a taunt, a purposeful affront; and yet--the very violence of the contrast, its outrageousness, gave it a kind of obsessing charm. Unseen from where Mary sat, the Mediterranean sighed upon its ancient rocks. A faint breath of the mysteriously perfumed air stirred the exotic palms over her head and made their fronds rub against each other gratingly, as if some secret signal were being carried on from one to another. Turning to right, to left, or to look behind her, dimly seen mountains soared toward a sky that deepened from asphodel to the dark indigo of a star-powdered zenith. Eastward in the distance ran a linked chain of lights along the high road that led to Italy; and a bright cluster like a knot of fireflies, pulsing on the breast of a mountain, marked the old hill-village of Roquebrune. Kindly enveloping nature was so sane and wholesome in her vast wisdom and stillness that the sugar-cake Casino and all its attendant artificialities struck into the brooding peace a shrill note of challenging incongruity. The little sparkling patch of light and colour that was Monte Carlo proclaimed that it was there for some extraordinary and powerful purpose, that its bizarre beauty was dedicated to exceptional uses; and it occurred to Mary that the temple of Chance must after all diverge from every rule of architecture in order to stamp its meaning on the mind. The feverish decorations began to express to her the fever of gambling, and even to create a desire for it. She felt this longing grow more insistent, like strains of exciting music that swelled louder and louder; and suddenly in the midst she seemed to hear Peter's voice saying, "What if it should be true, the thing your father was afraid of?" What if it were true? How could she tell? In his last terrible letter he had reminded her that she had wild blood in her veins, and told her to "be careful." She had thought when hearing Peter's descriptions of the Riviera that the gambling part of life there would interest her least of all, but already she was under the spell of the Casino. It drew her toward it, as if Fate sat hiding behind the veiled bright windows, just as Monte Carlo had called irresistibly, forcing her to get out of the train when she had meant to go on. She began to doubt her own nature, her own courage and strength of will. She thought of what was passing on the other side of the cream-white walls as if it were a battle into which she was compelled to plunge, and she imagined that thus a young soldier might feel in a first engagement--tremulous, and almost sick with anxiety which was not quite fear. Her heart beating fast, she jumped up, and crossing the road resolutely mounted the steps which were guarded by tall, fine men in blue livery. Inside the doors which she had watched so long she found herself entering an outer lobby. Beyond was another, also kept by liveried men. A room led off this, and Mary could see people leaving their wraps with attendants who stood behind counters. She parted with her cloak, and was given a metal disc bearing a number. Near by, a French couple, who looked like bride and groom, were examining their discs, and telling each other that it would be tempting Providence not to stake money on such numbers as _onze_ and _dix-sept_. At this, Mary glanced again at her bit of metal. Its number was 124. She remembered hearing from Peter that in the game of roulette it was a favourite "tip" to bet on the number representing your age. Peter spurned the idea as silly and childish; but Mary thought it might do to begin with, as she knew nothing better. Her age being twenty-four, she decided to adopt the French bride's suggestion, and bet on the last two numbers cut into her cloak-ticket. Beyond the second lobby, she passed into a vast pillared hall, where men and women, not all in evening dress, were strolling up and down, smoking and chatting, or sitting on leather-covered benches, to stare aimlessly at the promenaders, as if they were tired, or waiting for something to happen. This hall puzzled Mary, for she had imagined that beyond the two lobbies she would pass directly into the gambling-rooms. Here were no tables such as Peter had described; and the fact that she must go still farther seemed to increase the mystery or secrecy of the place. Mary hesitated, not knowing which way to turn, for there were several doors under the high galleries that ran the whole length of the hall. This must be the atrium, where, Peter had said, the "guests of Hercules" were accustomed to make rendezvous. It was cool and classic, a hall for reflection rather than excitement, as if it were intended for those who wished to plan a new way of playing, or to rest in, between games. Suddenly a man in livery with a peaked cap threw open a door at the back and past the middle of the hall. From it instantly began to pour a stream of people in evening dress, and as they separated themselves from the tide, they divided into knots of twos and fours. "Perhaps they gamble in groups, or batches," Mary thought, and her heart sank lest she, being alone, might not be allowed to play. She could not recall anything said by Peter about this; but she went timidly to the door, and asked the man in livery if this were the way "into the Casino." "It is the way into the theatre," he informed her. "The first act of the opera is just over. Mademoiselle is a stranger then? Those people will go to the roulette and trente et quarante rooms to amuse themselves for half an hour till the beginning of the next act." "It is the roulette I want, not the opera," Mary heard herself say, as if some one else were speaking. "Ah, Mademoiselle has her ticket of admission?" She showed him her _vestiaire_ ticket, and the servant of the Casino was too polite to smile, as he explained that something else was necessary before she would be allowed to enter the gambling-rooms. He pointed toward three swing-doors at the far end of the hall, to the left. Through two of these, people were going into a room beyond. Through the middle one they were coming out into the atrium; and as the big doors swung rapidly back and forth there were glimpses on the other side of a vast space full of rich yellow light. "Those messieurs stationed there would stop Mademoiselle, seeing she was a stranger, and demand her ticket. It is better that she return to the bureau, a room opposite the _vestiaire_ where she has left her cloak." This was an anticlimax, after summoning courage for the plunge into battle; but Mary returned whence she had come, to take her place behind others who waited for tickets of admission. She listened intently to what passed, so that she might know what to do; but it was disconcerting when her turn came, to be asked for a visiting-card. The lately emancipated Sister Rose possessed no such thing, and expected to be sent away defeated. Yet a path out of the difficulty was quickly found by the alert, frock-coated, black-necktied official behind the long desk. This charming young woman, beautifully and expensively dressed, was not one who deserved to be discouraged from entering the Casino. All she need do was to give her full name and nationality, also her place of residence. Gladly she obeyed; and holding in her hand a _carte du jour_ on which she had written her own name, at last she had the right of entrance. There was still one more mistake to make, however, and she promptly made it, attempting to pass through the right-hand swing-door. But no! It was for season-ticket holders. She must go to the left. The middle door was for those coming out. A fat man, hurrying brusquely in before her, let the swing-door slam in her face. "Le joueur n'a ni politesse, ni sexe," was a proverb of the "Rooms" which Mary Grant had never heard, but would come to understand. She was on the threshold of an enormous room, magnificently proportioned, hung with lustrous chandeliers, and divided by an archway into two sections. The farther part was much larger than that which she had entered, and more sumptuous in decoration; but the whole was flooded with a peculiar radiance which turned everything to gold. It was far mellower than the light of the atrium, or the splendid rooms of the hotel. It had actual colour like honey, or the pinky-golden skin of apricots. It was bright, yet the impression it made on the mind was of softness rather than brilliance; and the shining atmosphere of the room, instead of being clear, seemed charged with infinitesimal particles of floating gold, like motes in rays of sunshine. The tables, under darkly shaded, low-hanging lamps, gave the effect of sending a yellow smoke, like incense, up to the height of the great dazzling chandeliers. It was almost as if the hands of players in fingering gold pieces day after day, year after year for generations, had rubbed off minute flakes which hung like a golden haze in the air. It appeared to Mary's eyes, taking in the whole and not dwelling upon details, that everything in the farther part of the vast domed room was of gold: different shades of gold; dark, old gold, the richer for being tarnished: bright, glittering, guinea gold: greenish gold, and gold of copper red. No other colour could have been as appropriate here. The air was not offensively dead, but it was langorously asleep. Many different perfumes haunted and weighed it down; but there was some underlying, distinctive odour which excited the nerves mysteriously, and sent the blood racing through the veins. "It is the smell of money," Mary said to herself. Just inside the entrance doors, on either side, was a large table round which people sat or stood. Those standing behind the chairs of the seated ones were at least two rows deep, crowded tightly together. Beyond were many other tables, thronged even more densely; and ringed thus with closely packed figures, they were like islands on a shining golden sea, an archipelago of little islands, all of exactly the same size, and placed at equal distances. Mary, hardly knowing what to expect from Peter's rather vague and disjointed descriptions, had dimly fancied clamour and confusion bursting upon eyes and ears on the instant of entering the gambling-rooms. But the silence of the place was as haunting and mystery-suggesting as the indefinable odour, and more thrilling to the imagination than the loudest noise. She who had been Sister Rose was horrified to find herself thinking of a cathedral lighted for a midnight mass. Almost, she expected organ music to peal out. Slowly she moved down the room, past the first tables, and, as she walked, the muffled, characteristic sounds she began to hear seemed but to punctuate and emphasize the silence, like echoes in a cave: a faint rattle of rakes, like the rustle of leaves, and a delicate chink-chink of gold, like the chirping of young birds just awakened by dawn. A voice at each table as she drew near or passed made some announcement. She caught the words distinctly yet not loudly pronounced: "Faites vos jeux, messieurs.... Rien n'va plus. Onze, noir, impair et manque." "_Onze_" was one of the numbers the French couple had decided to play. Mary wondered if it had come at their bidding, and she wished intensely to see what was going on at the tables inside those close circles of women's hats and men's shoulders. But to see, meant to push. She was not bold enough to do that, and kept moving on observantly, hoping always to discover some island less populous than others. Now she began to pick individuals out of the crowd. The number of types seemed countless. It was as if each country on earth had been called upon to contribute as many as it could spare of unusual and striking, even astonishing, specimens of humanity, on purpose to provide eccentric or ornamental features of this strange, world's variety show. There were some lovely, and a few singularly beautiful, women from northern and southern lands. Peter had said that one could "tell Americans by their chins," which were firmer and more expressive of energy than other chins, and Englishwomen by their straight noses, which looked as if they had been handed down as precious heirlooms from aristocratic ancestresses. The mellow light gilded many such chins and such noses, and shone into soft dark eyes such as only the Latin races have. Mary fancied she could tell French from Italian women, Spanish from Austrian, Hungarian from Russian or German types. Almost invariably the pretty women and the good-looking men were well dressed. Only the plain and ugly ones seemed not to care for appearances. But there were more plain people than handsome ones; and dowdy forms strove jealously to hide the charming figures, as dark clouds swallow up shining stars. All faces, however, no matter how beautiful or how repulsive, how old or how young, had a strange family likeness in their expression, it seemed to Mary; a tense eagerness, such as before her novitiate she had seen on the faces of Lady MacMillan's guests sometimes when they had settled down seriously to play bridge. She had expected to see unhappy and wildly excited faces, because, Peter said, people often lost or won fortunes in these rooms in a single night; but no one in this moving crowd looked either very miserable or very radiant. They did not even appear to be greatly excited, yet most of them seemed absorbed, as if they listened for a sound which would mean something of vital importance; or else they had an air of fearing that they had missed the all-essential signal which might never come again. It was not the "high season" yet, Mary's waiter at the Paris had said, and the "_vrai monde_" would not come in its greatest rush until after Christmas and the New Year; yet the Casino was filled with a throng of persons many of whom looked immensely rich and important, and none of whom, at worst, was shabby. Even those who were dowdy appeared well-to-do. Mary saw that it was not necessary to gamble in groups. Men and even women, all alone, pushed their way through the thick wall of hats and shoulders round the table, sometimes being lost altogether, or sometimes emerging again in three or four minutes to scurry across the shining expanse of floor to another table. By and by, when she began to feel calmer, Mary ventured near a table in the middle of the room, within full sight of doors which led to other rooms: a long vista straight ahead, where all the decorations seemed new and fresh, and a light white as silver streamed from hanging lamps like diamond pendants and necklaces for giantesses or goddesses of fortune. So different was the colour of this light from that of the first great _salle_, that a silver wall seemed built against a wall of gold. Standing outside the circle at the table, new sounds in the silence struck Mary's ear, not emphasizing the heavy silence, as did the delicate chinking of coins and the announcements of roulette numbers, but jarring and ruffling its smooth surface: little sudden rustlings and squabblings, disputes between players in French or German, sharp and mean, yet insignificant as the quarrelling of a nestful of birds in the ample peace of a spreading beech tree. Now and then there seemed a chance that Mary might find a place in the back row at a table, but some one else, also watching, invariably darted in ahead of her. Each time the hope came, her heart gave a bound, and the blood sang in her ears. She was astonished at her excitement, which seemed exaggerated beyond reason, and ridiculous, yet she could not conquer it; and the trembling that ran through her body made her knees feel very weak, after she had stood for perhaps half an hour. Looking round, she noticed that there were a good many brown leather-covered seats along the mirrored and gilded walls. Most of these were fully occupied by resting men and women, some very old and tired looking, others eagerly counting money, or jotting down notes in little books or on cards. As she looked, an extraordinary woman much bejewelled, with a face a century old under bright red hair, and a hat for a lovely young girl, jumped abruptly up from the seat nearest Mary, and almost ran to one of the tables, where she flung herself into the crowd, like a diver into a wave. Her place on the bench was left empty, and Mary took it, to follow the example of others and count her money while resting. Sitting down, she had on one side a young and pretty woman in a charming dress and hat, more suitable for a past June than a present December, even a Riviera December. Her face, too, which she turned with a gaze of interest on Mary and her costume, was slightly, pathetically faded, like the petals of a white rose gathered while in bud and pressed between the pages of a book. She was like a charming wax doll which had lost its colour by being placed too near a warm fire. On the other side was a very old man, gray as a ghost, who showed no sign of knowing that he had a new neighbour. Everything about him was gray: his thin, concave face, his expressionless eyes, his sparse hair and straggling moustache, his clothes, and his hands, knotted on the back like the roots of trees. His grayness and the bleak remoteness of his air made him seem unreal as a spirit come back to haunt the scene of long-ago triumphs or defeats. Mary could almost have persuaded herself that he did not exist, and that the pale form and glassy eyes were visible to her alone. She took her purse from a bag of gold and silver beads she had bought in the Galerie Charles Trois, and counted her money. She had a little more than five hundred francs, and wondered what could be done with that sum at roulette. Even the sound of tinkling gold and silver did not attract the dead gray eyes to Mary; but perhaps it broke some dreary dream, for the old man got up stiffly as if in protest, and walked away with the gait of an automaton. "Heaven be praised!" murmured in French the weary white rose on Mary's other side; "he brings bad luck. But perhaps he will take it away with him." Mary realized that her neighbour was speaking to her, and turned with a smile of encouragement, thankful to find some one who looked kind, and would perhaps tell her things. The pretty woman went on, without waiting to be answered: "He is like a galvanized corpse; and indeed, he may be one, for he ought to have died long ago. Have you ever heard his story?" "No," Mary said. "I have only just come here." "For the first time?" The other's face brightened oddly. "Yes, it is my first time." "And you are alone?" "Quite alone." "Poor little one! But that will not be for long." "I don't know yet how long I shall stay." "Oh! I did not mean quite that. But let it pass. Shall I tell you the story of the old man? It will interest you, if you don't know Monte Carlo. Nothing is too strange to happen here. It is only ordinary things which never happen in this place, Mademoiselle." "I have a friend who said something like that. Please tell me the story." "I'll make it short, because you will wish to play, is it not? And if you like, I will teach you the game. That old ghost is an Englishman. Some day he will come into money and a title. Meanwhile he is supported by the Casino. Always, morning, noon and night, year in and year out, he is in these rooms; but he is not allowed to play. If he put one five-franc piece on the tables, biff! would go his pension. Twenty-five years it is since he came, they say. I have been here myself but three, and it is a lifetime! It spoils one for other things, somehow. He lost everything at the tables one night, all those years ago; so he crept down to a lonely place on the shore, and cutting his throat, at the same instant threw himself into the sea. But he could not die. The salt water brought him to life. He was found and nursed by a fisherman. When the Casino people heard what had happened they had pity for the unfortunate one. They are not without hearts, these messieurs! Ever since they have supported him. When he comes into his fortune, perhaps he will pay them--who knows? But in any case, he will disappear and be no more seen. We think he is a spy." "A spy?" Mary repeated. "What would a spy do here?" "My poor amateur! There are many. For one thing, they watch for thieves: people who claim the money of others as their own, at the tables. That is quite a way of living. Sometimes it goes very well. But it is a little dangerous. Do you want to play, Mademoiselle? You are sure to have luck on your first night. Even I used to have luck at first." "Have you none now?" Mary asked, pityingly. "Oh, I have no longer even the money to try my luck--to see whether it has come back. Yet once I won twenty thousand francs, all from one louis at trente et quarante, and at one séance. That was a night! a memory to live on. And at present it is well I have it to live on, as there is nothing else." "Oh, how sad, how sad!" exclaimed Mary. "If only you would let me help you a little--in some way." "You are very good, but of course I could not accept charity," said the pale rose, looking down at her faded lace and muslin finery. "Still, if I bring you luck at the game, and you win, I shall feel I have earned something, is it not?" "Yes, indeed," Mary assured her, delighted with the simple solution. "But it seems impossible to get near a table." "It is not impossible," said the other, a gleam bright as the flash of a needle darting from her jade gray eyes. "Many of those people are only watching. They must give way to serious players. You will see! Shall it be trente et quarante or roulette? Roulette, you can tell by the name, is played with a wheel. Trente et quarante with cards--and for that you must go to another room, for all is roulette here. In the card game a louis is the smallest stake. At roulette it is five francs." "I have only five hundred francs," Mary announced. "Then I advise roulette. Besides, it is more amusing. Never can one tire of seeing the wheel go round, and wondering where the dear little white ball will come to rest." "Yes, I feel I shall like roulette better," Mary decided. "That is right. You have temperament, Mademoiselle. Already you listen to your feelings. I too, have a strong feeling. It is, that we shall be friends. My name is Madame d'Ambre--Madeleine d'Ambre. And yours?" "Mary Grant." "Madame or Mademoiselle?" "Mademoiselle, of course." Mary blushed. It seemed almost shocking that any one could even fancy she might be married, she who was just out of the cloister, almost a nun. "Ah, here one is so often Madame while still quite young. Now, let us follow that tall, _chic_ Monsieur who has but one eye and one ear. If we can play what he plays, we are sure to win. Often, when near him, I have prayed that even one five-franc piece might come my way, for since he lost an eye and an ear he never loses money. It was different when he was here a few years ago, before he went out to the east, where he had his mysterious bereavement, no one knows quite what, but it is said that he loved an eastern girl, and was smuggled into a harem. In old days he did nothing but lose, lose." Mary glanced at the person indicated--a tall man in evening dress, whose features would have been agreeable if it had not been for a black patch over one eye and, on the same side of the head, a black pad over the ear, fastened on by a thin elastic cord. Then she glanced away again, feeling faintly sick. "No, I can't follow him," she said. "Not to win a thousand pounds." The lady with the pretty name smiled her sad, tired little smile. "You must not turn pale for so small a thing," she laughed. "There are a hundred people in these rooms to-night far stranger than he. I could tell you things! But see, three Germans are going from the table in front of us. When three Germans move, they leave much room. Keep close to me; that is all you need do." Mary obeyed in silence. She was grateful to her guide, yet somehow she was unable to like her as well as at first. Fragile as Madame d'Ambre appeared, she must have had a metallic strength of will, if not of muscle, for quietly yet relentlessly she insinuated herself in front of other people grouped round the table. Mary would have retreated, abashed, if she had not feared to hurt her new friend's feelings; but rather than be ungracious, she clung, soon finding herself wedged behind a chair and in front of two German ladies. VIII "It is a triumph to seize an advantage from a German!" whispered the Frenchwoman, beginning to look flushed and expectant. "You see that woman in the chair you are touching? She was one of the greatest actresses of the world, Madame Rachel Berenger. Now she is too old and large to act, so she lives in a beautiful villa, across the Italian frontier. She is always coming to Monte Carlo to do this." "This" was scattering gold pieces all over the table, as if she were sowing peas, then changing her mind about them, and reaching wildly out to place them somewhere else. She was dressed in deep mourning, and had a very white face which might once have been beautiful. Now she was like a dissipated Greek statue draped in black. "Faites vos jeux, Messieurs," said one of the six extraordinarily respectable and intelligent-looking men who Mary saw at a glance were employés of the Casino. They were in neat black clothes, with black neckties. Peter had told her that the four who spun the roulette wheel and paid the players were called croupiers, and that they were allowed to have no pockets in the clothes they wore when at work, lest they should be tempted to secrete money. But perhaps this was a fable. And there was so much money! In all her life Mary had not seen as much money as lay on this one expanse of green baize. The man who called on the gamblers to begin staking put out his hand to a large wheel sunk into the middle of the oblong table. This wheel was the same, in immensely exaggerated form, as the toy with which the Dauntreys had played in the train. It was a big disc of shiny metal, set in a shallow well, rimmed with rosewood. All around its edge went a row of little pockets, each coloured alternately red and black. The expanse of green baize was marked off with yellow lines into squares, numbered with yellow figures. The two lengths of yellow patterns going outward from the wheel were facsimiles of each other, and only sixteen players could sit round the table, but eight or ten times that number crowded in double or treble ranks behind the seated ones. The high chairs of the two inspectors who sat opposite one another were usurped by tired women who leaned against them, or tried to perch on the edges; and as the croupier leaned forward to turn the wheel, arms were stretched out everywhere, scrabbling like spiders' legs, staking money selected from piles of notes or gold and silver. The statuelike woman in black dashed on twenty or thirty louis, some on numbers, some on a red lozenge, some on the words _Pair_ and _Manque_. "She cannot possibly win," mumbled Madame d'Ambre. "She has lost her head and staked on so many chances that if one wins she must lose much more on the others. It is absurd. Watch her this time, and next spin I will tell you what to do for yourself." The croupier had picked a little ivory ball out of one of the pockets before setting the wheel in motion. Then, as it began to revolve, with a deft turn of the wrist he launched the ball in a whizzing rush along a narrow shelf inside the rosewood rim, and in a direction contrary to the whirl of the disc. For several seconds, which seemed long and tense to Mary, the wheel revolved, the ivory ball dashing wildly around until the croupier proclaimed in his calm, impersonal voice: "Rien ne va plus!" Some people reluctantly ceased their feverish staking of louis, notes, and five-franc pieces, but others dashed on money up to the last instant. The wheel slackened speed; the ball lost momentum, and, rolling down the slope, struck one of a lozenge-shaped row of obstacles. It rebounded, almost sprang out of the wheel, hesitated over a pocket, and leaped into the next, where it lay still. "Vingt-quatre, noir, pair et passe," announced the calm voice. "Twenty-four! My age and my ticket number! I meant to stake on it!" Mary cried out aloud in her excitement. "Now it is too late." Her regret was so keen as to be agonizing. It seemed that a serious misfortune had befallen her. Something in her head was going round with the ball. She felt as if she ought to have won all the money lying there on the table, as if she had a right to it. People who had won and were having their winnings paid to them were too busy to notice what went on behind their backs; but some of those who had lost and had nothing to do till the time to stake again, tittered faintly and craned their heads round to look at the girl who was almost crying because she had not staked on twenty-four, her age. But Mary did not realize that she was the object of any one's attention, for the statuelike woman in black was shrilly insisting that she had had the maximum, nine louis, on the number 24. "_En plein_, I tell you, _en plein_!" "But no, excuse me, Madame, you had money on black and the second dozen, on pair, and on the _carré_ of twenty-four; but nothing on the number itself. Your maximum was on twenty-six," the croupier explained firmly. "I tell you it was on twenty-four!" shrieked the actress. "Madame is mistaken. You staked in so many different places, it is impossible for you to remember." "It is still more impossible for you. Do you intend to pay me?" "But certainly, for everything you won." "And the maximum on twenty-four?" "Not that, Madame." "I will complain to the management!" "As Madame pleases." "I will stop the game till I am paid!" One of the two inspectors left his high chair, came to the enraged lady and attempted to soothe her. She looked magnificent in her passion, ten years having fallen like a mask from the marble face. The croupier, who had paid her for several bets won, attempted to go on with his duties. People, some delighting in the "row," others annoyed at the delay, placed their stakes, but she, a lioness at bay, stared furiously without putting a piece on the table. As the disc turned, however, she pounced. She threw a louis into the wheel. But the croupier, without changing countenance, took out the coin, pushed it back to her, and began spinning again. In went another louis and again the croupier stopped the wheel. Voices rose in complaint: Russian voices, German voices, English voices. "Is this going on all night?" "Pay Madame," said one of the inspectors. Quietly and with incredible quickness nine times thirty-five louis were counted out, payment for a maximum on a number. As the croupier pushed the notes and gold across the table, a beautiful white hand, blazing with rings, thrust it proudly back again. "That is all I wanted," the actress said, with the air of Lady Macbeth. "The acknowledgment that I was right. Keep the money." The croupier shrugged his shoulders, and spun the wheel, with a bored air. "Faites vos jeux, Messieurs." "Shall I put something for you on twenty-four?" hastily asked Madame d'Ambre. "But it has just come." "It may come again. Often a number repeats. Shall I or not? An instant, and it will be too late." With her heart in her throat, Mary handed the Frenchwoman a hundred-franc note crushed in a ball. Madame d'Ambre asked a croupier near where she stood to stake the money. He did so, just in time. The ball slipped into the pocket of number 21. "Too bad! But better luck next time. Will you try a simple chance, red or black, for instance? Or one of the dozens?" "No, twenty-four again," answered a voice that Mary hardly knew as her own. "I must!" With a trembling hand, she gave her friend nine louis. "That's the maximum for a number, you said," she faltered. "Please put it on." "But all your money will soon be gone at this rate. A louis would bring you thirty-five----" "No, no, the maximum!" Madame d'Ambre, aided by her croupier-neighbour, obeyed. A strange golden haze floated before Mary's eyes. She could not see through it. She tried to tell herself, as the big wheel spun, that this was not important at all; that it did not really matter what happened: yet something inside her said, "It's the most important thing in the world, to win, to win, to make all these people envy you. It isn't the money, it's the joy, the triumph, the ecstasy." The ball dropped. Mary could not look, could not have seen if she had looked: but her whole soul listened for the croupier's announcement. "Vingt-quatre, noir, pair et passe." She trembled all over, as if she were going to fall. She could hardly believe that she had heard aright, until Madame d'Ambre exclaimed close to her ear: "You have won! I told you that I would bring you luck!" The actress, petulant with persistent ill fortune, got up muttering, and pushed back her chair. Mechanically Mary dropped into it. A pile of money, notes and gold, was moved toward her by the croupier's rake. People were staring. She was young and beautiful, and evidently half fainting with excitement. Besides, she had won a large sum. It was always a good thing to win on a number _en plein_. But to win the maximum on a number! That somehow did not often happen except to Russian grand dukes and American millionaires. Mary, confused, and quivering like a struck violin, took her winnings, but, supposing all the money on her side of the table to be hers also, earned by the nine louis, began gayly to gather in with small, white-gloved hands everything within reach. A cry of protest went up, half laughing, half indignant. Groups of non-players who had been chatting or strolling round the rooms hurried to the table to see "what was the row," any sensation, big or small, being an event to receive thankfully. "Mais, Mademoiselle!" The small, predatory hands were arrested: quickly it was explained that when a player wins he has not won all the money on the table. There are others also in luck. Mary, abashed, but too excited to be deeply shamed, apologized in pretty French. Those she would unwittingly have robbed were disarmed by soft eyes and the appeal of dimples. Even hawklike old women ceased to glare. "It is her first séance," was the forgiving whisper. The neat piles of money which she had reduced to ruin and confusion were sorted out again between croupiers and players, while the game obligingly waited. If the offender had been old and dowdy, every one would have grumbled angrily at the bother and delay, but as it was, men grinned and women were tolerant. After three minutes' halt play was ready to begin again. "Better come away now, Mademoiselle. It is I who counsel you," advised Madame d'Ambre. "It is not well to trust such luck too far. Or else, play with a few five-franc pieces to amuse yourself. If you win, so much to the good. If you lose, what matter? You have still the _gros lot_." "I couldn't do that. I must trust my luck. I am going on. I shall play on twenty-four again. I wish there were more ways than one for me to back it, and I would," Mary cried, her cheeks red bonfires of excitement. Madame d'Ambre shrugged her thin shoulders, seeing her own profits diminished. But, a woman of the world, she knew when it was useless to protest. And perhaps this wild amateur was indeed inspired. "There are seven ways in which to back your number for one spin," she said, carried away a little by Mary's spirit. "_En plein_--that is, full on the number as before; _à cheval_--the number and its neighbour; your own and two others--_transversale plain_; the _carré_--four in a square; six--the _transversale simple_: the dozen in which your number is; its column; also the colour. Twenty-four is black. If your number loses, you may win on something else." "Very well. Maximums on all, please." "Impossible! You may not have money enough. On other chances the maximums are much larger." Mary, confused and fearful of being too late, did not stop to reflect or argue. "Nine louis on each of the chances, then," she panted. Madame d'Ambre, reflecting selfishly that even if all stakes lost there would still be a good sum to divide from the last winnings, began placing money in desperate haste, the croupier delaying for an instant his _rien ne va plus_, while one of his fellows helped in putting on the gold. Others, who had finished staking over each other's hats and shoulders, and the whole ring of watchers outside, awaited the decision of Mary's destiny with almost as keen interest as if it were their own. "Vingt-quatre, noir, pair et passe." A murmur rose, and went to Mary's head like wine. This seemed a miracle, performed for her. Unconscious of irreverence, she thought that surely the saints had worked this wonder. She forgot that, because she won, others must lose. "It is marvellous! But these blessed amateurs! It is always they who have the great luck. Twice running--and after twenty-four had been spun just before twenty-one." The numbers were all marked in their right colours with roulette pencils on little cards, or in well-kept notebooks by the players. Every one knew what had "come out" at the table for many past coups. "If you'll back twenty-four again, I'll go on it, too," said, in English, a young man in the chair at Mary's right. He was a brown, well-groomed, clean-shaven youth, whose hair was so light that it looked straw-coloured in contrast with his sunburnt skin. "It's _en chaleur_, as they say of numbers when they keep coming up. It may come a third time running. I've seen it happen. Five repetitions is the record. What do you say?" "I meant to play twenty-four again, anyway," Mary answered, with the peculiar soft obstinacy which had opened the gates of Saint Ursula-of-the-Lake and brought her to Monte Carlo. "You are plucky!" "This time, surely, I've money enough for maximums on everything," Mary said to the Frenchwoman behind her, who was now becoming superstitious concerning the luck of her _petite dinde_. Without protest, Madame d'Ambre selected from the piles of gold and notes now ranged in front of Mary the stakes indicated, and, with a hand not quite steady, placed those within her reach. The neighbouring croupier, faintly smiling, obligingly did the rest, noting without surprise that many players were sportingly, yet timidly, risking fat five-franc pieces on the amateur's number. It was the sort of thing they generally did, the _imbeciles_, when a player was having a sensational run of luck. But certainly there was something magnetic and fatal about this pretty young woman, who was new to the game and the place, something curiously inspiring. Not only he as well as the gamblers felt it, but the croupier at the wheel. The spinner felt in his bones that whether he wished it or not he was certain to spin a third twenty-four. A round of applause went up from perhaps fifty pairs of hands when the ball was seen to lie once more in the pocket numbered 24. Mary, realizing that the applause was meant for her, felt like a spirit released from its body. She was a goddess on a pinnacle. This was life: the wine of life. It was not the money she thought of. All the gold and paper which had suddenly become hers was nothing in itself, but what it represented was victory extending over the forces of nature. This mysterious game, whose next turn none could foretell, seemed to be yielding its secret to her. She had the conviction that Something was telling her what to do, what would happen with the spin of the wheel. It would be madness and a kind of vile ingratitude to stop now, while the Something was there. Hearing the applause, which meant a coup of uncommon interest, people came hurrying from every direction, some even running, with a peculiar step which kept them from slipping on the polished floor. Many had learned this from long practice in running in with the early gamblers at the morning opening of the Casino, when it is "first come, first served," at the chairs. Those who had been watching the play at other tables, or those who had been losing, joined the rush. "What is she going to do now, _cette petite sorcière_?" was the question. Hearing it, Mary was flattered to a higher pitch of excitement and self-confidence. She must, she must do something to justify everybody's expectation. The Casino was hers, and there was no world outside--nothing but this magic place of golden light and golden coins. "What next?" inquired Madame d'Ambre, late mentor, now courtier. "I'll do whatever you do," said the brown young man, who was English or American. She looked at the disc as a seeress looks at a crystal. The spinner had his hand on the cross-piece of metal which turns the wheel. "What does that 0 mean, on the little brown square between the red and black numbers?" she asked her neighbour gravely. "That's what they call 'zero.' You can bet on it like any number; but when it comes, if you're not on it, all your stakes go--biff!--except on the simple chances, when you are put in 'prison,' or else you can take back half. Lots of people like zero better than anything, because they think the croupiers try to spin it, for the good of the bank. It's called _l'ami de la maison_." "How nice and friendly," said Mary. "I'll put money on zero. What's the maximum?" "The same as on the other numbers _en plein_: nine louis." "Then I'll have that on zero," said Mary. Many players followed her lead, and every one was calling out "zero" and pushing or throwing coins to the croupiers to be staked on that chance. "Zero!" Mary was paid nine times thirty-five louis, six thousand three hundred francs, and the others who, superstitiously following her lead, had risked five-franc pieces and louis on _l'ami de la maison_, shared her luck in different degrees. "Zero once more, please, Madame," said Mary to her companion. "But no! impossible! It will be something else." "Perhaps. Still--I will try." She was right. Zero came again, followed by louder rounds of applause. By this time the whole Casino knew what was going on. A glorified amateur, an English girl, was winning maximums on numbers again and again, in succession, at the table nearest the wall-portrait of the architect, in the Salle Schmidt. Non-players or discouraged losers bore down upon the "architect's table," running even from the distant trente-et-quarante room. The story sounded rather like a fairy tale, but the enormous crowd round the centre of interest, and the comparatively slack business being done at other tables, proved its truth. None of the newcomers, even the tallest, could see, but they could hear, and they could feel the thrill from the inner circle. "And now, Mademoiselle? What will you do? Remember, your luck can't go on forever," murmured Madame d'Ambre, anxious to divide the spoil, which might yet vanish like fairy gold. "I--I will take twenty-four again, and everything round it." Many players who had money left, and could reach to put on their stakes, also chose twenty-four. And twenty-four came up. This was historic! No one but the Grand Duke Michael and the few famous punters of the world had such persistent and consecutive luck. A chef de table in a high chair stood up and unobtrusively beckoned a footman hovering on the far fringe of the crowd. Three minutes later, with equal unobtrusiveness, more money was brought, lest the supply of the table should run low. Few noticed, or knew that anything unusual had happened, with the exception of the play; but Madame d'Ambre had been hoping for and expecting something of the sort. "They are afraid you will break the bank," she said, in a stage-whisper not meant to be wasted. Those near her who understood French glanced up quickly. Croupiers smiled and said nothing. A murmur went round the table, and flowed like the rippling circles from a stone dropped in a pond, to the crowd which ringed it in. "What do you mean?" asked Mary. "Oh, the bank does not really break! They do not even stop play in these days. But they send for more money lest it be needed. Ah, the colossal compliment!" The pride in Mary's heart was like a stab of pain, almost unbearable in its intensity. But suddenly, as if the current of her thought had been broken, her inspiration seemed gone. The Something was no longer there, telling her where to stake. She wished to play again, but felt at sea, without a rudder. Her unconscious vanity rebelled against risking loss at this table of which she had been the queen, the idol. She rose, pale and suddenly tired. "I won't play any more," she said, in a little voice, like a child's. "Oh, why?" asked the young man with the straw-coloured hair. "I don't know why," she answered. "Only I don't want to." "Your money!" exclaimed Madame d'Ambre. "We must have all the gold put into _mille_ notes, or you cannot carry it." For an instant Mary had forgotten the money and the necessity of taking it away, but Madame d'Ambre, who had now firmly identified her own interests with those of her protégée, attended to the practical duties of the partnership. She was somewhat disagreeably conscious that the young man's eyes were fixed upon her as she collected her friend's enormous winnings. As people made way for the Frenchwoman and her starlike companion to pass, this man gathered up his small store of gold and silver, and followed. On the outskirts of the crowd stood the Dauntreys and their party. Mary and Madame d'Ambre passed close to them, but the heroine of the moment was too intensely excited to recognize any one. She walked as if on air, her hands full of notes, some of which she was stuffing into her gold-beaded bag. "Why, it's the girl in the train who said she was going to Florence," exclaimed Dodo Wardropp. "Can she be the one who's made the sensation?" "Yes, it's she," said Lady Dauntrey. "See how they're looking at her, and pointing her out. I wonder if it's true she's won thousands of pounds?" No one answered. Lord Dauntrey had slipped quietly away from the others, and found a place at a table near enough to play over some one's head. This was the first time he had found a chance to test his new system, except on the toy roulette wheel. He began staking five-franc pieces, and writing down notes in a small book. The bored look was burned out of his weary eyes. They brightened, and a more healthful colour slowly drove away his unnatural paleness. The others, who had been playing in the new rooms, did not follow or look for him. They stared at every one who seemed worth staring at. The two Americans and Dodo expected Lady Dauntrey to know everybody. It was for this, partly, that they were paying large sums to her, and they felt a depressed need of getting their money's worth. So far the arrangements for their comfort at the Villa Bella Vista were disappointing. Still, two young men of title were there, and that was something, although one of them was only an Austrian count, and the other no better than a baronet. But Lord Dauntrey promised for to-morrow morning Dom Ferdinand de Trevanna, the Pretender to an historic throne. Dodo, according to Miss Collis, had "grabbed" the English baronet, and left her only the Austrian count, who looked younger than any man could really be, and had a wasp-waist which, when he bowed--as he did irritatingly often--seemed liable to snap in two. It was if anything more slender than her own, and she disliked him for it. Lady Dauntrey had Mrs. Collis on her hands, and looked sombrely discontented. But she waked up at sight of Mary. The long, pale eyes between black fringes followed the blue and silver-gold figure with silent interest. Then the handsome face became subtle and greedy. As Mary was piloted outside the crowd by Madame d'Ambre, four young women separated themselves hastily from the group round the table, and bore down upon the pair. They were young, or else clinging desperately to the ragged edges of their youth, and all four were dressed in clothes which had been beautiful. They knew Madame d'Ambre, knew her very well indeed, for they called her "Madeleine" or "Chère Lena." Nevertheless, she did not appear pleased to see them. "Bon soir, mes amies," she said evasively, and would have passed on, but, laughingly, they stopped her. One, who had a marvellous complexion, large black eyes, and bright golden hair, exclaimed, with a charming Parisian accent, that they could not let their Madeleine leave them like that. They had been waiting to congratulate her friend. "We pray that thou wilt introduce us, dear one," the spokeswoman suggested. "Surely Mademoiselle wishes to add to her happiness by making others happy?" She turned a swimming gaze upon Mary. "Figure to yourself, Mademoiselle; we are unlucky; four companions in misery. It is our bad luck which has united us. Our jewels are all pawned. Not one of us has eaten anything since the first _déjeuner_. And we have a hunger!" Mary stared, disconcerted by this tale of misfortune suddenly flung at her head, and scarcely sure if it were not a practical joke. The four young women were so charmingly dressed, their hair was so carefully waved, their complexions so pink and white, that it was impossible to believe in their poverty. Besides, they could evidently afford perfume, so luscious that it must be expensive. Mary thought that they smelled very good; then, a little too good; then, far, far too good, and at last almost unbearable. "You are joking," she said, timidly. "Indeed we are not," replied another of the group, a red-haired girl with brown, almond-shaped eyes. "We so hope that you will be an angel, and invite us all to supper." "What nonsense, Clotilde!" exclaimed Madame d'Ambre. "We have already an engagement for supper." "Ah, then surely, Mademoiselle, you will share your luck with us in some way? Otherwise, you can't hope to keep it." "I should be glad to share it," Mary said, warmly. "What can I do?" The red-haired lady broke into gestures. "She who has won a fortune asks us who have nothing what she can do for us? How she is amusing, this pretty English one!" "Would you--might I--that is----" Mary began to stammer. "We would--you might!" Clotilde finished for her, laughing. "I wonder you have not more pride!" Madame d'Ambre reproached the four, her white-rose cheeks flushing with annoyance. "Pride does not buy us supper, or new hats," the girl with golden hair reminded her. "Oh, please take these, and do whatever you like with them," Mary said hastily, her voice quivering with shyness and compassion. She began dealing out her thousand-franc notes, and did not stop until she had given one to each of the four. It was at this moment that Prince Giovanni Della Robbia, unable to resist his desire to follow Mary to the Casino, came within sight of her. This was the picture he saw: the strikingly dressed girl, bright-eyed, carmine-cheeked, feverishly distributing notes to a crowd of young women more showily dressed than herself. He turned away instantly, chilled and disgusted. IX Others were less fastidious than Vanno. The calm-faced man with black pads over the left eye and ear joined Madame d'Ambre, with a lazy yet determined air, and a glance of interest at Mary. Seeing the brown youth who had been at her table, the elder man nodded to him. This gave Mary's late neighbour an excuse which he had wanted. He stopped, and held out his hand. "How are you, Captain Hannaford?" he asked. "Hullo, Carleton!" returned the other. "Here for the Nice flying week?" "Yes," said Carleton, who, beside Hannaford the Englishman, showed by contrast his American origin. His chin was all that Peter had said an American's chin ought to be, and he had keen, brilliant blue eyes. Hannaford, though taller than he, was stouter as well as older, and therefore appeared less tall. He was of a more stolid type, and it seemed incredible that such an adventure as that sketched by Madame d'Ambre could approach such a man. Yet for once, gossip and truth were one. The thing had happened. Hannaford had lately retired from the army, after being stationed for two years in Egypt. For months he had lingered aimlessly in Monte Carlo. Life seemed over for him. But time remained, and must be killed, unless he preferred to kill himself. He had met Dick Carleton in Egypt last year, where the youngest American aeronaut was making experiments with a new monoplane in a convenient tract of desert. At that time Captain Hannaford had not worn the little black silk pads. He was grateful to the American for not seeming to look at them now. "I'm here for the flying, with a hydro-aeroplane I'm rather proud of," Carleton went on, "but I'm not staying at Monte. I'm visiting Jim Schuyler, at his place between here and Cabbé-Roquebrune. Lovely place it is. No wonder he never bothers with the Casino, except for concerts and opera. Have you met him?" "No. But I know him by name, of course. The names of these American millionaires are all-pervading, like microbes. Why does he pitch his tent on the threshold of Monte, if not for the Casino?" "He says lots of people live about here who never play: and there are other attractions. He has all the gambling he wants in Wall Street: comes here for beauty and music. He gets plenty of both; doesn't go in for society any more than for roulette, but seems to enjoy himself, the two or three months he does the hermit act in his gorgeous garden. He's at the opera to-night. Motored me over. We'll meet, and go back together to Stellamare. Meanwhile----" "Meanwhile, I rather guess, as you'd say, that you'd like to meet my charming--er--acquaintance, and her friend." "I _never_ say 'guess,' nor does anybody else, except in books or plays, but I should like to meet the ladies." "Madame d'Ambre is so busy regretting she didn't get smaller change for her _protégée's_ unforeseen charities that she's forgotten us. I was watching the fun at your table, toward the last." At the sound of her name, the Frenchwoman turned. Four thousand francs was gone forever, but there was as little use in wailing over money wasted as in crying for spilt milk, so she smiled her pathetic, turned-down smile at Captain Hannaford, and looked wistfully at Dick Carleton. Then quickly, lest further irrevocable things should happen, she laid her hand on Mary's arm. It was a gloved hand, and the glove had been mended many times. Soon, it must be thrown away; but perhaps that need not matter now. There might be a path leading to new gloves and other things. She introduced Captain Hannaford to Mademoiselle Grant, and he in turn introduced "Mr. Richard Carleton, the well-known airman," to them both. Madeleine could speak a little English, but with difficulty, and preferred French. Still, it would have been unwise to tell secrets in English when she was near. Seeing that she had no intention of passing on the introduction, Clotilde et Cie. retired gracefully, each of the four a thousand francs richer and a thousand times happier than she had been five minutes before. "What about supper?" said Hannaford. "Gambling always makes me hungry. I'm in luck to-night. Won't you three be my guests at Ciro's?" "You are always in luck nowadays," sighed Madame d'Ambre. A shadow seemed to pass over the stolid face of the man, but she did not see it. "Naturally we accept the kind invitation, is it not so, dear Mademoiselle?" "I must be at Ciro's anyhow, about midnight," said Carleton, "for Schuyler asked me to meet him there for a Welsh rabbit after the opera. But I'll be delighted to go over and sit with you till he comes." He had the pleasant drawl of a Southerner. "Oh, you're very, very kind," stammered Mary. "But I"--she hesitated, and glanced appealingly at Madame d'Ambre--"I think it's rather late, and I shall have to go home." "Home?" echoed Hannaford, questioningly. "My hotel," she explained. As Madame d'Ambre drew her friend aside for a murmur of advice, the two men looked at each other, Carleton puzzled, Hannaford with raised eyebrows. "I think they're both charming," the American remarked in a low voice. "That little Madame d'Ambre isn't nearly as pretty as Miss Grant, but she's fetching, and looks a bit down on her luck, as if she'd had trouble." "Perhaps she has," said Hannaford. "But, dear Mademoiselle," Madeleine was pleading at a little distance, "why won't you go to supper? Do! It would be so pleasant. I have so little happiness; and this would at least give me an hour of distraction." "You can go without me," said Mary. "Captain Hannaford is your friend, isn't he?" "Ah, I see! The sight of the poor afflicted man disgusts you. If you refuse, he will know why. It will be ungracious--cruel." "Don't say that," Mary implored, much distressed. "I wouldn't hurt his feelings for the world. It's true I _can't_ bear to look at him, though he hasn't a bad face. But it isn't only that. I could try to get over it. The other reason is, I never met him or Mr. Carleton before, and--and I don't know anything about society, or what is done; but I have a sort of feeling----" "Mais mon Dieu!" murmured Madame d'Ambre. "Quelle petite sotte! No matter. It is a pretty pose, and suits you well. I am the last to find fault with it. Yet listen. These gentlemen are distinguished. Captain Hannaford is an English officer who has been of a courage incredible. He can wear many medals if he chooses. Now he is very sad, despite his luck in the Casino. He needs cheering. And this young Monsieur Carleton, the American, I have read of him in the papers. He is widely known as a man who flies, and these airmen are of a nobility of character! I am your chaperon. What more do you ask? I am the widow of a naval officer. Do you not owe me something for the good turn I have done you to-night?" "Yes, indeed, I owe you a great deal," Mary admitted. It was quite certain that what Madame d'Ambre considered as owing to her would be paid. Prince Vanno saw the four leaving the Casino together, Mary and Carleton walking behind the other two. He had met both the Englishman and the American in Egypt once or twice, and had not thought of them since. Now he would forget neither. The story about Hannaford and his retirement from the army, Vanno knew. He had heard nothing of Carleton except what was to his credit, but somehow this fact made it no less unpleasant for Vanno that the aeronaut should be talking with Mary. He did not believe they had met before to-night. The Galerie Charles Trois was brilliantly lighted, and supper was beginning behind immense glass windows at Ciro's and the glittering white and gold restaurant of the Metropole. At Ciro's there had been a dinner in honour of two celebrated airmen, and the decorations remained. There were suspended monoplanes and biplanes made of flowers, and when the great Ciro himself saw Carleton, he came forward, inviting the young man to take a window-table. Carleton explained that he was only a guest; but this made no difference. Except the King of Sweden's table, and that of the Grand Duke Cyril, Mr. Carleton and his friends must have the best. "My dear friend," said Hannaford, as they sat down, letting his eyes dwell on Madame d'Ambre's costume, "it's lucky for us that we are with a celebrity, or the fatted calf would not have been prepared for us. No use disguising the truth: you and I are a little the worse for wear. Only with you, the damage is temporary. Put you into a new frock and hat, and you'll revive like a flower in fresh water. Nothing can revive me. You see, I look facts in the face." "Could one not make facts pleasant to see, if one must look them in the face?" Mary ventured, gently. "I'm sure you will make them so for Madame," said Hannaford. "It is only those who are very happy, or very miserable, who can joke forever, as you do," said Madame d'Ambre. "I can understand you now, or I could, at my worst. But for the moment I have new life. I try to forget the future." As they ate a delicious and well-chosen supper she revived, delicately, and regarded her misfortunes from a distance. "To think, if I had not met you all, and if I had kept my resolve," she said, "by now I should have found out the great secret." As she spoke, a tall, thin man came to the table, and laid his hand on Dick Carleton's shoulder. So doing, he stood looking straight into Madame d'Ambre's face. She started a little, and blushed deeply. Blushes were a great stock-in-trade with Madame d'Ambre. They proved that, unlike Clotilde et Cie., she did not paint her face: that she was altogether a different order of being. But this blush was less successful than usual. It was a flush of annoyance, and showed that she was vexed. The man was more American in type than Carleton, though indefinably so. If a critic had been asked how he would know this person to be a New Yorker, even if met wrapped in bearskins at the North Pole, he might have been at a loss to explain. Nevertheless, the dark face with its twinkling, heavily black-lashed blue eyes, its short, wavy black hair turning gray at the temples, its prominent nose and chin, lips and jaws slightly aggressive in their firmness, was the distilled essence of New York. So were the strong, lean figure, and the nervous, virile hands. "Hello, Jim!" exclaimed Carleton, turning quickly at the touch on his shoulder. "I've only played with a dish or two. I was waiting for you, really." He got up, and rather shyly introduced the party to his host of the celebrated Stellamare. "I have the pleasure of knowing this lady slightly, already," said Schuyler, still fixing Madeleine with his straight, disconcerting gaze. "Madame d'Ambre?" "I don't think we knew each other's name. I had the honour of doing a small--a very small--service for Madame, such a service as any man may be allowed to do for a lady at Monte Carlo." If he laid an emphasis on the last two words, it was hardly strong enough to be noticed, unless by the person most concerned. "Do sit down with us, and eat the Welsh rabbit Carleton has been talking about," said Hannaford. "This is my show. I shall be delighted, and I'm sure I speak for the ladies." Madame d'Ambre murmured something, and Mary smiled a more than ordinarily friendly smile; for she knew that this was the distant cousin of whom she had heard from Peter, the "Jim" who, in Molly Maxwell's eyes, was an heroic figure. Peter never tired of telling anecdotes of Jim's wonderful feats of finance, his coolness and daring in times of black panic or perilous uncertainty in Wall Street, his scholarly attainments, of which he never spoke; his passion for music and gardens, and other contradictory traits such as no one would have expected in a keen business man. Sometimes Mary had fancied that Peter was a little inclined to fall in love with Jim Schuyler, perhaps because he was one of the few men she knew who did not grovel at her feet. Now Mary looked at the man with intense interest, and could imagine a girl like Molly Maxwell making him her hero, in spite of the difference between their ages. Molly was not twenty-one. He must be thirty-eight or forty, and would have looked hard if it had not been for the blue eyes which might soften dangerously under certain influences. Mary's first impulse on hearing his name was to cry out, "Why, your cousin Molly Maxwell is my best friend!" But something imperatively stopped her. Deep down under the excitement and pleasure of this adventure into which fate had plunged her, murmured a little voice, saying, "You ought not to have come to this place alone, when they all trusted you to go straight to Florence." And if she were doing wrong and meant to keep on doing wrong, she must not associate herself with Saint Ursula-of-the-Lake, in the minds of people here. It would not be fair to the convent and Reverend Mother, not even fair to Aunt Sara and Elinor, who believed her to be journeying obediently toward Florence. Thinking thus, she determined to say nothing of her own life to those she might meet at Monte Carlo. Soon she would go away, and no real harm would have been done to any one. As for this supper, if she had lingering doubts that it was not quite "the thing" to have accepted, the name of Jim Schuyler chased them away like clouds before the sun. It was like being with an old friend to have Peter's cousin there; and Dick Carleton was staying with him. Mr. Carleton and Captain Hannaford were friends, and Mr. Schuyler evidently knew Madame d'Ambre, so everything had turned out delightfully. Also it was exciting to see how people who came in looked at her and whispered. She could not help knowing that they said, "There's the girl who won so much in the Casino that everybody rushed to her table and applauded." It was wonderful, intoxicating, to be the heroine of such a place, to have experienced players envy her. She longed for to-morrow morning, so that she might go back to the same table at the Casino, and play on zero and twenty-four again. "I think I shall always make that my game, and go to the same table," she said to herself, with the unconscious egotism and vanity of a child. "What was that I caught as I arrived, about 'finding out the great secret?'" Schuyler asked, when he sat down at a place made for him on Madame d'Ambre's right hand. Again he fixed his eyes on her, this time with polite interest. "I thought the words sounded familiar. I remember your saying something of the sort, I'm sure, the evening of our first meeting." "I do not recall it, Monsieur," replied Madeleine. "It was on the Casino terrace," he went on, reflectively. "I was walking there between the first and second acts of an opera, about a fortnight ago. We met, and you seemed depressed, Madame. It was then I was able to do you that small service." "I did not think of it as a service," she said, bitterly. "Ah, now the occasion has come back to you. What, not a service when a lady has a little bottle of poison stuck into her belt, and a man drinks it himself rather than she should keep her threat and swallow it!" "It was not a threat. I would have drunk the poison and ended everything," she insisted. "If I hadn't been so selfish and greedy as to take it out of your hand and sample it. Strange it did me no harm. I had a presentiment it wouldn't, somehow. But of course my system may be poison-proof. By the way, isn't that the same pretty little bottle I see now, tucked into your belt! And were you thinking of trying its effect again to-night, if these friends hadn't come in time to cheer you up, and so put off the evil day?" "You are very cruel to make sport of my tragedy, Monsieur!" Madame d'Ambre exclaimed, her soft wistfulness flashing into anger. "These sympathetic ones have saved me from myself by their generosity. They have made me happy. Why do you go out of your way to remind me of misery?" Schuyler's blue eyes twinkled cynically, yet not unkindly. "I quite understand that you can be saved from yourself only by sufficient generosity, Madame," he said. "The question is, what is sufficient? Too much sometimes goes to the head. Far be it from me to upset your cup of happiness. But drink wisely, Madame, in little sips, not in great gulps. It's better for the health--of all concerned. And the contents of your bottle will no doubt be just as efficacious another time." "I know what you mean," she flung at him, viperishly. "You have heard of Mademoiselle's luck to-night. You think I mean to take advantage of her. I would not----" "Of course not, Madame. You, the widow of a naval officer! Have I accused you of anything?" Schuyler cut her short, with sudden gayety of manner. "I've heard of Mademoiselle's luck. She was pointed out to me by a man I know, as I came in, just before joining you. But as I'm aware that you're a good business woman, my idea is that the advantage you'll take won't amount to more than 5 per cent. More would be usury, and give Mademoiselle an unfavourable idea of Monte Carlo manners." He spoke with deliberation, allotting each word its full value; and before Madame d'Ambre could leash her rage, he turned to Mary. "Talking of Monte Carlo manners," he took up the theme again, "you mustn't judge hastily. There isn't _one_ Monte Carlo. There are many. I don't suppose you ever saw a cocktail of any sort, much less one called the 'rainbow?' It's in several different coloured layers of liquid, each distinct from the other, as far as taste and appearance are concerned, though they blend together as you drink. It wouldn't do to sip the top layer, and say what the decoction was like, before you absorbed the whole--with discrimination. Well, that cocktail's something like Monte Carlo. Only you begin the cocktail at the top. In the Monte Carlo rainbow you sometimes begin at the bottom." He looked steadily at Mary as he finished his simile. Then he lifted the silver cover of a dish which had just arrived, and gave his whole attention to a noble Welsh rabbit, an odd dainty for a Riviera supper--but Ciro prided himself on gratifying any whim of any customer, at five minutes' notice. Captain Hannaford had listened in silence, with a light of malicious amusement in his eyes, which travelled from Madeleine to Mary, from Mary to Madeleine, and occasionally to Dick Carleton. Mary, despite her blank ignorance of the world and its ways, was far from stupid or slow of understanding. She realized that Schuyler's harangue to Madame d'Ambre was all, or almost all, for her: and she caught his meaning in the last sentence of the rainbow allegory. He wanted her to know that she had "begun at the bottom," and must beware. She was half vexed, half grateful; vexed for Madeleine, and grateful for herself, because, being Peter's hero, he must be a good man, who would not be cruel to a woman for sheer love of cruelty. But her shamed pity for Madeleine was stronger than her gratitude; and instead of giving less out of her winnings than she had planned to give, she impulsively decided to give more; this, not because she believed in or liked Madeleine d'Ambre, but because she winced under a sister woman's humiliation. The ugly flash in the eyes that had been wistful, shocked her. She saw that they were cat-coloured eyes, and Jim Schuyler scored as he meant to score, in her resolve to pay Madame d'Ambre well, then gently to slip out of her friendship. "When we finish supper, she can go with me to my hotel, and we'll divide the money into three parts," Mary said to herself. "I'll give her two, and keep one. Even one will be like a little fortune; and whatever happens I'll keep enough to get away with; but I _must_ play again to-morrow. It's too wonderful to stop yet." But she was reckoning without Jim Schuyler. When he saw the eyes of Madeleine hint that it was time to go, he said quickly, "Well, Mademoiselle, have you counted your winnings, and do you know exactly what they amount to?" "No," said Mary, "not yet. I thought Madame d'Ambre and I might do that afterward." "Can't we save you the trouble?" he asked. "Why not spread your store here on the table, and let us all work out the calculation? Everybody knows you broke the bank, so there's no imprudence or ostentation in displaying your wealth." Without a word, Mary accepted the suggestion, since not to do so would have seemed ungrateful. "She's given away a lot already," said Carleton. "I saw her distributing _mille_ notes to lovely but unfortunate gamblers, as if she were dealing out biscuits." "Oh, I gave away only four," Mary excused herself. "They were nothing." Everybody laughed except Madeleine. The fat stacks of French banknotes were extracted with some effort from the hand-bag into which they had been stuffed. Captain Hannaford and Schuyler counted while the others watched, Carleton with amused interest, Mary with comparative indifference, because the actual money meant less to her than the thrill of winning it, and Madame d'Ambre on the verge of tears. She considered that she was being robbed of her rights, for she knew that this merciless man with the hard jaw and pleasant blue eyes intended to keep her hands off the money. "One hundred and nine thousand francs!" Schuyler announced at last. "I congratulate you, Mademoiselle. And I wish you'd let me advise you." "If I did, what would you say?" Mary smiled. "I should say: 'Go home to-morrow.'" "But I've just come away from home. I don't want to go back." "Well, then, go to some other place, a place without a Casino." "I suppose that's good advice," said Mary. "But--I can't take it yet." "I'm sorry," returned Peter's cousin. The whole conversation had been in French from the first, as Madame d'Ambre knew little English; and Mary's accent was so perfect that to an American or English ear it passed as Parisian. Neither Hannaford, Schuyler, nor Carleton supposed that she had just arrived from England, though her name--if they had caught it correctly--was English or Scotch. "Mademoiselle" they called her, and wondering who and what she was, vaguely associated her with France, probably Paris. "How long shall you stay?" asked Carleton, in the pause that followed. "I don't know," Mary said. "A few days, perhaps." "Will you come down to the Condamine and see my hydro-aeroplane to-morrow? I'm keeping her there, and practising a bit in the harbour, before taking her to Nice." "Oh, I should love to! I've never seen any sort of aeroplane, not even a picture of one." "That's clever and original of you, anyhow. Where have you been, to avoid them? What time to-morrow? Is ten o'clock too early?" Mary blushed. "Would afternoon suit you? I feel as if I should have luck again, if I played in the morning." "Afternoon, of course," Carleton assented politely, though he was disappointed; for in giving the invitation he had been following his friend's lead in trying to save the moth from the candle. "Shall we say three o'clock? I'll call for you." "We'll both call, with my car," said Schuyler. "But what about that 5 per cent. which I suppose you want to give your roulette teacher?" he went on, with apparent carelessness. "I want to give her more," Mary confessed, with that soft obstinacy which people found difficult to combat. But Schuyler had weapons for padded barricades. He turned to Madeleine. "I'm certain that Madame will refuse to accept more," he said. She faced him defiantly. Then her eyes fell. She dared not make him an active enemy. Though he never gambled, he was a man of influence at the Casino, for he was a friend of those highest in authority, and had power "on the Rock," also, for the Prince and he were on visiting terms, Madeleine d'Ambre had learned these details since the evening on the terrace when he had tested her "poison." "Yes, I--should refuse to accept," she echoed, morosely. "Virtue is its own reward; and there may be others," Schuyler said as he deducted a sum equal to 5 per cent. from Mary's winnings and pushed it across the table. But even this was not the end of his interference. When Madeleine rose and Mary sprang up obediently, he proposed that they, the three men, should see the ladies home. This plan was carried out; and when Mary had been left at the door of the Hôtel de Paris, they insisted on taking Madame d'Ambre at once down the hill to her lodgings in the Condamine. The penance was made only a little lighter to the victim by a lift in Schuyler's automobile. She was far from grateful to its owner, and made no answer except a twist of the shoulders to his last words: "Remember not to change your mind. It isn't safe in this climate." When they had dropped Hannaford at his hotel, also in the Condamine, Carleton lost no time in satisfying his curiosity. "I never saw you take so much trouble, Jim, over a woman. Is it a case of love at first sight, old man?" "Bosh!" said Schuyler, "Don't you know me better? That girl puzzles me. There's something very odd about her. I'm conceited enough to think I can generally size people up pretty well at first sight, but she beats me. I can't make her out. And besides----" "Besides--what?" "I know I never saw her before, yet her face seems familiar. I associate her with--it's idiotic--but with the person I care for most in the world. Heaven knows why. I don't." "Do I know who that person is?" Carleton ventured, unable to resist the temptation. "No, you don't know," the older man returned, rather gruffly. "And I'm pretty sure you never will, because the less I talk or think about that person the better for me. That part of the story has nothing to do with the case. There's only this queer impression of mine. And I had a weird feeling as if it were my bounden duty to see that this little girl wasn't victimized by an unscrupulous woman. So I did what I could." "I should think you did!" exclaimed the other. "I couldn't have done as much. Poor Madame d'Ambre." "Her real name's probably the French for Smith, without a 'de' in it, unless it's to spell devil. If she's a widow, she's a grassy one. Her game is to be found crying on the Casino terrace by moonlight, preparatory to drinking poison, because she's tired of life and its temptations. If it's a young lieutenant just off his ship for a flutter at Monte, or some other lamb of that fleeciness, he's soon shorn. There's quite a good living in it, I understand. She always contrives to make the youngsters believe her an innocent angel, whom they must try to save." "But you seem to have been on in that act. Was it a moonlight scene?" "Plenty of moonshine--and clear enough for me to see through the angelhood to the designing minxhood. The poison was water, coloured, I should think, with cochineal, and pleasantly flavoured with a little bitter almond. But--well, one sees through people sometimes, as if they were jelly-fish, and yet is a little sorry for them just because they _are_ jelly-fish, stranded on the beach." "I see," said Carleton. They were spinning along the white way that winds between mountain and sea, out of the principality, and so toward Cap Martin, Mentone, and on to Italy. The tramcars had ceased to run; the endless daytime procession of motor-cars and carriages was broken by the hours of sleep, and the glimmering road was empty save for immense, white-covered carts which had come from distant Lombardy, and over Alpine passes, bringing eggs and vegetables for the guests of Hercules. Slowly, yet steadily, shambled the tired mules, and would shamble on till dawn. There were often no lights on the carts, which moved silently, like mammoth ghosts, great lumbering vehicle after vehicle, each drawn by three or four mules or horses. As the lamps of Schuyler's powerful car flashed on them round sharp rock-corners, tearing the veil of shadow, they loomed up unexpectedly in the night, like some mystery suddenly revealed in a place of peace. Schuyler liked motoring at night on the Riviera; for he never tired of the dark forms of mountains, cut out black in the creamy foam of star-spattered clouds, or the salt smell of the sea and its murmur, singing the same song Greeks and Romans had heard on these shores. He never tired of meeting the huge carts from Italy, travelling slowly through the dark. He always had the same keen, foolish wish to know whence they came, and what were the thoughts behind the bright eyes which waked from sleep and stared for an instant, as his lamps pried under the great quaking canopies: and more than all he enjoyed arriving at his own gate, seeing the pale shimmer of his marble statues against backgrounds of ivy and ilex, and drawing in the sweetness of his orange blossoms and roses. Because he never tired of these things the two months at Stellamare, often spent alone except for servants, were the best months of his year. Through stress and strain he thought of them, as a thirsty man thinks of a long draught of cool water; and he spent them quietly, living in each moment: not complicating his leisure with many acquaintances or amusements, and neither vexed nor pleased because people called him selfish, and gossipped about his palace in a garden as a place mysterious and secret. He was not quite in Paradise in his retreat there, because he was not a perfectly happy man; but he did not expect perfect happiness, and hoped for nothing better on earth than his lonely holidays at Stellamare. Descending a steep hill toward the sea as the big car slipped between tall marble gate-posts, a perfume as of all the sweetest flowers of the world, gathered in a bouquet, was flung into the two men's faces. In the distance, beyond the house whose windows suddenly lit up as if by magic, a wide semi-circle of marble columns glimmered pale against the sea's deep indigo. And away across the stretch of quiet water glittered the amazing jewels of Monte Carlo. "By Jove! no Roman emperor could have had a lovelier garden, or a more splendid palace on this coast," said Carleton, as he stood on the steps of the house modelled after the description of Pliny's villa at Laurentum. "Your greatest wish must be fulfilled." "My greatest wish," Schuyler echoed, with a faint sigh. And in the starlight his face lost its hard lines. But Carleton did not see. The door was thrown open by an old Italian servant, who had the profile of a captive Saracen king. They went in together, and left the night full of perfume, and the song of little waves fringed with starlight, that broke on the rocks like fairy-gold--the vanishing fairy-gold of the Casino across the water. And at the same moment (for it was very late) the dazzling illumination of the Casino terrace was dimmed, as if half the diamonds had been shut up in velvet cases. A great peace fell upon the night, as though the throbbing of a passionate heart had ceased. X Vanno Della Robbia wished to think no more of the false stars that he had followed; for there was every reason now to believe them false stars. Yet something deep down in him refused to believe this; and he could not help thinking of them as before. But he would not give way to what seemed like weakness, and so he fought against the memory. If he had come to Monte Carlo only for the sake of the girl, he would have left again next morning. Having come for other things, however, it would have been weaker to go than stay. His brother and sister-in-law had not arrived yet at their villa at Cap Martin, and were not due for some days, as Angelo had taken his bride to Ireland, to show her to a much loved cousin, the Duchess of Clare. Also there was the week of aviation, to which Vanno had been looking forward with interest during the voyage from Alexandria to Marseilles. A parachute which he had invented was to be used for the first time. Though he could not help thinking of the eyes which haunted him with their lure of purity and innocence, he would not concern himself further with the comings and goings of Miss M. Grant of London. He went instead about his own affairs. He slept badly; but Vanno was accustomed to taking little sleep, therefore it did not occur to him to be tired because he woke finally at seven, after having lain awake till the ringing of Ste. Devote's five o'clock bells, down in the ravine. Instead, he felt a kind of burning energy which forced him to activity of some sort. After his cold bath he dressed quickly, and went out to walk, wishing himself back in the Libyan desert, where he had not seen or thought of any woman. It was only half-past seven, and the sun was still low in the east, just rising above the mountains of Italy. It shone through a slit in two long purple clouds, and its shining lit the sea. Vanno ran down the steps to the Casino terrace, coming upon it near the clump of nymphlike palms, and the marble bust of Berlioz that Mary could see from her window. Hercules' Rock was on fire with sunrise, and the Prince's palace looked in the magic flame like a strange Valhalla. Not a soul was to be seen, not even a gardener employed by the Casino, and all the watching eyes of the horned animal were asleep. Vanno stared at the great cream-white building with a brooding resentment, because of the influence which he believed it to exert over his clouded star. He fancied that she had been drawn here by its extraordinary magnetism which pulsed like electricity across Europe; and that, if she had not already been swept off her feet, soon she would be, and her soul drowned. To his own surprise, he could himself feel the mysterious power of the place. As he looked at the long windows framed in rose-red marble he remembered what his Arab friend, the astrologer in the desert, had said to him about this month of December. "Could it be possible, if there were anything in the science of astrology," Vanno asked himself, "that the stars could rule the chances in a game of chance?" Vaguely he thought, with the mystic side of his nature, that to study, and prove or disprove this idea, might be interesting. But the side that was stern and ascetic thrust away the suggestion. He remembered the thousands of people who drifted here from all over the world, hoping for one reason or other to get the gold guarded by this big white dragon. Some perhaps believed in their stars; others had studied systems, and tried them on little roulette wheels at home; but nearly all went away defeated. The form of the long, high mountain called the Tête de Chien looked to Vanno like a giant man lying face down in despair, the shape of his head, his back, and supine legs tragic in desperate abandon. "That's a symbol," Vanno said, half aloud, and felt no longer the strange pulling at his heartstrings which for a moment had drawn him, too, under the influence. He thought of himself as one of the few, the very few, people within a wide range of Monte Carlo for whom the Casino meant nothing. For surely there were few indeed. Even the peasants among the mountains owed their living indirectly to the Casino. Because of its existence they were able to command large prices for their fruit and flowers and vegetables, or anything they could produce which pleasure-lovers drawn by the Casino could possibly want. Over there on the Rock, where red roofs of houses crowded closely together, everybody lived in one way or other by the Casino. No one, Vanno had been told, who was not Monegasque by birth or nationalization was allowed to live on the Rock. Probably many of the croupiers in the Casino and their families had houses there, and perhaps many were shopkeepers down in the Condamine, where the cheap hotels and lodging-houses were. Few of those hotels, or the more luxurious ones at Monte Carlo itself, would exist if it were not for the Casino, and the whole Riviera would be less prosperous. But Vanno was persuaded that he cared nothing for the gold of the dragon. Once before, when he was almost a boy, he had come here with his brother Angelo for a few days. They had gone to see the Prince, whose ancient family, the Grimaldis, was older and more important even than the house of Rienzi. Vanno had promised Angelo that he would call at the palace this time, and he decided to do so formally in the afternoon; the morning he resolved to spend in walking up to La Turbie and down again. The exercise would clear his brain; and he fancied that he remembered the way well enough to find it again without asking directions. There was something else he might do also, if there were time. A priest whom, as a boy, he had known well at Monte Della Robbia was now curé at Roquebrune. They corresponded, and in coming to the Riviera, Vanno had planned to look him up. He was in a mood to want a full day's programme. In a few moments' walking he left Monte Carlo behind and came out upon the open hillside, where, above him, he saw the path leading skyward like an interminable staircase. Often as he mounted, bareheaded, his hat in his hand, he caught himself mentally trespassing on forbidden ground, thinking of his lost Giulietta, and wondering what she had been doing, every day and hour of her life since she was a child. He had never felt this pressing, insistent curiosity about any human being before. His thoughts followed the girl everywhere, wherever she might be; and something--the same Something which refused to disbelieve in her--seemed to know where she was at that moment, even how she looked, and what was in her soul, though his outer intelligence could see nothing. That rebellious Something longed to turn back toward Monte Carlo, to keep near her and guard her. It cried out strongly to do this, but Vanno would not listen. He sang to himself as he walked up the mule path among olive trees; and peasants coming down from the mountains, their nailed boots rattling on the cobblestones, were singing, too, strange wordless songs without tune, songs neither French nor Italian, but with a wild eastern lilt leaping out of their monotony, reminiscent of the days when Saracens ruled the coast. Some faces, too, were like the faces of eastern men, high featured, with enormous, flashing eyes. Here and there was one of a bold yet dreamy, gray-eyed, brown-haired type Vanno had not met before in any of his travels. He remembered that this country had belonged to the Ligurians before his ancestors, the Romans, took it after two hundred years' hard fighting: and types are persistent. He had heard that there were ruined Ligurian forts to be traced still, among the higher hills and mountains; and the monument of La Turbie, whither he was bound, was Augustus Cæsar's emblem of triumph over the Ligurian tribes. The funicular was not running at this hour, and the white lacings of the Upper Corniche were empty save for a cart or two, bringing down loads of wallflower-tinted stone from some mountain quarry, for the building of a villa. Vanno had easily found his way on to a mule path, rough yet well kept, and ancient perhaps as the hidden Ligurian forts. Round him was the gray-green shimmer of olive trees, and their old, thick roots that crawled and climbed the rocks were like knotted snakes asleep. Bands of pines marched and mourned along the skyline, and in the midst of glittering laurels cypress trees stood up straight and black as burnt-out torches. Clouds that had darkened the east when Vanno started veiled the sun now, like lazy eyelids. The gay glitter was gone from the world, and the sea was of a dull velvety gray, dappled with silver-gleams that sifted through holes in the clouds, making the water look like scales on a fish's back. Far below lay the strip of frivolous fairyland, all that most strangers know of the Riviera: the pleasure towns with their palms and tropical flowers, the decorated villas, to live in which Vanno thought would be like living in hollowed-out birthday cakes. And the soft, thoughtful grayness which was dimming the sunshine suited this different, higher world as well as it suited his mood. The loveliness of trees, and the pale splendour of mountain peaks carved in bas-relief against the pearl-gray sky, rang out to his soul like a chime of bells from a cathedral tower, giving him back the mastery of himself. It was good to be here, where there were no sounds except the voice of Nature, singing her eternal song, in the universal language, and where the life of man seemed as distant as the far-down windows that glittered mysteriously out of shadows, as the eyes of a cat glitter at night. Inarticulate, enchanting whispers of the love and joy which have been in the world and may be again floated up to Vanno's imagination like the chanting of mermaids heard under the sea. He felt that, if he should meet his Giulietta now, he would believe in her, and his belief would make her worthy of itself, if she were not already worthy. "May the wings of our souls never fail us," he said aloud, as if it were a prayer. Almost before the time when Vanno Della Robbia had known words enough to clothe his most childish thoughts, he had possessed an unknown land, a kingdom and a castle of his own more beautiful than sunset clouds. To this land he always travelled when he was alone, and often at night in dreams. It had been around him in the desert where his errand had been to study the eastern stars; and the observatory at Monte Della Robbia, built with money left him by his mother, was one gateway to that land. When he was in this secret kingdom he was brother to the stars. All knowledge came echoing through his soul, as if whispered to him by past selves, other incarnations of himself, who had gleaned it in their lives, from days when the world was young. He had a thousand souls, which had known great sorrows and joys and adventures. His blood seemed to smoke gold, like spray on rushing surf in sunshine. Never had he admitted any one he had known (except the people his own mind created for inhabitants of that kingdom) into his land; but now the girl whose name he scarcely knew stood at the door of the castle, asking to come in, saying with her eyes, which he had likened to stars, that she was the princess who had a right to live there. Hers was the face of his dream. She was the song of the mermaids. The voice he had heard--would always hear in the sea--spoke of her. She was the light of the morning. Hers the face in the sunrise, and the twilight. If he lost her, still her spirit would haunt him, in music, in all beauty, for she was the one woman, the ideal which is the heart of a man's heart. She must be worthy, because there was no other princess for this kingdom of his, east of the sun and west of the moon; and without her the rooms of the castle would hold only echoes. Vanno would have died rather than speak out such thoughts to any one on earth, for they were the property of that self which his brother Angelo said was at war with the other self, the self which the world knew. Now and then, as he walked up the mule path with a step which became lighter with the lightness of the air, he threw a word in Italian to a passing peasant, some Ligurian-looking man who drove a bright-coloured market garden ending in a donkey's head and tail. Eyes and teeth flashed comprehension, but the answer was in a queer _patois_, a hotch-potch of Latin, Italian, French, and Arabic. On the top of the mountain Vanno breakfasted, at a pink hotel fantastically built in hybrid Moorish style. From his window-table he could see the Tour de Supplice on a height below; a broken column of stone said to mark the place where Romans tortured and executed their prisoners. Far beneath lay the Rock of Hercules and Monte Carlo, the four unequal horns of the great white animal springing saliently to the eye even at this height. To the right, the great iron-gray bulk of the Tête de Chien hid the promontories which, like immense prehistoric reptiles, swam out to sea beyond Beaulieu; but to the left were the mountains of Italy, their highest ridges marbled with dazzling snow; and Cap Martin's green length was frilled with silver ripples. Still Vanno was happy, as he had not been since he saw Mary dining alone in the restaurant of the Hôtel de Paris. He had made a plan for the next hours, which gave him hope for the future. After breakfast, he walked into the gray and ancient mountain-village of La Turbie, whose old houses and walls of tunnelled streets were built from the wreckage of Cæsar's Trophy. Jewish faces peered at him from high, dark windows, for here it was that, in the Middle Ages, Jews fled from persecution, and made La Turbie a Jewish settlement. Even in the newer town of pink and blue and yellow houses there were Jewish faces to be seen in dusky shops where fruit was displayed for sale, in heaps like many-coloured jewels. Just beyond the oldest outskirts Vanno came to the foot of the monument, unspeakably majestic still, though long ago stripped of its splendid marbles, and its statues that commemorated Cæsar's triumph. Men were working in the shadow of the vast column of stone and crumbling Roman brick, digging for lost knowledge in the form of broken inscriptions, hands and heads of statues, bits of carved cornice, and a hundred buried treasures by means of which the historical puzzle-picture might gradually be matched together. Vanno became interested, and spent an hour watching and talking to the superintendent of the work, a cultured archæologist. When he began his descent of the mountain, a train on the funicular railroad was feeling its way cautiously down the steep mountainside, like a child on tiptoe. A little weak, irritable sniff came up from its engine as the toy train paused at one of the three stopping places below La Turbie. It was like a very young girl blowing her nose after crying. Vanno did not go down to the low levels; but asking the way of an old peasant whose head was wrapped in a red handkerchief, he learned how to find the hill-village of Roquebrune, keeping to the mule paths. He had made up his mind to invite himself to lunch with his old friend the curé. This was another world from the world of the Casino and shops and hotels. The very air was different; nimble, and crystal clean. All the perfumes were aromatic; balsam of pine, and the country sweetness of thyme and mint, the pure breath of nature. Sloping down the mountains eastward toward Italy and descending more than halfway from La Turbie, Vanno came to the rock-town with the ruined castle which Mary had looked up to from Monte Carlo in last night's sunset. It seemed to have slid from a taller height above, and to have been arrested by miracle before much harm was done; and Vanno remembered the curé's first letter which had told him the legend of the place: how Roquebrune in punishment for the sins of its inhabitants was shaken off its high eyrie by a great earthquake, but stopped on the shoulder of the mountain through intercession of the Virgin, the special patron _sainte vierge_ of the district. The town and its dominating castle seen from below showed as if flattened against the mountain's breast; but coming into the place on foot, the mountain retired into the background, and the huge mediæval ruin was sovereign lord of all. The whole village had been made by robbing the castle of brick and stone, as La Turbie was built of the Trophy. The castle itself grew out of the rock, so that it was difficult to see where nature's work ended or men's began; and the old, old houses crowding up to and huddled against its foundations had cramped themselves into ledges and boulders like men making their last stand in a mountain battle. The streets were tunnels, with vistas of long, dark stone stairways running up and down into mystery. Here and there above secretive doorways were beautiful carvings set into the thick stone walls, relics of the castle's decorations. At sharp corners were tiny shops with dark interiors, and strange assortments of golden oranges, big pearly onions, ruby beets, and bright green, peasant pottery in low-browed windows and on uneven doorsteps. Dark Saracen eyes gleamed out of the cold shadows in tunnelled streets, seeming to warm them with their light; and as Vanno reached the tiny _Place_ where towered a large, old church, the pavement was flooded by a wave of brown-faced boys and girls, laughing and shouting. School was just out; and behind the children followed a man in the black cassock of a priest. He was walking slowly, reading from a little book. Vanno stood still, with eagerness and affection in his eyes, and willed him to look up. This man had been the Prince's tutor, after Vanno was six, until he had passed his tenth birthday. It was years now since they had seen each other, eight perhaps, for it must be as long ago that the curé had come back to visit Rome. But the cheery, intelligent dark face had not changed much, except that it was less round, and the silvering of the once black hair had spiritualized it strangely. The wave of children, after glances thrown at the newcomer, had ebbed away in different directions. The little cobble-paved _Place_ became suddenly still. The priest moved leisurely, reading his book. Then, when he was quite near Vanno, he suddenly lifted his thick black lashes as if a voice had called his name. His good brown eyes and sunburned face lit up as though in a flash of sunlight. "Principino!" he exclaimed. Vanno grasped both his hands, book and all. "What a happy surprise!" cried the curé, in Italian, and Vanno answered in the same language. "But you knew I was coming one of these days. You got my letter? And perhaps Angelo has written?" "Yes. He has written. I am to take the second breakfast with him and his bride one day soon after they arrive at Cap Martin, and bless their villa for them. You see, he too remembers the poor old friend!" and the curé smiled, a charming smile, showing beautiful teeth, strong and white as a boy's. "He said you would meet him, for the week of the flying men, but that is not quite yet. And your letter said the same. I did not look for you till some days later." "Well, here I am," cried Vanno. "I came only yesterday afternoon, and my first thought is for you, Father. You look just the same. It might be months instead of years since we saw each other last! Will you give me lunch? I had only a cup of coffee and a croissant at La Turbie, and I'm as hungry as a wolf." "A wolf this shepherd is not afraid to let into his fold. Will I _not_ give you lunch? Though, alas! not being prepared for an honoured guest, it will hardly be worth your eating. If you have changed, my Principino, it is for the better. From a youth you have become a man." They walked together across the _Place_, Vanno very slim and tall beside the shorter, squarer figure of the man of fifty. Into the church the curé led the Prince, and through the cool, incense-laden dusk to a door standing wide open. Outside was a green brightness, which made the doorway in the twilit church look like a huge block of flawed emerald set into the wall. "My garden," said the priest, speaking affectionately, as of a loved child. "I think, Principino, you would like your _déjeuner_ in the grape arbour. It is only a little arbour, and the garden is small. But wait, you will see it has a charm that many grander gardens lack." They stepped from the brown dusk of the church out into the bright picture of a garden, which seemed unreal, a little garden in a dream, as complete and perfect in its way, Vanno thought, as an old Persian prayer rug. It was a tangle of orange and lemon trees, looped with garlands of roses and flowering creepers, carpeted with a thousand fragrant, old-fashioned flowers, and arboured with grapevines, whose last year's leaves, though sparse, were still russet and gold: altogether a mere bright ribbon of beauty pinned like a lover's knot on a high shoulder of jutting rock. Below fell a precipice, overhanging steep slopes of vineyard, or orange plantations that went sliding down toward the far-off level of the sea, and the world of the strangers. Above, towered the ruined castle, immensely tall, its foundation-stones bedded in dark rock and draped in ivy. In the little garden, the hum of bees among the flowers was like an echo of far off, fairy harps. "I think I am dreaming this," said Vanno. And he added, to himself: "It's part of my kingdom, that I never saw before." The curé laughed, delighted. "Luckily for me it is real," he said. "And now that you are in it, my Principino--my one-time pupil, my all-time friend--it is perfect. I should like you to love it. I should like--yes, I should like some great happiness to come into your life here. That is an odd fancy, isn't it? for the great happiness seems likely to be mine in having you with me. But the idea sprang into my mind." "It is a good idea," said Vanno. "I should like it to come true. I have a favour to ask you, and perhaps--who knows?--your granting it may somehow bring the wish to pass." A tiny figure of a woman--so old, so fragile as to look as if she were made of transparent porcelain--appeared as he spoke from an arbour at the far end of the little garden, an arbour whose grapevines hung bannerlike over the precipice. She had a dish in her minute, wrinkled hands, and was so surprised at sight of the tall young stranger that she nearly dropped it. "My little housekeeper," explained the curé. "She comes to me for a few hours every day, to keep me fed and tidy; and she brings my meals here to the arbour when the weather is fine; for I never tire of the view, and it gives me an appetite that nothing else does." "I see now why your letters have always been so happy," Vanno said, "and why, when it was offered, you refused promotion in order to stay here." "Oh, yes, I am very happy, thank Heaven, and I do my best to make others so. God loves mirth. Dulness is of the devil! I love the place and the people, and the people love me, I trust," the curé answered, with a bright and curiously spiritual smile which transfigured the sunburned face. "You have no idea, my Principino, of the thousand interests we have here in this little mountain village. Once it was of great importance. An English king came in the fourteenth century to visit the Lascaris family at the castle. Those down below hardly know of its existence, even those who come back year after year, but Roquebrune and my garden are world enough for me. Is breakfast ready, Mademoiselle Luciola? Thanks; we will begin as soon as you have brought things to lay another place. Is that not a good name for the wee body--Firefly? Oh, but you should see our fireflies here in May, when the Riviera is supposed to be wiped off the map, not existent till winter. And the glow-worms. I have three in my garden. No garden is complete without at least one glow-worm. I had to beg my first from a neighbour." "I should like to live up here, and be your neighbour, and cultivate glow-worms," said Vanno, as his host guided him along a narrow path which led between flower-beds to the arbour. "Why not?" cried the priest, enraptured. "You could buy beautiful land, a plateau of orange trees and olives, carpeted with violets--the petite campagne I spoke of. You could build a villa, small enough to shut up and put to sleep when you tired of it. We would be your caretakers, the old Mademoiselle and I." "Would you have me live in my villa alone?" Vanno smiled. The curé looked merrily sly. "Why not with a bride?" he ventured. "Why not follow your brother Angelo's example?" "I must see his bride first, to judge whether his example is worth following. We haven't met yet." "Ah," exclaimed the priest, "that reminds me of rather a strange thing! There came a lady here--but I will tell you, Principino, while we lunch." Beaming with pleasure in his hospitality, the curé ushered his guest into the arbour, which, like a seabird's nest, almost overhung the cliff. Under shelter of the thick old grapevine and a pink cataract of roses, a common deal table was spread with coarse but spotless damask. In a green saucer of peasant ware, one huge pink rose floated in water. The effect was more charming than any bouquet. There was nothing to eat but brown bread with creamy cheese, and grapes of a curious colour like amber and amethysts melted and run together; yet to Vanno it seemed a feast. The curé explained that the grapes had been grown on this arbour, and that he had them to eat and to give away, all winter. When the porcelain doll of a woman came back, she brought a bottle of home-made wine for Vanno, and some little sponge cakes. But when the Prince said that in England such cakes were named "lady fingers," the curé laughed gayly, and pretended to be horrified. This brought him back to his story, which, in the excitement of helping his guest to food, he had almost forgotten. "I was going to tell you," he went on, "of a strange thing, and a lady unknown to me, who called here. She was from England, I should say." Vanno's heart gave a quick throb. "Could it be possible?" he wondered, "Was she young and beautiful?" he asked aloud. But the answer dashed his rather childish hope. "Not beautiful, and not a girl, but young still. 'Striking' would be the word to express her. And her age, about thirty." Vanno lost interest. "Why was it so strange that she should call?" he inquired. "People must find their way here sometimes; even those who haven't you for a friend." "Yes, sometimes; and I am glad to see them. This was strange only because the lady knew that I was a friend of your family. She came because of that, and put a great many questions; but she refused to tell her name. She said it was not necessary to mention it." Interest came back again in a degree. "What was she like?" the Prince wanted to know. The curé thought for a moment, and answered slowly. "I can see her still," he said, "because there was something different about her from any one else I ever saw. As she came toward me in the _Place_, where you and I met, she looked like a statue moving, her face was so white, and her eyes seemed to be white, too, like the eyes of a statue. But when she drew nearer, I saw that they were a pale, whitish blue, rimmed with thin lines of black. There was very little colour in her lips or in her light brown hair, and she had on a gray hat and travelling dress." "Idina Bland!" Vanno exclaimed. "You recognize the lady from my description?" "Yes. What you say about her eyes is unmistakable. She's a distant cousin of ours--on our mother's side: Irish, from the north of Ireland; but she has lived a good deal in America with my mother's brother and sister. She has no nearer relatives than ourselves, and for three winters she was in Rome--oh, long after you went away. I thought she was in America now. I wonder----" He broke off abruptly, and his face was troubled. "What questions did she ask you?" he went on. "Were they about--my brother?" "Yes. She wished to know if I could tell her just when he was expected with his bride, and what would be their address when they arrived. I had the impression from something she said that she had heard about me from you." "I don't remember," said Vanno. "I may have mentioned to her that we had a friend, a curé near Monte Carlo. She has a singularly good memory. She never forgets--or forgives," he added, half under his breath. "When did she come here?" "The day before yesterday it was, Principino." "Did she say whether she was staying in the neighbourhood?" "No, she said nothing about herself, except that she had known your family well for years." "And about Angelo--what?" "Nothing, except the questions. She wanted me to tell her whether I had ever met or heard anything of his bride." "I suppose you didn't give her much satisfaction?" "Not much, my Principino. I could not, if I would. But I did say that I believed they were expected in ten days or a fortnight. I hope I was not indiscreet?" "Not at all. Only--but it doesn't matter." "Then, if it doesn't matter, let us turn to a subject nearer our hearts. The favour you wished to ask? Which you may consider granted." After all, it was not quite as easy to explain as Vanno had thought, in his moments of exaltation on the mountain. But he was still determined to carry out his plan. "You know, Father, when I was a little boy I used to talk with you about what I should do when I grew up, and how I should never fall in love with any girl, no matter how beautiful, unless she had eyes like my favourite stars? How you used to laugh about those 'eyes like stars!' Yesterday I saw a girl in a train at Marseilles. I got into the train, meaning to follow her, no matter how far. It was not like me to do that." "Pardon me. I think it was," chuckled the curé. "You would always act on impulse, you man of fire--and ice." "Well, she got off at Monte Carlo, where I myself wanted to stop. I thought that was great luck, at first. I turned over in my mind ways of making her acquaintance. I believed it would be hard to do, but I meant to do it. Now, I'm not sure--not sure of anything about her. I'm not even sure whether I want to know her or not. The favour I have to ask is, that you help me to judge--and help her, if you have to judge harshly." "I?" "Yes, you, Father. If she needs help, I'm not the one to help her. But you could do it." And Vanno plunged deeper into explanations, warming with his story and forgetting his first shy stiffness. As he talked, the curé's gaze dwelt on him affectionately, appreciatively. He admired the clear look and its fire of noble purity, not often seen, he feared, on the face of a young man brought up to believe the world at his feet. He admired the dark eyes, profound as the African nights they had loved. He noted the rich brown of the swarthy young face, clear as the profile on old Roman coins, and thought, as he had thought before, that Murillo would have liked to paint that colouring. He approved his Prince's way of speaking, when he lost self-consciousness and his gestures became free and winged. "How his mother would have loved him as he is now, if she had lived," the priest thought, remembering the warm-hearted Irish-American girl, whose impulses had been held down by the sombre asceticism of her husband, which increased with years. No wonder Prince Vanno was his father's favourite! Angelo had written that the duke disapproved his marriage, but that Vanno when he had met the bride would "somehow make it all come right." It would be a terrible thing if this younger son should fall in love with the wrong woman; but it was too early yet to begin preachings and warnings. The curé's kind heart gave him great tact. "I am to go downstairs and look at this lady, then?" he said. "Downstairs?" "Only my expression for going down _there_. I always say that I live upstairs, here at Roquebrune. And I like the upstairs life best." "Well, you must come down and dine with me, anyhow. Then you will see her, and tell me what you think." The curé broke into a laugh, like a boy's. "Me dine at your Hôtel de Paris, my son? That is a funny thought. You're inconsistent. If you think it unsuitable for a lady alone, what about me, a poor country priest from the mountains?" "You wouldn't be alone. And you're a man. Besides, it's a good object. When you've seen her, you must make acquaintance with her somehow. _I_ won't do it. Not while I doubt her." "Hm! My Principino, you don't know what you are asking me. I am a priest." "That's why I ask you. She's--I'll tell you, Father, if she goes on winning money, you can write to beg for your poor. Then, if she's charitable, she'll give, and come up to see your church." "And you think the rest is simple! Well, for your sake I will do what I can." "Will you dine with me to-night?" "Impossible. I cannot leave the village for so much as an hour for the present. I am shepherd of a mountain flock, remember, and my first duty is to them. At any moment I may have a summons to one who is dying. A black sheep he has been perhaps, but all the more should he be washed white at the last. And I must hold myself ready to give him the extreme unction when I am sent for, if it be now or not till next week." Vanno had set his heart upon his plan, and could hardly bear to have it indefinitely postponed; but he had learned through old experience that his good friend was not one to be persuaded from duty. "You'll let me know the moment you're free, in any case," he urged. "That very moment. But, meanwhile, something may happen that will help you to judge the lady for yourself--something definite." "I should have judged her already, if it weren't for her eyes," Vanno said, with a sigh. "They have a look as if she'd just seen heaven! I can hardly tell you how, but they are different from all other women's eyes. They send out a ray of light, like an arrow to your heart." "Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the priest. "Don't laugh, Father. It's true, or I wouldn't have felt about her as I did from the first moment we looked at each other. She's beautiful, but I assure you it wasn't her beauty that made me follow her. It was something more mysterious than that. I swear to you, it was as if her eyes said to me, 'Why, here you are at last, you whom I've known since the beginning of things. I am the one you've waited for all your life.'" "All your life! Twenty-seven years, is it not?" "Twenty-nine this month, Father. I'm not a boy, and I've cared very much only for one woman. I wasn't twenty then, and it's partly her fault that it's hard for me to believe in others." "That's scarcely fair to the others. One woman isn't all womanhood." "Ah, it's odd you should have said that, for the thought in my mind has been that this girl--this girl who has a child's face, I tell you, Father--seems somehow to represent womanhood, the woman of all time: the type, you know, that no man can resist. There's a kind of divine softness about her which calls to all there is in one of manhood--or romance. I can't describe it." "You have made me understand," the curé answered quietly. "And you have made me--for your sake--want to find out as soon as I possibly can what truth is under all this sweetness." XI The first question Mary asked on coming downstairs in the morning was, "At what hour does the Casino open?" Ten o'clock, she was told. It was not yet nine. A long time to wait! Most people at the Paris breakfasted in their rooms, but never in her life had Mary eaten breakfast in her bedroom. She went to last night's table in the great glass window of the restaurant, and was hardly sure whether she felt relieved or disappointed not to see the young man with the Dante profile. She did not now think him in the least like Romeo. From the window, to her surprise, she saw a crowd collecting in front of the Casino, whose doors were still closed. "What is the matter?" she asked, almost alarmed, lest there had been an accident. "It is the early ones waiting for the doors to open," her waiter explained. He brought her a poached egg on toast, but a superlative egg, poached and adorned according to the conception of a French _chef_. The air with which the silver cover was taken off and the dish shown to Mary made her feel there was nothing she could do to show her appreciation, without disappointing the man, unless she bent down and kissed the egg passionately. Her smile seemed inadequate, and she ate with a worried fear of seeming ungrateful, especially as she was impelled to hurry, lest those people in front of the Casino should take all the places at the tables. She wanted to sit down to gamble, for the strenuous game she had played last night, with many stakes, would be impossible when stretching over people's heads. By half-past nine she was in the crowd, all her money, with the exception of two hundred pounds she had put by, crushed into her big beaded hand-bag. She remembered how at Aberdeen the night she went to the theatre people stood like this, patiently waiting for the pit-door to open. What did she not remember about that, her first and only visit to a theatre? At last the Casino doors yawned, as if they disliked waking up. The procession rolled toward them, like a determined and vigorous python. Mary was carried ahead with the rush. She had forgotten that she ought to have renewed her ticket, but fortunately she was not asked for it; and as she had come without a wrap, there was nothing to turn her aside from the rooms. Once across the threshold of the big Salle Schmidt, the struggle began. It was not only the young and agile who raced each other to the tables. Men who looked as if they might have pulled one foot from the grave in order to reach the Casino, hobbled wildly across the slippery floor. Fat elderly ladies waddled with indomitable speed, like women tied up in bags for an obstacle race; and an invalid gentleman, a famous player, with his attendant--the first to get in--was swept along in a small bath chair ahead of the crowd, an expression of fierce exhilaration on a gaunt face white as bleached bone. But the young and healthy gamblers had an advantage, especially those with long legs. Only yesterday Mary would have let herself be passed by every one, rather than push into a place which somebody else wanted. Now, however, the gambler's fever was in her. Whatever happened, she must get a seat at the table where she had played last night. To do so was the most important thing on earth. Slender and tall and long-limbed, she ran like a young Diana; though not since she had become Sister Rose had she ever been undignified enough to run. Straight as an arrow she aimed for the table she wanted, and convulsively seized the back of the last unclaimed chair. It was grasped at the same instant by a young man of rather distinguished appearance, who would in other circumstances no doubt have yielded place to a woman, especially a young and pretty girl. But he too had the gambler's fever. He struggled with Mary for the chair, and would have secured it by superior strength if she had not dropped limply into it as he drew it out for himself. "Well done!" muttered a woman already settled in a neighbouring seat. "That's one of the Pretenders to the throne of Portugal." Instead of being overawed, Mary found herself laughing in the joy of her triumph. "He can't have this throne, anyhow," she panted, out of breath. Then she noticed that Lord Dauntrey was with her defeated rival. He had secured a chair, but getting up, gave it to the royal personage, who was his paying guest at the Villa Bella Vista. Lord Dauntrey had not seen, or had not recognized, Mary. He appeared to be more alive than he had been before, almost a different man. Though his features were stonily calm as the features of a mask, Mary felt that he was intensely excited, and completely absorbed in the game about to begin. He had a notebook over which his sleek brown head and Dom Ferdinand de Trevanna's short black curls were bent eagerly. It was evident that they had some plan of play which they were working out together. It was just as thrilling, Mary thought, to be in the Casino by day as by night, and even more interesting now, because she knew how to play, instead of having to depend upon Madame d'Ambre. She had feared that her too solicitous friend might be lying in wait for her this morning, but she need have had no anxiety. Madeleine never appeared before noon. Perhaps she might have made a superhuman effort had there been reasonable hope of anything to gain. But Madame d'Ambre had learned to read faces: and Mary's had told her that for a time there was nothing more to expect. She would be comfortably lazy while her money held out. Mary's seat was near the spinner, one of the croupiers who had seen her sensational wins twelve hours ago. He smiled recognition. "Take zero again, and the neighbours," he mumbled cautiously. "I'll try and make you win." Mary wanted to know what "neighbours" meant, and was told hastily that they were the numbers lying nearest to zero on the wheel. "But I feel as if twenty-four would come," she objected. "Very well, if Mademoiselle prefers twenty-four, I will see what I can do," replied the obliging croupier, like most of his fellow-spinners wishing to give the impression that he could control the ball. Twenty-four did not respond to his efforts, but twenty-two was the first number spun, and as Mary had staked maximums on everything surrounding her number, she won heavily. Throughout the whole morning luck still favoured her. She lost sometimes, and her wins were not as sensational as those of last night, but they made people stare and talk, and added so many notes to the troublesome contents of her bag that, to the amusement of everybody, when the time came to go she stuffed gold and paper into the long gloves she had taken off while playing. Both gloves were full and bulged out in queer protuberances, like Christmas stockings. But this was not until nearly two o'clock, when Mary had grown so hungry that she could no longer concentrate her thoughts upon the game. Meanwhile, different relays of croupiers and inspectors had come and gone, and the crowd round the table had changed. Very few remained of the players who had raced for chairs at the opening hour. Many had lost and taken themselves off, discouraged; others had a habit of darting from table to table "for luck"; some had won as much as they wanted to win, and departed quietly as a man goes home from his office. But among the few faithful ones were Lord Dauntrey and his royal friend, who was stared at a good deal, and evidently recognized. By this time Lord Dauntrey had noticed Mary, his attention being attracted to her by Dom Ferdinand, but as he had not been introduced to the girl in the train, he did not bow. The excitement had died from his face, leaving it gray as the ashes in a burnt-out fire, and his cheeks looked curiously loose on the bones, as if his muscles had fallen away underneath. Mary had not taken time to watch his game, but she saw that most of the silver and gold once neatly piled in front of the two players had disappeared, and she was afraid that they had lost a good deal. It seemed unnecessary and almost stupid to her that people should lose. She did not see why every one could not play as she did. As she reluctantly rose to go away, driven by hunger, she had to pass close to Dom Ferdinand and Lord Dauntrey. There was no crowd round the chairs, as the morning throng had thinned for _déjeuner_, and she heard Lord Dauntrey say: "I assure you, Monseigneur, it never went as badly as this on my roulette at home. You saw the records. But nobody can win at every séance. Don't be discouraged. I'm confident my system's unbreakable in the end." It was half-past two when Mary began luncheon, and she had to finish in a hurry when Schuyler and Carleton called for her with the motor-car. She was sorry that she had promised to look at anything so irrelevant as an aeroplane, and felt nervously irritable because she could not at once go back to her game. She could almost hear the Casino calling her in a musical, golden voice: "I have something nice to give you. Why don't you come and take it?" But it was interesting to tell the two men about her luck of the morning. Each detail of the play was so fascinating to her that she would hardly have believed it possible for the story to bore any one else. She did not ask a single question about the remarkable hydro-aeroplane in which Carleton was to compete for an important prize next week; nor did she see the pitying smile the men exchanged while she entertained them with an exact account of how she had staked, what she had lost, and what she had won. "Poor child!" the look said. But neither man blamed the girl for her selfish absorption. Both understood the phase very well, and it was not long since Carleton had lived it down, thanks to some friendly brutality on Jim's part. As for Schuyler, though he never played at the Casino, it was because he had played too often when a younger man, in America. Roulette and trente et quarante bored him now, though the great game in Wall Street still had power over his nerves, when he was in the thick of it. One reason that he avoided society at Monte Carlo and invited few people to his house was because the constant babble about the "Rooms" and the "tables" exhausted his vitality, making him feel, as he said, "like a field-mouse in a vacuum." Sometimes it had seemed to him that, if once again he heard any one say, "Oh, if only I had played on seventeen!" he would be forced to strike the offender, or rush away in self-defence. Already Mary's eyes were losing the starlike clearness of their delight in all things novel or beautiful. They looked mistily introspective, as if they were studying some combination going on in the brain behind them; and when she could not talk about roulette she relapsed at once into absent-mindedness. But even her absorbed interest in the new pursuit was not proof against the hydro-aeroplane lurking in its hangar. It looked wonderful, yet she could not believe that it was able really to rise out of the water into air. "I assure you it does, though, and it can run on land, too," said Carleton, eagerly. "Surely you must have read of Glenn Curtiss and his _Triad_, that made such a sensation in America? You can ask Jim. He saw my first successful experiment in the Hudson River six weeks ago." "And one or two unsuccessful ones, too," laughed Jim. "But I really think, Miss Grant, that Carleton's got his pet dragon into pretty good training now, both as a land and water and air animal. I shouldn't wonder if we'd see something worth seeing nest week at Nice?--and it will be new on this coast, for there've been no hydro-aeroplanes tried here before." "Next week?" echoed Mary. "Shan't I see anything now? I thought Mr. Carleton meant to go up in the air to-day." "I hadn't thought of it, but I will if you like. That is, I'll try," said Carleton, modestly. "I--oh, how I should love to go with you!" Mary exclaimed. "Can you carry people?" "One passenger at a time, yes. You wouldn't really like it, would you?" he asked, flushing under the compliment of her trust in him, and admiring her pluck. "You don't mean that you'd go up with me?" "I would if you'd take me." Her eyes were shining once more. "It would be--like all one's most marvellous dreams come true." "You wouldn't be afraid?" "Oh, no, not with you." This was delicious flattery. Carleton promptly fell in love with Mary. Not to have done so would have been base ingratitude. No woman had ever paid him so great a compliment. He had thought her bewilderingly pretty before. Now she was the most beautiful woman in the world. "You're the bravest girl on earth!" he exclaimed, ardently. "Better leave her on earth, then," Schuyler said dryly. "We need brave women." "There's no danger," Carleton protested with indignation. "Do you think I'd take her, if I thought there were?" "Not if you thought there were. And I don't say there is. But Miss Grant's here without her people----" "I have no people," Mary cut him short. "Because you can't count aunts, can you, especially if they dislike you very much?" Both men laughed. "I must be your passenger," she said. "Now I've seen the hydro-aeroplane, I shan't eat or sleep till I've been up in it." Carleton looked at his host. "You know, at worst she could only get a wetting if I kept over the sea," he said. "And very likely the _Flying Fish_ will be cranky and refuse to rise." "Here's hoping!" mumbled Schuyler. He did not define the exact nature of his hope, but offered no further objections. Mary, seeing that she was to have her wish, was anxious to start at once, and almost surprised at herself for her own courage. But Carleton explained that she could not "make an ascent," as he laconically called it, dressed as she was. She must have a small, close fitting hat, and a veil to tie it firmly down, also a heavy wrap. He had an oilskin coat which he could lend her, to put over it. Mary was not, however, to be turned from her desire by small obstacles. She had no very thick coat, but knew where to buy a lovely moleskin, very long, down to her feet. She could secure it and be ready in ten minutes if Mr. Schuyler would send her up the hill in his car. Permission was granted and she went spinning off with the chauffeur, both Schuyler and Carleton awaiting her return at the hangar, down on the beach by the harbour. The "ten minutes" prolonged themselves to twenty, and while they were slowly passing, three men who had been on the Rock, writing their names in the visitors' book at the palace, came strolling down the long flight of paved steps to the harbour. One of these was Captain Hannaford. The other Englishman was also an officer, Major Norwood, who had known Hannaford long ago. And the third member of the party was the Maharajah of Indorwana, an extremely troublesome young Indian royalty who was "seeing Europe" under the guardianship of his reluctant bear leader, Norwood. Since the pair had landed at Marseilles, three weeks ago, Norwood had passed scarcely a peaceful moment by night or day. His authority over his charge was officially absolute; but in practise it could only be enforced by violence, which the unfortunate officer had not yet brought himself to exert. If he did not wish the Maharajah (who was twenty and had never before been out of his native land) to fall into some new mischief every hour, he was obliged to find for the youth a ceaseless succession of amusements. Monte Carlo was to have been but the affair of a day. The Maharajah, however, had decided differently. He liked the place, and firmly refused to move. The two had now been staying for a week at the Metropole, and Major Norwood had telegraphed to the India Office in London for instructions. The night before, he had been dragged by his charge to three dances at open-all-night restaurants, where professionals entertained the audience. The Maharajah had insisted on learning to dance, his instructress being an attractive Russian girl; then, as the fun grew furious, he had forgotten his eastern dignity, and pirouetted for a wager, with a valuable jar containing a palm. This jar he had promptly broken, and had not been conciliatory to the proprietor. At five o'clock he had driven his own car--bought at Marseilles--to Nice, full to overflowing with his late partners. There had been a slight accident, and to console the girls for their fright the Maharajah had divided all his ready money among them. Since then he had had one fight with a German, whom he had jostled, and who had called him a black man. Major Norwood had been obliged to use the most nerve-racking exertions to keep his princeling out of a French prison. Slightly subdued, the Maharajah had consented to call at the palace at Monaco, to walk through the beautiful gardens on the Rock with Hannaford, and to visit the Fish Museum; but there was a yearning for new excitements in his dangerous dark eyes, and Norwood had been thankful to see Carleton the airman standing on the beach by his hangar. The two Americans were introduced to the Indian royalty, and Carleton, not too eagerly, had just begun to explain the features of his _Flying Fish_, when the big blue car brought Miss Grant back. At sight of Mary in a newly bought motor-bonnet, the Maharajah's eyes lit up. He had seen her the night before at the Casino, and had started the applause after her first sensational win. Now he asked to be introduced, and Major Norwood's weary heart sank. Judging from the expression of the plump olive face, this was going to be another case of infatuation, and already there had been one on the ship, and one at Cannes, both of which had necessitated the most delicate diplomacy. The Maharajah was passionately fond of jewels, and had brought with him from home some of the finest in his collection, which he intended to wear in London. But on board ship he had given an emerald worth five hundred pounds to the pretty young wife of an old Indian judge, who could not resist accepting it; and at Cannes he had bestowed a diamond aigrette on a second-rate actress. Major Norwood had tried to get these valuables back, in vain; and now felt symptoms of heart failure whenever his charge looked at a beautiful woman. The Maharajah had an extraordinarily winning manner, however, almost like that of a dignified child, and his way of speaking English was engaging. Mary had never seen an East Indian before, and was much interested to meet one. She gave him her prettiest smiles and looks, while the other men stood round her, each secretly annoyed to see her treating a "black fellow" as if he were the equal of a European. "I'm hanged if I'll stand on ceremony with the chap, if he is some kind of potentate," Carleton grumbled; and, interrupting the conversation, asked Mary if she were of the same mind about being his passenger for a flight. "Of course!" she answered. But Carleton had not yet stepped into the hangar when Prince Vanno Della Robbia passed on foot, going to the palace on the Rock. He had returned to his hotel after lunching with the curé, had dressed and, as he was told there might be a small revolution in progress at Monaco--something worth seeing--he had started out to walk. The revolution of Monegasques demanding the vote seemed after all not to be taking place that day; but if Vanno missed the miniature warlike demonstration he had been promised, at least his walk was not uneventful. Noticing a group round Carleton's hangar on the beach, he drew nearer, and to his astonishment saw Mary in a long coat of moleskin, and a little red motor-bonnet, surrounded by five men, one of them the somewhat notorious Maharajah of Indorwana. Vanno retreated hastily, and went on toward the steps which led up to the Rock of Monaco; but he had not gone far when a combination of sounds stopped him: the whirr of a propeller and the throb of an engine. Carleton was evidently on the point of trying his machine, the curious invention which could be used, it was said, on land as well as in air and on the water. Vanno looked back, and saw a biplane on wheels, fitted with a kind of float. It was moving out of the hangar, down an inclined plane that bridged the beach as far as the water's edge. In the aviator's seat sat Dick, and behind him the red motor-bonnet was decorative as a flower. She was going with Carleton! Vanno had hardly time to realize that he had seen her, before the hydro-aeroplane ran, rather than plunged, into the water. It ploughed deeply and almost painfully for the first moment, sending up a great spout of foam like an immense plume of spun glass; but as Carleton increased the speed daringly, his _Flying Fish_ rose higher on the little waves, the float barely skimming the surface of the water. The aviator tilted the control, as if to watch the action, and suddenly, to the amazement of all the spectators, what had been an unusual looking double-decked motor-boat sprang out of the harbour into the air. It rose gracefully and gradually to a height of perhaps four hundred feet, flying as if it aimed straight for the far-distant pearl-cluster of Bordighera, on the Italian coast. Vanno had an extraordinary sensation, as if his heart stopped beating, and as if at the same time an iron band across his chest stopped the expansion of his lungs. It was such a sensation as a man might have in the moment of death, and it was so unlike anything he had ever felt before that, for a few seconds of physical agony, he asked himself dazedly what was the matter. Then, suddenly, he knew that he was afraid--afraid for the girl. And he hated Carleton for risking her life. He felt a savage longing to do the young airman some bodily injury as a punishment for what he, Vanno, was made to suffer. The relief was so great when the _Flying Fish_ dropped slowly down and settled again into the water that Vanno was slightly giddy with the rush of blood through his veins. He watched the hydro-aeroplane turn and head back for the mouth of Monaco harbour; and it seemed to him that he had lived through years in a few minutes, as one can have a lifetime's experience in one short dream. He sickened as he thought what would be his feelings now if the machine had fallen and turned over, too far off for any hope of rescue from land. If those "eyes like stars" had been closed until eternity, with no hope that he could ever learn the secret of the soul behind them, nothing the future might have to give could make up for the loss. It was only when the _Flying Fish_ swam safely into the harbour that Vanno remembered his irritation at seeing Mary with all those men, the only woman among them. After what he had gone through since then, this annoyance seemed a ridiculously small thing; but no sooner was she on land again, received with acclamations from her new friends and applause by the crowd which had quickly collected, than Vanno felt the same tingling anger. The girl was making herself notorious! At this rate she would be talked of everywhere. Strangers would snapshot her as she passed. Her picture would be for sale on one of those Monte Carlo postcards of celebrities which were newly taken every day; she would be in the local English illustrated newspaper. He walked off quickly, with his head down, so as to lose himself in the crowd and not be seen by Mary or her companions. She was pale as a drowned girl when Carleton and Hannaford helped her out of the oilskin which had protected her new fur cloak; and never, perhaps, had she been so beautiful. There was something unearthly about her, as if she had seen a vision and the blinding light of it still shone white upon her face. As he touched her, Hannaford felt a thrill as of new life go through him. By his own wild recklessness he had spoilt his career and put himself, so he believed, beyond the pale of any woman's love. He had thought that he had trained himself not to care; but in that instant, while Mary, dazed by her vision, almost hung in his arms and Carleton's, he knew that he was as other men. He wondered why last night she had meant no more to him than a pretty new face at Monte Carlo, a rather amusing problem which would soon lose its abstruse charm. It was like tearing out a live nerve to feel that she could think of him only with disgust or maybe horror. Yet he knew that, now he had seen her face with the wonderful light on it, he would have to try and win something from her, if only pity. The idea came to him that she and he, and these men with them, and Madeleine d'Ambre, and others who would gather round the beautiful and lucky player, were figures being woven into a web of tapestry together; that they were forced to group themselves as the weaver of the web decreed. He saw his own figure woven into an obscure and shadowy corner far from that of Mary, and, rebelling against the choice of the weaver, wished to tear the tapestry in pieces. But the next moment he was ready to smile at himself with the quiet, cynical smile which had become familiar to all those who knew him. "Nothing is tragic unless you think so," he said to himself. Yet he could not put out of his mind the fancy of the web with figure after figure being woven into it, against the background of sea and mountain. It was not unlike the idea which had come to Peter in a half-waking dream the night after Mary went away. And at the convent in the north of Scotland the same thought still came back to Peter, though no news had yet been received there from Monte Carlo. "Were you afraid?" the Maharajah of Indorwana asked Mary, as the colour slowly flowed back to her face. "No," she said, dreamily, "not afraid. But it was like dying and going to another world. When we were rushing through the water with the loud noise of machinery in our ears, and the glassy screen of spray over our heads, I lost my breath. I couldn't think clearly; but I supposed that was all. I couldn't believe we should go up. But then came the spring, and we were in the air, bounding higher--it was like something imagined after death. And the rest was being in heaven, till we began to drop. Then, just for a few seconds, it felt as if my body were falling and leaving my soul poised up there in the sky. I shall never forget--never. And when the time does come to die, I don't believe I shall mind now, for I know it will be like that, with the wonder of it after the shrinking is over." Hannaford looked at her closely as she spoke. He was continually thinking of death as a dark room, behind a shut door which he would perhaps choose to open. He felt that he would like to talk to her some day about what she really expected to find on the other side of the door. Nothing else was quite real to him in the scene, when everybody pressed round Carleton, congratulating him on his machine and the exploit of which the airman seemed to think little. It was not real when Schuyler invited Hannaford and his two companions to crowd into the big car, and be spun up the hill to Monte Carlo. He remembered the illumined look on Mary's face (though it was gone now) and the faint ray of hope it had sent into that secret place where his real self lived wearily. XII If Mary had died and waked up in another world, it could hardly have been more of a contrast to her old existence than the new life at Monte Carlo to the life at St. Ursula's-of-the-Lake. And the Mary at Monte Carlo was a different person from the Mary at the Scotch convent. She had a new set of thoughts and feelings of which she would not have believed herself capable in Scotland. She would have been surprised and shocked at them in another, a few weeks ago. Now she was not shocked or surprised at them even in herself. They seemed natural and familiar. She was at home with them all, and with her new self, not even realizing that it was a new self. And she grew more beautiful, like a flower taken from a dark northern corner of the garden and planted in a sheltered, sunny spot. She no longer thought of turning her back upon Monte Carlo in a few days, and journeying on to Florence. She stayed, without making definite plans; but she did not write to the convent. She knew that Reverend Mother would not like her to be here, gambling, and it would be too difficult to explain. There was no use in trying, and she could not bear the thought of having to read a reproachful letter, when she was so happy and every one was being so nice to her. It was different about her Aunt Sara. She knew, if she did not arrive in Florence, Mrs. Home-Davis's friend would write and say that she had never appeared. Then perhaps her aunt would follow to see what had become of her. Rather than run the risk of this dreadful thing happening, Mary telegraphed to Cromwell Road; "Have changed my mind. Staying on the Riviera. Am well and safe; will write when decide to leave." And she put no address. After sending off this message she felt relieved for a few days, as if she were secure from danger; but sometimes she waked in the night to worry lest Aunt Sara knew any one on the Riviera who might be instructed to look up a stray niece. Then she would comfort herself by reflecting that Mrs. Home-Davis was not at all the sort of woman to know people at Monte Carlo. She was too dull and uninteresting. And just now most things seemed dull and uninteresting to Mary which were not connected with gambling. Her winnings were not in themselves out of the common, for every season at Monte Carlo there are at least six or seven players who win great sums, whose gains are talked about and watched at the tables, and who go away with from ten to fifty thousand pounds. But it was the combination of personality with great and persistent good luck which made Mary Grant remarkable, and her behaviour was puzzling and piquantly mysterious to those who had no clue to her past. Everybody talked about her: the croupiers who spun her numbers or put on her stakes, and received her generous tips: the shopkeepers with whom she spent the money she won, buying expensive hats and furs, dresses and jewellery: clerks at the bank where she deposited her winnings: people of all sorts who frequented the Casino, and even those who were there seldom but heard what was going on through acquaintances at the many luncheon parties and "At Homes" which make up the round of life at Monte Carlo. And Mary knew that she was stared at and talked about, and liked it as a child likes to be looked at when walking out with a splendid new doll. She had no idea that any one could say unkind things of her, or that there was anything in her conduct to call for harsh comments. It was so delightful to be winning every day at roulette, and spending the easily gained money in amusing ways, that Mary thought every one who came near her must be almost as much pleased with her luck as she was--all but the one man who had snubbed her, the man whose name she had not heard, but who, she had been told by her devoted waiter, was a Roman prince. He disapproved of or disliked her, she did not know which, or why; and because he kept the table near hers in the restaurant his look, which was sometimes like a vehement reproach, always depressed her, bringing a cold sense of failure where all might have been joy. The thought of this stranger's disapproval was the fly in her amber; and the idea floated through her mind sometimes that they might have known each other in a forgotten state of existence. When their eyes met, it was as if there were a common memory between them, something that had happened long ago, drawing them together. Days passed, and Vanno's project which concerned Mary and the curé was still in abeyance, for the priest was not free yet to leave Roquebrune. The man whose death was daily expected had not died, and the curé spent as much time with him as could be spared from other duties. But Vanno Della Robbia was not the only one who sought the services of a friend in order to "help" Mary. One afternoon at the end of the Nice aviation week Dick Carleton ran up three flights of marble stairs in a huge square house on the left or seaward side of the Boulevard d'Italie at Monte Carlo. It was a building given up to flats, and the corridors were almost depressingly clean and cold looking, with their white floors and stairways of crude, cheap marble, and their white walls glittering with the washable paint called "Ripolin." On each étage were two white doors with openwork panels of iron over glass, which in most cases showed curtains on the other side. The door before which Carleton stopped on the third floor had a semi-transparent rose-coloured curtain; and just above the bell push was neatly tacked a visiting card with the name "Reverend George Winter" engraved upon it. Carleton had never met the new incumbent of St. Cyprian's, but the chaplain had lately married an American girl, Dick's cousin. This was the first time that Carleton had found a chance to call, although he had been staying with Schuyler for over a fortnight. He felt rather guilty and doubtful of his reception, as a neat little Monegasque maid told him that Madame was _chez elle_. But he need not have been anxious. As the maid announced his name with a pronunciation all her own, a pretty girl sprang up from a chintz-covered window seat, in a drawing-room which in an instant took Carleton across the sea to his native land. The girl had been sitting on one foot, and as she jumped up quickly she stumbled a little, laughing. "Oh, Dick, you nice thing!" she exclaimed. "I _am_ glad to see you. But my foot's asleep. Goodness, what needles and pins!" She stamped about on the polished floor, with two small feet in silk stockings and high-heeled, gold-buckled slippers, a novel tucked under her arm, and one hand clasping her cousin's. "Well," he said, "if any creature could be less like a parson's wife than you, madam, I'd like to see it." "I know I'm the exact opposite of what one ought to be," she laughed, "and it almost makes me feel not legally married. But don't--don't, please, if you love me, use that awful word 'parson' again. I can't stand it. Don't you think it sounds just like the crackle of cold, overdone toast?" "Can't say I ever thought about it," said Carleton. "Well, I have, constantly. It was a long time before I could make up my mind to say 'yes' to St. George, on account of that word." "Is St. George his name?" Dick asked. "It's my name for him. The 'saint' part's my private property. But he is a saint, if ever there was one: and a good thing too, as he's got a dragon on the hearth to tame; but a _little_ inconvenient sometimes for the poor dragon. Oh, Dick, you've no idea how good and pure-minded and absolutely Alpine and on the heights he is. Often I expect to pick edelweiss in his back hair." Carlton gave one of his sudden, boyish laughs. "That sounds like you. How did you come to marry such a chap?" "I was so horribly afraid some other girl would get him, if I left him lying about. But do let's sit down. My foot's wide awake again now." They sat on the cushioned window seat and smiled into each other's eyes. "How brown you are!" she exclaimed. "How pretty you are!" he retorted. And it was true. She was very pretty, a girlish creature, thin and eager looking, with large tobacco-brown eyes full of a humorous, observant interest in everything. Her skin was dark and smooth as satin. Even her long throat and nervous hands, and the slim, lace-covered arms, were of the same satin-textured duskiness as the heart-shaped face, with its laughing red mouth. Her cheekbones were rather high and touched with colour, as if a geranium petal had been rubbed across them, just under the brown shadows beneath the eyes. Her chin was small and pointed, her forehead low and broad, and this, with the slight prominence of the cheekbones and the narrowing of the chin, gave that heartlike shape to her face which added piquancy and made it singularly endearing. She was very tall and graceful, with pretty ways of using her hands, and looking from under her lashes with her head on one side, which showed that she had been a spoiled and petted child. "Yes, I'm quite pretty," she agreed gayly, "and I have on a pretty dress, which is part of my trousseau, and I hope it will last a long time. But the thing I am principally interested in just now is our flat. Call this a 'living-room' at once, or I shall feel homesick and burst into tears. The question is, do you think _it_ is pretty?" "Awfully pretty; looks like you somehow," answered Dick, gazing around appreciatively. "Jolly chintz with roses on it, and your rugs are ripping. Everything goes so well with everything else." "It ought to. I have taken enough trouble over it all, introducing wedding presents to each other and trying to make them congenial. I have no boudoir, so I can't boude. But St. George has a study with books up to the ceiling, and lots still on the floor, because we are not settled yet, though we arrived--strangers in a strange land--in November. I expect you'll recognize some of the things here, because old colonial furniture doesn't grow on blackberry bushes in this climate, and I brought over everything Grandma Carleton left me: that desk, and cabinet and mirror, and those three near-Chippendale chairs. Wouldn't the poor darling make discords on her golden harp, or moult important feathers out of her wings, if she could see her parlour furniture in a room at Monte Carlo?" "Nice way for a par--I mean a chaplain's wife to talk," said Dick. "I've been _so_ prim for three whole months," Rose Winter excused herself, "except, of course, when I'm alone with St. George." "Ever since you were married. Poor kid! But don't you have to be prim with him?" "Good gracious, no! That would be death. I arranged with him the day I definitely said yes, and again on our wedding eve, so as to have _no_ misunderstanding, that I might keep all my pet slang, and even use _language_ if I felt it really necessary; otherwise he would certainly have been the 'Winter of my discontent.'" "What do you call language?" Dick wanted to know. "Oh, well, I have invented some and submitted it for St. George's--if not approval--tolerance. 'Carnation' for instance, and 'split my infinitives,' are the most useful, and entirely inoffensive, when one's excited. Also I may have a cigarette with him after dinner, if I like, when we're alone. Only I haven't wanted it yet, for we have so much to say, it won't stay lighted. But now tell me about yourself. Of course we knew you'd come. It was in a paper here, that tells us all the news about everybody, in English: who's who (but who isn't who nowadays who can play bridge?), also what entertainments Who gives to Whom." "Sounds complicated," said Dick. "So it is, complicated with luncheon parties and tea parties, and knowing whether to invite So and So with Thing-um-bob, or whether they've quarrelled over bridge or something, and don't speak. It's most intricate. But I've kept track of you--as much as one _can_ keep track of an airman. We knew how busy you'd be, so we didn't expect you to call. And St. George didn't like to go and worry you at Stellamare, as he isn't acquainted with Mr. Schuyler." "I believe Schuyler sends subscriptions to the church at Monte Carlo and at Mentone, and to the Catholic priest at Roquebrune as well, and thinks he's quit of religious duties," said Carleton. "Yet he's an awfully good fellow--gives a lot away in charities, all around here. He is great chums with some of the peasants. It's quite an experience to take a walk with him: He says how-de-do to the quaintest creatures. But he can't be bothered with society. Vows most of the people who come back here every winter to the villas and hotels are like a lot of goldfish going round and round in a glass globe." "I hope _we_ shan't get like that," said Rose. "At present, I am quite amusing myself. And it seems to me there are many different kinds of life here. You have only to take your choice, just as you do in other places, only here it's curiously concentrated and concrete." "Now, I ask you, is it the right spirit, to talk of 'amusing yourself' in taking up your new parochial duties?" Carleton teased her. "Perhaps one does things better if it amuses one to do them," she argued. "And really I'm a success as shepherd's assistant, or sheep-dog-in-training. I don't go barking and biting at the poor sheep's heels (_have_ sheep heels?), for the sheep here are pampered and sensitive, and their feelings have to be considered, or they jump over the fence and go frisking away. Besides, I always think it must give dogs such headaches to bark as they do! Instead, I make myself agreeable and do pretty parlour tricks, which would be far beneath St. George's dignity; and, anyhow, _he_ couldn't do tricks to save his life. His place is on the mountain tops, so I sit in the valley below, and give the weakest sheep tea and smile at them or weep with them, whichever they like better." The cousins laughed, both looking very young and happy, and pleased with themselves and each other. They were almost exactly of the same age, twenty-three, and as children had played together in the pleasant old Kentucky town which had given them both their soft, winning drawl. But Dick's people had moved North, and hers had stayed in the South, until three years ago, when Rose and her father had started off on a tour of Europe. In England she met George Winter, and did the one thing of all others which she would have vowed never to do: she fell in love with a clergyman. They had been married three months ago in Louisville, had then visited his parents in Devonshire; and because Winter had not fully recovered tone since an attack of influenza, he had accepted a chaplaincy in the south of France. Rose Fitzgerald and Dick Carleton, children of sisters, had put a marker in the book of their old friendship, and were able to open it at the page where they had left off years ago. She was not in the least hurt because he had let more than a fortnight go by before calling, for she knew that he had come for the aviation, and must have had head and hands full. She was not aware that he found time to see a good deal of another young woman who had no claim of old friendship; but even if she had known, she would have understood and forgiven almost as one man understands and forgives another. For quaintly feminine as she was, Rose often said, and felt, that "before a woman can be a true lady she must be a gentleman." And, being a gentleman, she can learn to be a "good fellow"--an invaluable accomplishment for a woman. "I saw you fly, you know," she said, when they had finished laughing. "I went to Nice on purpose--that is, nearly on purpose. I combined it with buying a dress, a perfectly sweet Paris dress, which I shall try to wear with a slight English accent, so as not to be too smart for a well-regulated sheep-dog. Every one declared the honours of the aviation week were yours, with that wonderful _Flying Fish_. I wouldn't have believed a machine made by man could do such weird things, if I hadn't heard all about the Glenn Curtiss experiments and successes with the _Triad_ at home. I was proud of you. Except that man who tested the Della Robbia parachute, you were quite the most distinguished thing in the air, although it was really crowded--all sorts of quaint creatures giving you their airwash. I want to have a Skye terrier now, and name him after you. St. George was going to give me a dachshund, but they do look so bored to tears, I think it would depress me having one about. And, besides, I draw the line at an animal which can't know whether its ancestors were lizards or dogs." "Look here, Rosie," Dick began when she paused, with an introspective look which told her that he had not heard a word she said, "there's something I want you to do for me." "It won't be the first time," she replied pertly. "I 'spect I'll like to do it. But if it's anything important, better begin now, for some of my own specially collected sheep will be drifting in to tea." "Sheep at tea! A new subject for an artist," mumbled Carleton. "My special ones are so shorn it would be scarcely decent to paint them, and a few are already quite black. But they all like tea--from my hands. It knits them together in a nice soft woolly way. And St. George will probably stroll in with the Alpine glow of a sermon-in-the-making still lighting up his eyes. And he will be introduced to you and drop crumbs on my lovely Persian rug, and ask to have the gramophone started. He loves it. Often I think our friends must go away and complain of being gramophoned to death by a wild clergyman. So out with what you have to ask me, my dear man, or the enemy will be upon us." Carleton got up, with his hands in his pockets, and stared out of the window which looked down from a seemingly great height over the turquoise sea. He could see a train from Italy tearing along a curve of the green and golden coast, like a dark knight charging full tilt toward the foe, a white plume swept back from his helmet. Suddenly the smooth blue surface of the sea was broken by the rush of a motor-boat practising for a forthcoming race, a mere buzzing feather of foam, with a sound like the beating of an excited heart, heard after taking some drug to exaggerate the pulsation. Yet Carleton was hardly conscious of what he saw or heard. He was thinking how best to ask Rose Winter to make Miss Grant's acquaintance. Several ways occurred to him, but at last he blurted out something quite different from what he had planned. "There's a girl--a lady--I--I want to get your opinion about," he stammered, turning red, because he knew that Rose was looking at him with a dangerously innocent expression in her eyes. "That is, I should like to know how you'd classify her," he finished. Rose answered lightly. "There are just three sorts of women, Boy--counting girls: Perfect Dears, Poor Dears, and Persons. Men of course are still easier to classify, because there are only two kinds of them--nice and horrid. But under which of the three heads would you yourself put your friend? I suppose you think she's a Perfect Dear, or you wouldn't have to go and look out of the window while you lead up to asking if I'll make her acquaintance." "No," said Dick. "I'm afraid she's rather more like a Poor Dear. That's why I want you to help her." "Oh, you want me to help her? You're _quite_ sure she isn't a Person?" "I should think not, indeed!" Dick broke out indignantly. "She's a lady, whatever else she may be." "It sounds like a Deserving Case. Oh, dear, I do _hope_ she isn't a deserving case? I've had so many thrust under my nose in the last seven weeks, and I'm sorry to say the undeserving ones are usually more interesting. They're all undeserving ones who're coming to tea." "If you'd call on her, you could see for yourself whether you thought she was deserving or not." "That's the way I'm to help her--by calling? I thought perhaps I was to get her out of pawn, or something, by buying her jewellery. But I had to tell you, if _that_ was what you wanted, I couldn't do much, for all my pocket money is exhausted, owing to so many people coming and crying tears as large as eggs all over the living-room--quite strange people I've never seen before. You can't conceive, Dick, the cataracts of tears that have poured over this rug you admire so much." "I don't understand," said Carleton, looking blank. "Unless you want to switch me off the subject of----" "The Poor Dear? No, indeed. But you couldn't be expected to understand, not being a chaplain's wife at Monte Carlo. You see, they hear we're kind, so they call, and then begin to cry and offer me pawn tickets as security." "Who are 'they'?" "Oh, poor creatures--seldom poor dears--who've _lost_, you know. As I suppose your one has?" "On the contrary," said Dick, almost sharply. "She's won tremendous sums. She simply can't lose--anything except her head." "Not her heart? But without joking, if she isn't a 'case,' why do you want me to----" "Because I think she ought to have some one to look after her, some one who knows the ropes. Honestly, Rose, I'd be awfully obliged if you'd call." "I will of course," Rose answered. "Have I got to be agreeable to any mothers or aunts she may have lurking in the background?" "That's the trouble. She hasn't got a soul." "Oh! And she is quite young?" "Sometimes she looks a baby. Sometimes I think she's a little older." "Then she probably is. Where's she staying?" "At the Hôtel de Paris." "My gracious! _Alone_ at a big Monte Carlo hotel! A young girl! No wonder you glare out of the window while you ask me to call on her, and stick your hands deep in your pockets. People won't allow me for an instant to forget I'm a clergyman's wife. _Et tu Brute!_" "I told you she was a lady." Dick turned rather white. "She doesn't know what she's doing. I'm sure she doesn't. She--even Schuyler, who reads most people at sight like A B C, can't make her out. She's a mystery." "Forgive me," said Rose. "I was half in fun. I wouldn't hurt your _Flying-Fish_ feelings for anything on earth or in air. Is she pretty, and is she American--or what?" "She's perfectly beautiful, and she's English, I think." "Hasn't she told you?" "No. She says nothing about herself--I mean about herself before she came here." "What's past is past. Dark or fair?--not her past, but her complexion?" "Fair." "_Not_ one of those pink and white girls picked out in blue and gold, one sees about so much?" "As different from them as moonlight from footlights. If ever you went into the Casino, you couldn't have helped having her pointed out to you. She's always there, and she's so awfully pretty and dresses so--so richly, and wins such a lot that everybody stares and talks. She's the sensation of the place." "But I never do go into the Casino, of course--that is, not into the Rooms. I go to the Thursday Classical Concerts, and even that St. George shakes his head over, as it's inside the fatal door. You see he's here to preach against gambling, among other things." "I don't suppose the gamblers go to hear his sermons?" "Oh, yes, they do. A good many of them feel that if they attend church and put money in the plate, and don't play on Sunday, the rest's all right. They can keep up a bowing acquaintance with religion that way, anyhow. But I'll go and call on your mystery. What's her name?" "Miss Grant." Rose's face changed. "Oh, is it _that_ girl? I _am_ glad! Virtue is its own reward. I shall love to have an excuse to make her acquaintance." Dick, who had faced round in the window but was still standing, came and sat down by his cousin. "What do you know about her?" he asked. "I'll tell you. It's a sort of story," she answered thoughtfully; "a story about a picture." XIII "You know the two beggars who stand by the bridge, just over the Monegasque frontier as you go toward Cabbé-Roquebrune and Mentone?" Rose said, her eyes no longer on Carleton, but fixed upon something she alone could see. "Of course you know they keep off Monaco territory by half an inch or so, because begging is forbidden in the principality. There's an old white-haired man with rather a sinister face. I'm not sure if he's deformed in any way, or if he just produces on the mind an odd effect of some obscure deformity. He's one of the beggars; and the other's a little humpbacked elf of a creature, hardly human to look at, with his big head and ragged red eyelids; but he's always smiling and gay, bowing and beckoning. It's his _métier_ to be merry, just as it's the other's pose to be overwhelmed with gloom." "I know them both," said Dick. "I can't resist throwing the little humpback a fifty-centime piece now and then, from Jim's automobile, though Jim scolds me for it in a superior way--the way people have who take a firm moral stand against beggars. Jim's on the firm moral stand about a lot of things. He's a strong man, body and soul and mind, but I have a whole brood of pet weaknesses running about that I hate to destroy. The other day when I was going over to Nice to try my luck with the _Flying Fish_ for the first time, I'm ashamed to say I chucked that little red-eyed, grinning imp five francs for luck--my luck, not his?" "It's a wonder you didn't get out and rub his hump, as a lot of gamblers do. They say he's quite a rich man, owing to that sort of silly superstition, but I can't resist him, either. And I feel it quite a feather in my cap of fascination that I've made the other one--the gloomy beggar--smile, though I've never given him a sou. He has quite a sense of humour, when you get to know him--and when he's realized that he can't fool you. I often walk to the bridge and back, just for a chat with the two beggars, instead of everlastingly promenading up and down the Terrace, bowing to every one I know, when I want exercise. I thought I was the only person original enough or brave enough or depraved enough to visit the beggars socially; but the other morning I was on my way to pay them a call, when I saw that somebody else was ahead of me. It was quite a picture. You remember the blazing hot day we had last week?" "Wednesday. The best we had at Nice. Not a breath of wind. The day Rongier tried the Della Robbia parachute the second time and made his sensational descent." "Well, then it was Wednesday. It was like June. The beggars were having a lovely time. They'd taken off their comfortable winter overcoats with those wing-like, three-leaved capes which they've been wearing ever since the beginning of December, and had gone back to summer things: nice, shady, flapping felt hats and cool clothes; and they were having one of their pleasant little feasts which I used quite to envy them when we first came, while the weather was still very warm. A rough table in the road, close to the stone wall, with thick chunks of black bread, and cheese and salad, and chestnuts instead of the figs they had in autumn, all spread out on a paper tablecloth. They had wine of the country, too, with slices of lemon in it; and when I came along a girl was there, peeling a big chestnut for herself which the beggars had given her. She'd taken off her gloves and laid them on the table, with a perfectly gorgeous gold chain bag blazing with jewels, and a gold vanity box to keep the gloves down. Just imagine! On the beggars table! And they didn't seem to grudge her such splendid possessions one tiny bit. They were grinning at her in the most friendly way, as if they loved her to have pretty things and be rich and beautifully dressed. You could see by their air that they considered themselves chivalrous knights of the road being gallant to a lovely lady. That gloomy old wretch was grinning at least an inch wider for her than he ever did for me; and she was smiling, with heaven knows how many dimples flashing as brilliantly as her rings, while she peeled the chestnut." "Yes, that must have been Miss Grant!" exclaimed Dick, delightedly. "I never saw such dimples as she's got." "Or else you've forgotten the others. Well, I walked slowly so as not to break up the picture. She had on a thin veil, so I thought maybe she wouldn't be as pretty or young without it, but it was like a pearly mist with the sun shining on it, and it gave her that kind of mysterious, magic beauty of things half seen which stirs up all the romance in you." "Don't I know?" Dick muttered. "But she's always got that, with or without a veil. It's a peculiar quality of her features or her expression--I don't know which--that can't be described exactly, any more than the lights on the clouds can, that I see sometimes when I've got up a few hundred feet high in the sunrise. I wouldn't have said all this about her if you hadn't begun. But anybody must feel it." "I believe the beggars did, without knowing it. I did--even I, a woman. I felt I must see if she'd be as pretty when she lifted her veil to eat the chestnut, so I stopped not far off, on the Monaco end of the bridge, and pretended to tie up my shoe-string. I thought I'd never seen a face like hers--not at all modern, somehow. Who is it says romance is the quality of _strangeness_ in beauty? Hers has that. It seemed to me when she got her veil up that she was more wonderful, not belonging to any century in particular, but to all time, as if thousands of lovely ancestresses had given her something of themselves as a talisman." "Rose, what a darling you are!" Dick said, seizing her hands and squeezing them hard. "Oh," she laughed, wincing a little. "You couldn't do that to _her_ with all her rings. I was just trying to _draw_ you! Now I've found out all I want to know. You're dreadfully, frightfully in love with Miss Grant." "Am I?" he asked. "Perhaps. I'm not sure. Only I see that there's something rare about her, and she's too precious to be living as she does, surrounded by a weird gang who all want to get something out of her, or else to give her something she oughtn't to take. Like that Indian chap, the Maharajah of Indorwana--confound the little beast! He's tried to make her take a diamond star and a rope of pearls." "I suppose she needn't, unless she wants to." "Oh, I don't know, she's so good-natured, and somehow childlike. She had both the things on at the Casino last night; said he insisted on lending them to her, for luck, and she didn't like refusing them, as he almost cried. And then there's that jeweller man from Paris--has a shop in the Galerie Charles Trois. She strolled into his place to buy the gold bag you saw on the beggars' table and he went wild about her. Cheek of him! Sent her a bracelet she had to send back. How dare a fellow like that have the impudence to fall in love with a girl like her?" "Cats may look at kings, and I suppose kings embrace queens, don't they? You needn't be so mad. You come from a democratic country, and Grandma Carleton's father was a grocer." "He was a super-grocer. And, anyhow, Americans are different." "Some of them fly high nowadays, eh, Mr. Air-pirate?" Dick laughed. "You haven't told me yet what happened next at the beggars' feast, and how you found out who _she_ was." "Nothing happened to any one except me. They went on feasting and gave her some more chestnuts. I don't know what she'd given them! But she'd probably rubbed the lucky hump and paid for it. I was dying to go up and speak to my pals, and perhaps be introduced to the girl, but I hadn't got quite cheek enough, and they seemed to be having such a good time, it was a shame to interrupt. The elf was talking, with explosive sort of gestures in between mouthfuls, evidently telling something very interesting. And you know, I always pretend to myself in a kind of fairy story that he's really a person of immense, mysterious influence, a weird power behind the throne, starting or stopping revolutions. Of course it's nonsense--all founded on my seeing him with one of the new revolutionary newspapers in his hand--the ones they allow nowadays to be sold in the principality, against the Prince, and the Casino, and everything. But if I were to write a sensational story of Monte Carlo, that little red-eyed dwarf at the bridge should be the hero. And just as I was thinking about all that, and tying my second shoe, along came a taxi with poor Captain Hannaford in it. He'd been into Italy to see Madame Berenger, the actress, at her villa, which he would like to buy, and was coming back to lunch; so he made the chauffeur pull up while he asked if he could drive me home? I said yes, because I saw him lift his hat to that girl, and I hoped he could tell me something about her." "What did he tell you?" "Not so very much. He didn't seem to want to talk about her, I thought. That didn't surprise me, because he has an idea that women feel disgust for him and can't bear to look at him if they can help it--all but me, for I've convinced him that I'm really his friend. He only said that her name was Miss Grant, and that she was very lucky at the Casino. And in about three minutes we were at the door of this house." "Well, I'm mighty glad you're interested in her, and that you're willing to call." "Willing? I'm charmed. I'll go to-morrow." "You--you couldn't go to-day, I suppose?" "Silly boy, it's too late. Here's tea; and here's St. George; and here will be some of the flock presently, who generally appear on the stroke of half-past four." In another moment Carleton was shaking the hand of a slender, pale man with auburn hair worn rather long, a sensitive mouth, delicate nostrils, and beautiful, bright, hazel eyes which shone with a spiritual, unworldly enthusiasm. He looked like one who would cheerfully have been a martyr to his faith had he lived a few centuries earlier. And Dick thought his cousin's simile of the high Alps not too far fetched, after all. But there was a warm light in the beautiful eyes as they turned upon Rose; and something in the man's smile hinted that he did not lack a sense of humour, except when too absent-minded to bring it into play. Dick felt happy about Rose, and happier about Miss Grant, because Rose would go and see her. XIV Life was not running on oiled wheels at the Villa Bella Vista. A spirit of discontent, a feeling that they had been lured to the house under false pretences, grew among Lady Dauntrey's visitors and was expressed stealthily, a word here, a word there, and sullen looks behind the backs of host and hostess. Even on the first day disappointment began to wriggle from guest to guest, like a little cold, sharp-nosed snake, leaving its clammy trail wherever it passed. In the first place the villa, which had been described glowingly by Lady Dauntrey to the Collises and Dodo Wardropp, was not what she had painted it. Indeed, as Dodo remarked to Miss Collis, it was not what any one had painted it, at least within the memory of man. Once it had been a rich gold colour, but many seasons of neglect had tarnished the gold to a freckled brown, which even the flowering creepers that should have cloaked it seemed to dislike. In depression they had shed most of their leaves; and bare serpent-branches, which might be purple with wistaria in the late spring long after everybody had gone to the north, coiled dismally over the fanlike roof of dirty glass that sheltered a blistered front door. Inside, a faint odour of mouldiness hung in the air of the rooms, which had been shut up unoccupied for a long time. The ugly drab curtains in the drawing-room smelled of the moth-powder in which they had been wrapped through the summer heat. The imitation lace drapery underneath them had been torn and not mended. Bits of thick brown paper pasted over the windows during the hot months still stuck to the glass. The furniture was heavy, not old but middle-aged, lacking the charm of antiquity, and in the worst French taste. The pictures were banal; and there was no garden. More painful than all, the house was in the Condamine; and Dodo, when she had spent a few days at "Monte" on her way to England from Australia, had been told that "nobody who was anybody lived down in the Condamine: only the 'cheap people' went there." And Dodo did not consider herself a cheap person. She was paying high to be the guest of a "lady of title": she wanted her money's worth, and soon began to fear that there was doubt of getting it. Servants had been engaged in advance for Lady Dauntrey by the agent who had let the house. There were too few; and it needed but the first night's dinner to prove that the cook was third rate, though Lady Dauntrey carefully referred to him as the _chef_. In addition to this person, occasionally seen flitting about in a dingy white cap, there was a man to wait at table and open the door--a man, Dodo said, with the face of a sulky codfish; and a hawk-nosed, hollow-cheeked woman to "do the rooms" and act as maid to the ladies, none of the three having brought a maid of her own. Their hostess had said she could not put up her guests' servants, but they might "count upon a first-rate maid in the house." They reminded each other of this promise, the day after their arrival, and grumbled. Secundina had as much as she could do to keep the rooms in order; and the only other service she was able to give the visitors was to recount gruesome stories of the villa while she made their beds or took a top layer of dust off their dressing-tables. According to her, the Bella Vista was the cheapest furnished house to let in the principality, because years ago a murder had been committed in it. A woman had been killed for the sake of her jewels by the tenants, a husband and wife. They had kept her body in a trunk for days, and had attempted to get out of France with it, but had been arrested on their way to Italy. Nobody who was superstitious would live in the house, and so it was not often let. Secundina did not know where the murder had taken place, but believed it was in the dining-room, and that the trunk had been kept in the cellar. It was Dodo to whom the tale was told, and she repeated it to Mrs. Collis and her daughter, the three having forgotten their slight differences in making common, secret cause against the Dauntreys, or, rather, against Lady Dauntrey; for they were inclined to like and be sorry for her husband, pitying him because misfortune or weakness had brought him to the pass of marrying such a woman. "You could make a whole macadamized road out of her heart," remarked Mrs. Collis. "It would serve her right if we all marched out of this loathsome den in a body," said Dodo, emphatically, when they had met to talk things over in the Collises' room. "She's a selfish cat and thinks of nobody but herself. She won't even let the men come near us girls if she can help it, though you and I both know perfectly well, Miss Collis, that she hinted about the most wonderful chances of great marriages, nothing lower than an earl at meanest. Not that you and I need look for husbands. But that isn't the point; for anyhow, she has no business to snap them out of our mouths. Now, she's jealous if Dom Ferdinand or the Marquis de Casablanca so much as looks at one of us. And she's given us the worst rooms, so she can take in other poor deluded creatures and get more money out of them. And there isn't enough to eat. And all the eggs and fish have had a past. And Secundina says there are black beetles as large as chestnuts in the kitchen. Still----" "Still," echoed Miss Collis, "Monseigneur's awfully interesting, and it's fun being in the same house with him; though I'm afraid he's selfish too, or he wouldn't calmly keep on his front room, when he can't help knowing we're stuffed into back ones without any view. Of course he _is_ a royalty, so perhaps he has his dignity to think of. But I know an American man wouldn't do such a thing, not even if he were a President." "The Marquis is nice, too," said Mrs. Collis. "Lord Dauntrey tells me his family's one of the oldest in the 'Almanach de Gotha,' whatever _that_ is. And Monseigneur and he are both great friends of the Dauntreys." "Only of Lord Dauntrey," Dodo corrected her. "Well, anyhow, they're likely to stay a while in this house, for whatever there is of the best, they get. And they're playing Lord Dauntrey's system with him at the Casino." "And losing!" "Yes. But Dom Ferdinand seems to have plenty of money." "Secundina says the _chef_ told her it was well known that Monseigneur hasn't a sou of his own, but borrows of people who believe in his Cause. Then he comes here and gambles with what he gets. According to the cook, he's a well-known figure at Monte Carlo, and sometimes calls out when he's playing in the Rooms, 'There's my cousin's head on that gold piece. It ought to be mine.'" "His is a mighty good-looking head, anyhow," remarked Miss Collis thoughtfully. She herself was not rich, but her stepfather, a Chicago merchant, was enormously wealthy, and she was wondering whether, to give her a chance of possible queenhood, David Collis might not open his heart and his purse. Dodo was at the same time asking herself what would be the smallest sum Dom Ferdinand would consider worth looking at with a wife. Also she contemplated the idea of impressing him with the belief that she was a great heiress, until too late for him to change his mind in honour. But first he must fix his mind upon her. She would have been glad to create distrust of him in the hearts of Lottie Collis and her mother; and while they remained at the Bella Vista in Dom Ferdinand's society Dodo decided not to be frightened away by a few inconveniences. Nor did she wish the story of that long-ago murder to reach his ears. Dom Ferdinand had publicly announced that he was horribly superstitious, and perhaps he would not stay if he knew what had happened in the dining-room. He would think it brought bad luck to live in such a house, even if he could bear the idea of a ghost; for he talked of little else than what one ought to do in order to attract luck. After a few days at Monte Carlo Lord Dauntrey began to find acquaintances, people he had known long ago in England before he was swallowed up in darkest Africa, or those he had met at hotels since his marriage--hotels chosen by Lady Dauntrey for the purpose of making useful friends. He had a certain wistful, weary charm of manner that was somehow likable and aroused sympathy, especially in women, though it was evident that he made no conscious effort to please. There was a vague, floating rumour of some old, more than half-forgotten scandal about him: an accident, giving the wrong drug when he was studying medicine as a very young man; a death; a sad story hushed up; a prudent disappearance from Europe, urged by annoyed aristocratic relatives who had little money to speed his departure, but gave what they could; professional failure in South Africa; some gambling-trouble in Johannesburg, and a vanishing again into the unknown. Nevertheless his title was an old one. Men of his race had loomed great in dim historic days, and though during the last two centuries no Dauntrey had done anything notable except lose money, sell land, go bankrupt, figure in divorce cases or card scandals, and marry actresses, they had never in their degeneration lost that charm which, in Charles II's day, had won from a pretty Duchess the nickname of the "darling Dauntreys." The present viscount was the last and perhaps the least of his race; yet, because of his name and the lingering charm--like the sad perfume of _pot-pourri_ clinging to a broken jar--he would have been given the prodigal's welcome at Monte Carlo (that agreeable pound for lost reputations) but for one drawback. The stumbling block was the woman he had made Lady Dauntrey. In the permanent English colony on the Riviera, with its jewelled sprinkling of American millionaires and its glittering fringe of foreign notables, there are a few charming women upon whom depends the fate of newcomers. These great ladies turned down their thumbs when with experienced eyes they looked upon Lord Dauntrey's wife, when their trained ears heard her voice, with its curiously foreign, slightly rough accent. Nobody wanted or intended to turn an uncompromising back upon her. Lord Dauntrey and she could be invited to big entertainments--the mid-season "squashes" which wiped off boring obligations, paid compliments quickly and easily, and pleased the outer circles of acquaintanceship. But for intimate things, little luncheons and little dinners to the elect, she would not "do"; which was a pity--because as a bachelor Lord Dauntrey might have been furbished up and made to do quite well. As things stood, the best that could happen to the pair, if they were found to play bridge well, was to be asked to the bridge parties of the great; while for other entertainments they would have to depend on outsiders to whom a title was a title, no matter how tarnished or how tattered. As Rose Winter had said to Carleton, "Who _isn't_ Who, if they can play bridge?" But it had been important for Lady Dauntrey's plans not to be received on sufferance. She had meant and expected to be some one in particular. In the South African past of which people here knew nothing, but began to gossip much, it had been her dream to marry a man who could lead her at once to the drawing-room floor of society, and she saw no reason in herself why she should not be a shining light there. She knew that she was handsome, and fascinating to men, and while using her gifts as best she could, always she had burned with an almost fierce desire to make more of them, to be a beauty and a social star, like those women of whom she read in the "society columns" of month-old London papers, women not half as attractive as she. She had felt in herself the qualities necessary for success in a different world from any she had known; and because, during a period when she was a touring actress she had played the parts of great ladies, she had told herself confidently that she would know without any other teaching how great ladies should talk, behave, and dress. "Who _was_ she?" people asked each other, of course, when she and her husband appeared at Monte Carlo in the beginning of the season, and Lord Dauntrey began quietly, unobtrusively, to remind old acquaintances of his own or of his dead uncle's (the last viscount's) existence. Nobody could answer that question; but "_What_ was she?" seemed simpler of solution as a puzzle, at least in a negative way; for certainly she was not a lady. And one or two Americans who had lived in the South of their own country insisted that she had a "touch of the tar brush." She confessed to having passed some years in South Africa, "in the country a good deal of the time." And something was said by gossips who did not know much, about a first husband who had been "a doctor in some God-forsaken hole." Perhaps that was true, people told each other; and if so, it explained how she and Dauntrey had met; because it was generally understood that he had been, or tried to be, a doctor in South Africa. Thus the story went round that he had been her late husband's assistant, and had married her when she was free. Even the first ten days in Monte Carlo showed Lady Dauntrey that her brilliant scheme for the season was doomed to failure: and that heart of hers, out of which Mrs. Collis said a whole macadamized road might be made, grew sick with disappointment and anxiety. She had married Dauntrey--almost forced him to marry her, in fact, by fanning the dying embers of his chivalry--because she expected through him to realize her ambitions. Under this motive lay another--an almost savage love, not unlike the love for an Apache of the female of his kind. Only, Dauntrey was not an Apache at heart, and Eve Ruthven was. Eve, of course, was not her real name. She had been Emma Cotton until she went on the stage twenty years ago, at sixteen; but she was the type of woman who admires and takes the name of Eve. And Mrs. Ruthven she had been as wife and widow after the theatrical career had been abandoned in disaster. Something in her nature would have yearned toward Dauntrey if he had had nothing to recommend him to her ambition; but she would have resisted her own inclination for a penniless man without a title. What money there was between them had been saved in one way or other by her; but, as Dodo Wardropp surmised, there was far less than Mrs. Ruthven had persuaded Lord Dauntrey to believe. At first she had worked upon the overmastering passion of his nature, where most other loves and desires were burnt out or broken down: the passion for gambling. He had told her about the roulette system which he had invented, a wonderful system, in practising which with a roulette watch or a toy wheel, he had managed to get through dreadful years of banishment, without dying of boredom. She had encouraged him to hope that with her money they would have enough capital to play the system successfully at Monte Carlo, and win fortune in a way which for long had been the dream of his life, as hers had been to become a personage in "real society." With five thousand pounds, Lord Dauntrey was confident that he could win through the worst possible slide the system was likely to experience, playing with louis stakes. Mrs. Ruthven mentioned that she had eight thousand pounds. After he had asked her to marry him, and she had said yes, and told everybody she knew, about the engagement--including newspaper men in Johannesburg--Dauntrey discovered that the figure she had mentioned was in hundreds, not thousands. But she sobbed out a passionate confession, saying she had lied because she loved him: and they could still go to Monte Carlo, with a plan she had, and try the system with five-franc pieces instead of louis. It was a long time since any one had loved Dauntrey. He was lonely, and hated to hurt a woman. Besides, five-franc pieces were better than nothing, and he was sick to death of South Africa. They had got through the spring and summer in England partly on their wits, partly through impressing landlords and travelling nonentities with their social importance, and partly through their successes at bridge. For they both played bridge extremely well, too well, it had once or twice been said of Lord Dauntrey in South Africa. Lady Dauntrey's "plan" was to get together as many paying guests as possible, enlist their interest in the "system," or, if they could not be persuaded into that, to earn for herself something even better than board-money, by introducing rich girls to men of title. She had not doubted her opportunities for thrusting her female pigeons into society, or of getting hold of young foreign aristocrats, perhaps even Englishmen, who were "out for dollars," as her girls would be out for dukes--or the next best thing after dukes. And she had begun well. The house she had secured was cheap; and she brought with her from England three women who would alone pay more than enough to keep it up. Her husband's friend, Dom Ferdinand de Trevanna, and his faithful follower, the Marquis de Casablanca, had fulfilled a promise to meet them at Monte Carlo on the day after their arrival at the villa. Several other guests were expected--the young widow of a rich stockbroker; two Jewish heiresses who still called themselves girls; an elderly, impecunious English earl; an Austrian count who had failed to find a wife in England, and a naval lieutenant who was heir to an impoverished baronetcy: a set of people sure to be congenial, because each wanted something which another could give. Everything ought to have been satisfactory, even from Dauntrey's point of view, for he had interested all the men in his system, and what money they could spare would be put into it; he would play for the "syndicate"; or if the men preferred gambling themselves, they must give him something for the system which he was prepared to teach. When she arrived at Monte Carlo on a beautiful day of sunshine, which seemed a good omen, Eve Dauntrey believed that at last luck had turned for her. She thought that the thing she had longed for, year after year, was coming at last; and she was proud of the plan she had made, proud of the way in which she had worked it out. But the moment she entered the villa in the Condamine, her spirits were damped almost as if, by some monkey-trick, a jug of cold water had been upset on her head as the door opened to let her in. She felt the same depression fall upon the minds of the others, as shadows can be seen to move and grow long at sunset. She knew that the Collises and Dodo Wardropp were going to be dissatisfied, and that they would talk against the house and their accommodation in it, behind her back, saying that she had deliberately deceived them. Still, there were Dom Ferdinand and Casablanca. There was no deceit where they were concerned. They wanted to meet girls with money, and Dodo and Lottie wanted to meet men of title. There ought to be no danger that any members of this party would leave solely because the cooking was poor and the rooms badly furnished; and it was really Eve's wish to throw the four together, so that they need not miss certain things which lacked in her promised programme. But she had counted without herself. It was not in her to surrender any men who might be near, to other women, even when surrendering them would be to her advantage. In her heart she despised Lottie Collis and Dodo Wardropp, and she had to try her own weapons against theirs. She could not help this, and did it almost unconsciously. Throughout her whole life since she was fifteen she had lived by and sometimes fallen by the fascination she had for men; not all men, but many, and most of those whose type appealed to her. She could never resist testing its power, even now when she loved the man she had married, and would ruthlessly have sacrificed any other for him. She tried it upon Dom Ferdinand and the Marquis de Casablanca. They struggled, because they wished to make an impression upon the two girls in the house; but they could not hold out against the allurement of the primitive woman in Lady Dauntrey, and though they paid the girls compliments and went about with them docilely, they looked at Eve. And the girls saw not only the looks, but the weapons which Lady Dauntrey used to win the men for herself, when she ought to have been furthering her guests' interests. They began to hate her, and soon realized that she would not be able to introduce them to the "best set" at Monte Carlo, as she had promised. Still they stayed on, hoping a little, for other people were expected to join the house party, and there was a chance yet of something better. Besides, they found a small and bitter pleasure in seeing the disappointment and humiliation of the woman who had been so sure of herself, and had, by the force of her own strong personality, made them sure of her. Dodo and the Collises, travelling out of their own country for the first time, had not--as they acknowledged to each other now--"known the difference in foreigners." It was only by the light in other women's eyes--women of good birth and breeding--that they began to see Lady Dauntrey as she was, common, bold, not a lady, one whom ladies would not care to receive. Dodo also was common, and knew herself to be "nobody" at home, but she had thought that she might "go down in England," if she could have the right introductions. Now she saw that her money was being wasted at the start; for though the Dauntreys attracted a certain set round them, instinctively she, as well as the Collises, felt that it was not the right set. Even when, after ten days of Monte Carlo, the Villa Bella Vista was full of the Dauntreys' paying guests, a cold sense of insecurity and trouble to come, which would be worse by and by than the bitter disappointment of the present, lay heavy upon Eve's heart. Her ménage was uncomfortable, and people were threatening to go. Every day nearly she had a "scene" with some one, a guest or a servant, or both. Mrs. Collis had burst into tears at a luncheon in honour of a rich Jewish money-lender, because she thought herself insulted. She had been given a kitchen dish-towel instead of a napkin, and had spoiled the party by complaining of it. The stupid creature! As if some one were not obliged to put up with the thing, since there were not enough napkins to go round for so many! Lady Dauntrey had explained that she could not take the dish-towel herself, as Monseigneur was on her right hand, Mr. Holbein on her left. But even the fact that Lord Dauntrey contented himself with a dust cloth did not appease Mrs. Collis, who said it was only the last feather on the top of other grievances. And Dodo was furious because, whenever Lady Dauntrey entertained, the servants were so busy that she had to make her own bed, or see it lie tumbled just as she had got out of it, until evening. Eve's violent temper had got the better of her then, and she had flung her true opinion of Miss Wardropp into the pretty painted face. "Persons who've never had anything decent at home always complain more than any one else in other people's houses," she had said; and Dodo had retorted with compliments of the same kind. Miss Wardropp often wondered if Lady Dauntrey knew the history of the Villa Bella Vista. She did know, the agent having felt obliged to confess, lest later she might hear the story and try to get out of her bargain on the strength of it. But he had eloquently explained that if there were no drawback the house--being a large one with many rooms--would have commanded twice the price at which he could offer it to her ladyship. He had added that the murder, committed long ago, had been almost forgotten by every one except old inhabitants; and as the villa had been occupied by several tenants since its evil days, and thoroughly redecorated, it need no longer have disagreeable associations even for the most sensitive minds. Lady Dauntrey's mind was not sensitive. She had hoped that her guests would not hear the tale, and she had thought that she would not care herself. Perhaps she would not have cared, if everything had gone as well with her and her husband as they had expected, for then she would have been cheerful, and could have laughed at superstition. But when the people she wanted to know would not know her, when Dauntrey's system did not work as it had worked on the toy roulette, when the servants stole, or left without notice, and when the guests quarrelled and complained, she began to feel that there was a curse upon the house. She fancied that, if she had not taken it, but had run larger risks and chosen a more expensive villa, perhaps things would have been better. In spite of herself she thought a great deal about the man and the woman who had done the murder. From the agent she had heard no details, and though the case had made a great sensation at the time it happened, years ago, she had been far away in South Africa, and had not given much attention to it. Some sly hints of Secundina's, however, had shown her that the servants knew, and she had not been able to resist asking questions. Afterward she could not put out of her head Secundina's description of the dreadful couple. The man had been of good birth, the woman _bourgeoise_, but clever. They had gambled and made money, eventually losing it again, and all their capital besides. Then they had grown desperate, at their wits' end, and they had killed a woman who trusted and thought of them as her friends. At night, when Eve lay awake worrying, as she often did--especially when Dauntrey had been losing--she seemed to see the two haggard faces staring at her hopelessly, growing and taking shape in the darkness. Worse than all, she seemed to understand something in their eyes which they wished to make her understand. She wondered if, by any chance, the room where she and her husband slept had been theirs, and if between these walls they had talked over the murder before committing it. She imagined how they had felt, how they had hated and rebelled against the idea at first, then accepted it as the one thing left to do. The story was that the woman had persuaded the man to consent, though he had refused at first. One day, after a worse quarrel than any that had gone before, Mrs. Collis left with Lottie, packing up in a hurry, and driving off to a hotel. This gave Lady Dauntrey an empty room; and already Dodo had twice vowed that she too would go. Now, in all probability the Collises would persuade her to join them; and perhaps an epidemic of departure would sweep through the villa. Lord Dauntrey had suffered a serious setback; and all the money received from the guests was needed to retrieve this accident. Dom Ferdinand had lost so much that he could not pay at all until a further remittance came to him; and as odd stories of the household had leaked out through dissatisfied servants, several tradesmen had begun to make themselves objectionable. Strangers are not trusted in the shops at Monte Carlo, and the butcher threatened to send no more meat to the Bella Vista unless he were paid what was owing. This happened when the Dauntreys had been in their villa three weeks; and that same afternoon at the Casino Lady Dauntrey spoke to Mary Grant. It was then two days before Christmas. Often she had looked at Mary and felt inclined to speak, but always something had happened to prevent, or else Dodo or the Collises had been near, and she had known that they would say to each other, "Look at the woman making up to that girl now because she's winning such a lot. Any one who's got money is good enough for her." But this time the conversation came about easily, as though it were meant to be. She was watching Mary's play, standing behind the next chair. Suddenly a man occupying the chair got up and went away from the table. Instantly Lady Dauntrey dropped into the vacant place, as if she had been waiting for it. She did not really wish to play, though she liked gambling, for she had been unlucky in the small game she had attempted, and had grown cautious, anxious to keep what she had. But on a crowded night it is almost obligatory to play if one has annexed a chair which many people would like to have. Eve reluctantly took out two louis, the only coins in her imitation gold bag. She was not near a croupier, and having seen already that a few five-franc pieces lay among her neighbour's gold and notes, she asked Mary with a pleasant smile if she would mind changing a louis for her. "I'm not lucky, like you," she said, "so I'm afraid to play with gold." Mary pushed four five-franc pieces along the table, and would have been only too glad not to accept the gold in exchange, but of course she could not make a present of money to Lady Dauntrey. "I shall be delighted," she said. "You're sure you're not wanting your silver?" Eve inquired. "Oh, no, thank you. I sometimes put five francs on zero _en plein_ to protect half a stake on a simple chance," Mary explained, now thoroughly conversant with every intricacy of the game that had been so kind to her. "But zero's been up three times in half an hour, so I don't think I shall bother with it again for a while. And, anyhow, I'm not playing for a few minutes. Sometimes I feel as if I must wait for an inspiration." "I wish I ever had one!" sighed Lady Dauntrey, hesitating over one of her big silver coins. "Do tell me where to put this. You're so wonderful, you might bring even me a stroke of luck." "But I should be so distressed if I made you lose," Mary said, as gravely as if the five-franc piece in question had been a _mille_ note. "But--well--if it were mine, I rather think I should try ten. I've no inspiration for myself this time; but I seem to see ten floating in the air around you, and that's the way my inspirations come. I see numbers or colours, and then I play on them." "I'll try it!" Eve exclaimed. "But will you put the money on for me? I want all your luck, and none of my own." Mary pushed the five-franc piece on to the number 10, using a rake of her own which Dick Carleton had given her. It was a glorified rake, which he had ordered specially for her, made of ebony with the initials "M. G." set into it in little sapphires, her favourite stones. Ten came up, and Lady Dauntrey was enchanted. She even felt an impulse of gratitude, and a superstitious conviction that this girl would be for her a bringer of good fortune. "I've so often watched your play, and wanted to tell you how much I admired it," she said, "but I never quite had the courage." Lady Dauntrey did not look like a woman who would lack courage for anything she wished to do, but Mary saw no reason to disbelieve her word, and indeed did not judge or criticise at all, except by instinct; and people had only to look sad or complain of their ill luck to arouse a sympathy stronger than any instinct against them. "I think it's very nice of you to speak," she replied, politely. Both murmured in subdued tones, in order not to annoy other players. "I recognized you, of course, the first time I saw you in the Casino," Lady Dauntrey went on, "as the lovely girl who came south in the train with us. We've all been longing to know you." This was untrue. Anxious to propitiate Society as far as possible, Eve had avoided recognizing Mary, who might be looked upon as a doubtful person--a young girl, always strikingly dressed, living alone at a fashionable and gay hotel, playing high at the Casino, and picking up odd acquaintances. But now Lady Dauntrey was abandoning all hope that Society might let her pass over its threshold, and she was willing to defy it for the sake of money. This girl was at least a lady, which Dodo was not, nor was Mrs. Ernstein, the stockbroker's widow. Eve thought it would be a good thing if Miss Grant could be persuaded to come and stay at the Villa Bella Vista in the room left vacant by the Collises. Mary was rather flattered, but she now had an inspiration to play, and did not want to go on talking. "I think ten will come up again, or else eleven," she said, with the misty look in her eyes which was always there at the Casino, or when her thoughts were intent on gambling. "I shall play the two numbers _à cheval_." She put on a maximum, Lady Dauntrey hastily placing a five-franc piece, not on the _cheval_, but more timidly on the six numbers of which ten and eleven were two. Mary lost and Eve won, for thirteen came up. The same thing happened several times in succession. If Mary chose a number, Lady Dauntrey included it in a _transversale simple_, or took the dozen in which it was. Mary invariably lost, while she won. It was as if she gave Mary bad luck, while Mary brought her good fortune, for never had Mary so often lost, never had Eve won so often in succession. At last all the money which Mary had brought with her was exhausted, and Lady Dauntrey, who had raked in more than twenty louis, offered laughingly to lend her something to go on with. But Mary thanked her and refused, in spite of the tradition of the tables that borrowed money brings back good luck. "I'm rather tired, and my head aches a little," she said. "I think I'll go home." Eve rose also. "You call the Hôtel de Paris 'home?'" she asked. "I begin to feel quite at home," Mary answered. "I've been there nearly three weeks, and it seems longer." They walked together out of the bright room of the large decorative picture called jestingly "The Three Disgraces," on through the Salle Schmidt, and so to the atrium. "If you don't mind," said Lady Dauntrey, "I'll go with you as far as your hotel. There's a hat in a shop round the corner I've been dying for. Now, thanks to the luck you've brought me, I shall treat myself to it, as a kind of Christmas present. You know, day after to-morrow will be Christmas. Surely you'll be rather lonely in your 'home' then, or have you friends who are going to take you away for the day?" "No," Mary replied, as they went down the steps of the Casino. "No one has mentioned Christmas. I suppose people don't think as much about celebrating Christmas here, where it's almost like summer. Besides, I have very few friends." "Haven't you made a good many acquaintances?" "Not many. Four or five. One lady has called--I think she is the wife of the chaplain of the Church of England--but I was out, and I haven't returned her visit yet. One seems to have so little time here! And the curé of Roquebrune, the village on the hill, has been--twice. I was out both times. I'm always out, I'm afraid. But that reminds me, I must send him a Christmas present for his church." "I should be delighted if you'd dine with us on Christmas night," said Lady Dauntrey, cordially. "Do! At eight o'clock. We have such a merry party with us--all young, or if not young they feel so, which is the true Christmas spirit." "You're very kind----" Mary began; but suspecting hesitation, Lady Dauntrey broke in. "That's settled, then. I'm _so_ pleased! And would you care to go to a dance on Christmas eve?--a rather wonderful dance it will be, on board a big yacht in the harbour. You must have noticed her--_White Lady_ her name is--and she belongs to Mr. Samuel Holbein, the South African millionaire. You've heard of him, of course. His wife and daughter are on board, and they've begged me to bring as many girls to the dance as I can, for there'll be a lot of men. You know there are heaps more young men about here than there are girls--so unusual except at Monte Carlo." "A dance on a yacht!" Mary echoed. The idea tempted her, though she hardly felt friendly enough yet with Lady Dauntrey to accept two invitations from her at once. "It sounds interesting." "It will be. Do say yes. I shall love to chaperon you." They were at the steps of the Hôtel de Paris. "Then I say 'yes,'" answered Mary, "and thank you!" In a few minutes it was all arranged. And Lady Dauntrey bade Miss Grant goodbye, gayly, calling her a "mascotte." She turned the corner as if to go to the shop of the hats. But there was no hat there which she particularly wanted. She had merely sought an excuse to walk as far as the Hôtel de Paris with Mary. When the girl had disappeared behind the glass doors, Eve went back quickly to the Casino, where her husband was playing. She could not bear to be long away from him when he was there. It was agony not to know whether he had lost or won. XV After the aviation week Vanno Della Robbia still had the excuse of waiting for Prince Angelo and his bride. It was as well therefore to be at Monte Carlo as anywhere else in the neighbourhood of the villa they would occupy at Cap Martin. They had been detained in England by a "command" visit to royalty, but would soon come to the Riviera. In a letter Angelo asked his younger brother to go over to Cap Martin and look at the house, which Vanno did: and prolonging his excursion to the ruined, historic convent on the Cap, met Miss Grant strolling there with Jim Schuyler and Dick Carleton. He passed near enough to hear that Schuyler was telling the legend of the place: how the nuns played a joke on the men of Roquebrune, the appointed guardians of their safety, by ringing the alarm bell to see if the soldiers of the castle town on the hill would indeed turn out to the rescue. How the very night after the men had run down in vain, the bell pealed out again, and the guardians remained snugly in their beds, only to hear next day that this time the alarm had been real. Saracens had sacked the convent, carried off all the young and pretty nuns, and murdered the old ones. Schuyler and Carleton both bowed to Vanno, whom they had met several times during the "flying week" at Nice, and Schuyler interrupted his story long enough to say to Mary, "That's Prince Giovanni Della Robbia, who invented the parachute Rongier tested so successfully the other day. Dick met him once in Egypt. He goes star-gazing in the desert, I believe, consorting with Arabs, and learning all sorts of Eastern _patois_." Neither Vanno (who caught the sound of his name in passing) nor Schuyler guessed the half-reluctant interest with which Mary heard the name of her sulky neighbour at the Hôtel de Paris, and learned those few details of his life. Vanno had been more than once to Roquebrune since the first day, and knew that the curé had called twice upon Miss Grant, without finding her at home. He knew, too, that the priest had received no visit from her in return; nor had he again seen or heard of the "strange lady" who had come to question him about Prince Angelo. Vanno was deeply disappointed at the failure of his plan, and feared that Mary wished to avoid knowing the priest; otherwise she might at least have gone to church at Roquebrune. She made other excursions, when she could tear herself from the Casino, on irresistibly bright afternoons. Not only had he seen her at Cap Martin, but in Nice and in Mentone; once, motoring into Italy with people whose faces were strange to Vanno, and unpromising; and with the same party again in the beautiful garden at Beaulieu, where it is fashionable to drink tea and watch the sunset. But she did not make time to go to Roquebrune, and show a little graceful gratitude for the curé's kindly interest. The desire grew stronger in Vanno to speak to her, to know something of her besides the perhaps deceiving beauty of her face, but he clung in firmness or obstinacy to the resolve of which he had told his friend. He knew that he could not help her as the curé might, and secretly he feared himself. Once the ice was broken in making her acquaintance, he was not sure that he could still be strong. But one afternoon he had been taking a long walk alone, as was his custom every day. Coming down from a Ligurian fort, by an old mule track that ended on the upper Corniche road, he saw an automobile which had stopped at the foot of the path. A girl in a rose-red motor-bonnet and a moleskin coat was standing up in the car, her eyes raised, her chin lifted like a flower tilted in its stem, intent on something which Vanno could not see. The girl was Miss Grant, and Vanno's heart gave a bound, then seemed to contract at sight of her, so near him and alone. The automobile was drawn up so close to the descending mule path that Vanno saw it would be impossible to pass unless the chauffeur started the engine and moved the car on a little; but rather than this should be necessary, he halted abruptly a few yards above the level of the road. The rattle of footsteps on rough cobbles roused Mary from her study of the thing which Vanno could not see. She glanced up, expecting some peasant who would want to pass her car. At sight of the Prince halted on the path and looking down into her uplifted face, she blushed. It was just such a blush as had dyed her cheeks painfully the night when he frowned in answer to her friendly smile; and Vanno knew that she was thinking of it. The remorse he had suffered then, when too late, came back to him. If she had not blushed now in the same childlike, hurt way, he was sure that he could have kept to his resolution not to speak. He would simply have stood still, gazing away into distance until she was ready to go on; or at most he would have said with cool politeness, "Please don't let me disturb you. I am in no hurry to pass." But in an instant it rushed over him that here was his chance to atone for an unkindness, and that if he did not quickly seize it he would be sorry all the rest of his life. Besides, it flashed into his mind that by speaking of a certain thing he could easily lead up to the subject of the curé. He wanted very much to know whether she attached any importance to the visits of the priest. Vanno took off his hat to Mary, bowing gravely. He had guessed her reason for bringing the car to rest at this place, and it gave him his excuse. A step or two farther down the mule path brought him near enough to speak without raising his voice. "I think," he said, "you must have stopped here to look at the marble tablet set in the rock. Will you let me tell you something about it--unless you know its history already?" "I thank you. I don't know. I was wondering about it." Mary stammered a little, blushing very deeply, partly with embarrassment--though she was not embarrassed when other strangers spoke to her--partly in surprise at hearing the "Roman Prince" speak English like an Englishman. "Please do tell me." Before he spoke, she had given a quick order to the chauffeur to move on and leave the end of the mule path free. Now the heart of the motor began to beat, and the car rolled a few feet farther on. Vanno came out into the thick white dust of the much-travelled road, and he and Mary could both look up to the tablet he had mentioned. It was an oblong piece of marble, set high on the face of gray rock which on one side walled the upper Corniche, Napoleon's road. On it was the curious inscription: "Remember eternal at my heart. February, 1881." "It is so strange," Mary said, trying to seem at ease, and not show the slightest emotion. It was ridiculous to feel emotion! Yet she could not help being absurdly happy, because this man who had snubbed her once and apparently disapproved her always was speaking to her of his own accord, in kindness. "'Remember eternal at my heart?' It's like the English of a person not English. But why did he not have the words put in his own language, which he knew?" "That is what everybody wonders," Vanno said, finding it as difficult as Mary found it, not to show that this conversation was of immense, exciting importance. "It puzzled me so much when I first came this way that I couldn't get it out of my head. I asked a friend who has lived for years not many miles away, if he could tell me what it meant." "And could he tell you?" "He told me a story which he believed but would not vouch for. Only, a very old inhabitant told it to him. It appeals to me as true. It must be true." A new warmth stole into Vanno's voice as he spoke. They had both been looking up at the tablet on the rock, but as that thrill like a chord on a violin struck her ear, Mary turned to him. Their eyes met, as they had so often met, but to-day there was no coldness in Vanno's, or hurt pride in Mary's. "Can you think of any reason for the bad English?" he asked. He longed to hear what she would say. She thought for a minute. "Could it be," she reflected aloud, "that the person who had the tablet put up associated this place with some one who was English--maybe a woman, if he was a man--and so he wanted to use her language, not his own?" "You have guessed right!" exclaimed Vanno, boyishly delighted with her intuition. "He was an Italian. He loved an English girl." The romantic dark eyes which had so often burned with gloomy fire in looking at her burned with a different flame for an instant; then quickly, as if with a common impulse, the girl and the man tore their looks apart. "They met here on the Riviera," Vanno went on, not quite steadily. "It was at this spot they first found out that they loved each other, according to the story of my friend." He paused involuntarily. His mouth was dry. When he began to explain the tablet, he had not realized what it would be like to tell the story to this girl at this place. It was as if some other voice, talking above his with his words, gave a meaning and an emphasis which must be unmistakable to her. It was hard to go on, for with each sentence he would surely stumble deeper into difficulty. Yet the silence was electrical. Unsaid things seemed rustling in ambush. He dared not look again at Mary, and he felt that she dared not look at him. But it was necessary to go on, and he took up the narrative clumsily, fearing to tangle the thread. "The Italian asked the girl to marry him--here, where we stand. And they were engaged. But in a few weeks or months something happened. My friend is not sure whether she died, or whether some one came between them. He is sure only that they parted. And afterward the man had this tablet put up to mark the spot where he had lived his happiest hour." "It is a sad story," Mary said. "Yes. It is sad. But it is beautiful, too. He was faithful. 'Remember eternal at my heart.'" "Perhaps those were the very words he spoke to her here, when--they loved each other and he was trying to talk in her language." "I thought of that, too. It's almost certain he said these words, to assure her that he could never forget this place." "No one else can forget, who knows the story. It makes the tablet seem haunted." "Would you be afraid to see the ghosts of those lovers?" Vanno asked. "No," Mary answered. "For if he too is dead--and 1881 is quite a long time ago!--they must be happy together now. Happy ghosts would try to give happiness to others." Instantly the sentiment was uttered Mary regretted it. She feared that the man might think she associated herself with him in some vague hope of happiness. "I trust at least," she hurried on, "that the story of the lovers is true." "It was the curé of Roquebrune who told it to me. He thinks it more probable than two or three other tales," Vanno said, speaking slowly, to impress the name of his informant upon the girl. "The curé is a most interesting man. Perhaps you've met him?" He asked this question doubtfully, lest Mary should guess that it was to him she owed the curé's visits; but she was unsuspicious. "No. He called on me when I was out. I don't know why he came," she said. She looked a little guilty, because she would have gone up to the church of Roquebrune after the second call if she had not been afraid that the curé had been sent to see her by some one at home who had found out that she was on the Riviera. Vanno, misunderstanding her change of expression, said no more, though he had begun his story with the intention of leading up to this. They parted with polite thanks from Mary for his information, thanks which seemed banal, a strange anti-climax coming after the story of the lovers. Yet they went away from one another with an aftermath of their first unreasoning happiness still lingering in their hearts. That night at dinner they bowed to each other slightly; and during the week that followed before Christmas eve, sometimes Vanno almost believed in the girl; sometimes he lost hope of her, and was plunged from his unreasoning happiness to the dark depths of a still more unreasoning despair. But he knew that she thought of him. He saw it in her eyes, or in the turn of her head if she ostentatiously looked away from him. And he did not know whether he were glad or sorry, for he saw no good that could come of what he began to call his infatuation. The morning of Christmas eve arrived, and with it a telegram to say that Angelo and his bride Marie were delayed again until the eve of New Year's Day, the great fête of France. Vanno was disappointed, for he had expected them that night, and would have liked to be with them on Christmas. He resolved to invite the curé to dine with him on Christmas night; and meanwhile, strolling on the Casino terrace in the hope of seeing Mary, he ran across Jean Rongier, the airman, the young French baron who had achieved a sensational success at Nice for the new Della Robbia parachute. On the strength of this feat the two had become good friends, and Vanno had been up several times in Rongier's Bleriot monoplane. "A favour, _mon ami_," Rongier began as they met. "I was on the point of calling at your hotel, to ask it of you. Go with me to-night to a dance on board the big yacht _White Lady_, that you can see down there in the harbour." "Many thanks, but no!" laughed Vanno. "I haven't danced since I was twenty; and even if I had I don't know _White Lady's_ owner." "That is nothing," said Rongier. "Nobody knows him, but every one is going--that is, all the men we know are going; and you will go, to please me." "I'd do a good deal to please you, but not that," Vanno persisted. "If I tell you a lady whom I am anxious--particularly anxious--to please, will be angry with me if you refuse? She makes it a point that I bring you." "That's a different matter," said Vanno good-naturedly. "I suppose she doesn't make it a point for me to stay through the whole evening?" "You can settle that with her," Rongier reassured him. "I thought you wouldn't fail me. She's heard about your blue comet and your yellow desert, and your new parachute, and has probably mixed them all up; but the result is that she wants to meet you." "Very kind. I wish I could do the comet and the desert the same credit you do the parachute. But who is 'She'?" "Miss Holbein, the daughter of the yacht's owner. English people here, I understand, won't know her father because he was once an I. D. B. and is now a money-lender; but thank heaven we who have Latin blood in our veins are neither snobs nor hypocrites. By the way, Holbein called some fellow at the Casino a 'snob' the other night, and the man returned, 'If I were a snob, I wouldn't know you.' Holbein thought it so smart he goes about repeating the story against himself, which proves he balances his millions with a sense of humour. Miss Holbein is handsome. Jewesses can be the most beautiful women in the world, don't you think? and though she is snubbed by the _grandes dames_ here and perhaps elsewhere, I notice that snubs generally come home to roost. She will have all the millions one day, and she is clever enough to pay people back in their own coin--not coin that she would miss in spending. And she is clever enough to be Madame la Baronne Rongier, wife to the idol of the French people, if she thinks it worth while! Just for the moment, though, I am on my probation. I dare refuse her nothing she wants, and she wants Prince Giovanni Della Robbia at her mother's dance." "That unworthy person is at her service," Vanno said, bored at the prospect, but willing to please his friend. * * * * * * * Mrs. Ernstein and Dodo Wardropp were eagerly looking forward to the Christmas eve dance on board _White Lady_. Mrs. Collis and Lottie had been looking forward to it too; and after they went from the villa they wrote almost humbly to ask Mrs. Holbein if they might still come, though they were no longer with her friend Lady Dauntrey. To their joy and surprise she had written back cordially to say she hoped most certainly they would come, and bring friends. She had seemed far from cordial to them or anybody else when lunching at the Villa Bella Vista on the unfortunate occasion of the dish-towel; indeed, she had been lymphatic, and had scarcely troubled to speak to any one; but now the Collises thought they had misjudged her. This was the first entertainment for which Lady Dauntrey had contrived to secure invitations for her guests; and Dodo, Mrs. Ernstein, and the Collises had been delightedly telling every one they knew (not a large number) that they were going to the _White Lady_ dance. It was a pleasure at last to be able to tell of something happening to them which might excite envy. So far, they had felt that as the Dauntreys' guests they were being pitied or laughed at by those they would have liked to impress. There was no doubt that the Holbeins, being enormously rich, would do everything very well; and Lady Dauntrey remarked more than once that Mrs. Holbein had told her people were "simply crawling" for invitations. Not till the last moment did Eve inform any one that she was taking Miss Grant, for she had not yet mentioned speaking to her the other day at the Casino. It was arranged that, the villa being much nearer than the Hôtel de Paris to the yacht, Mary should call for her chaperon; therefore, as Eve had said nothing, it was a great surprise when the house party had assembled in the drawing-room, putting on their wraps and buttoning their gloves, to hear the "sulky codfish" announce Miss Grant. Mary walked into the dull drab room in a dress which appeared to be made entirely of fine gold tissue, her hair banded with a wreath of diamond laurel leaves, which made her look extraordinarily Greek and classic. No one else, not even the rich Mrs. Ernstein, had a dress which compared to this, and Mary's entrance was received in shocked silence by the ladies, with the exception of Eve, who greeted her "mascotte" warmly, with compliments. Lady Dauntrey's efforts to make the drawing-room more habitable before Mary saw it would have seemed almost pathetic to any one who understood; and they had seemed pathetic to Lord Dauntrey. He was more or less in her confidence, and still under her spell. It was for him, she had said, that she wanted to secure a new paying-guest who had plenty of money to put into the "system," and who loved gambling better than anything else. He had helped Eve and the codfish decorate both drawing-room and dining-room for Christmas, in order that Mary might take a fancy to the place, and consent to come as a boarder. There were a good many pine branches pinned on to curtains and stuck into huge, ugly Japanese vases, a few wreaths hiding damp or dirty patches on the wall. Crookedly hung pictures had been straightened; some Christmas magazines were lying about, and bowls of chrysanthemums relieved the room of its wonted gloom. It really had almost a festive air; and after her rather lonely life at the hotel, the place and the people seemed pleasant to Mary. She was so enchanted with a little shivering marmoset, which Miss Wardropp had bought of a wandering monkey-merchant in the Galerie Charles Trois, that Dodo forgave her the wonderful dress and filet, if she did not quite forgive Lady Dauntrey the surprise. Then Mrs. Ernstein produced two trained sparrows, which she called her "mosquito hawks" and took with her everywhere. Mary told them both about an adorable blue frog named Hilda which she had bought at a Mentone china-shop; and in comparing pets the atmosphere cleared. They all started off in cabs for the harbour and _White Lady's_ slip, where a motor-launch from the yacht would meet them; and Mary made friends with Dom Ferdinand, who was the only man in the carriage with her and Lady Dauntrey. Arriving at the slip they found Major Norwood and the Maharajah of Indorwana also waiting for the launch, with Captain Hannaford; and Mary introduced all three to the party from the Villa Bella Vista, whom they did not yet know. Then came Dick Carleton, alone, for Schuyler had firmly refused to sacrifice himself on the altar of friendship, and half a dozen smart, merry little officers of the Chasseurs Alpins, stationed at Mentone, and up at the lonely fort on Mont Agel. By this time it was late, for Lady Dauntrey wished to make a dramatic entry after most of the guests had already come on board, and the wish was more than granted. She, with her gorgeous widow and the two girls, attended by fifteen men, burst upon the crowd, who, for the best of reasons, had not yet begun to dance. Besides Mrs. Holbein and her daughter, there was not another woman present until the party from the Villa Bella Vista appeared. Seldom could there have been a more curious scene, upon a magnificently appointed yacht, decorated for a dance. Already, when Lady Dauntrey and her impromptu train arrived, forty or fifty men were assembled on a deck screened in by flags and masses of palms and flowers. A Hungarian band imported from Paris was playing, not dance music, for that would have been a mockery in the circumstances, but gay marches and lively airs to cheer drooping spirits. Of all the women invited (some of whom Mrs. Holbein scarcely knew) only Lady Dauntrey and her house-party had accepted, for word had gone forth from the Elect that, in good American slang, the notorious Jew money-lender and his common wife were "the limit." As for the girl, she did not count, except in cash. Now, when it was too late, Mrs. Holbein desperately regretted that she had slighted some of her old friends, who had once been good enough for her to know, and who would have flocked to her dance gladly. There were plenty of them scattered about between San Remo and Nice, who were at this moment feeling aggrieved by the Holbeins' neglect. If only they had been bidden, these contemptuously amused men would have had partners, even though the list of names in the society papers might have excited some derision. Mrs. Holbein had aimed high and overshot the mark. The result was tragic. And though her vulgar nature, writhing in humiliation, judged others by itself and believed all to be laughing maliciously, there were some who could not laugh. Vanno Della Robbia detested vulgar people, and had disliked the idea of coming to the dance; but now that he was here, on their beautiful yacht, he pitied the wretched Holbeins so intensely that he felt physically ill. The man, with fiercely shining eyes and hawk nose, hunching up his round shoulders as he clenched and unclenched his pudgy hands, deeply hidden in his pockets, was horribly pathetic to Vanno, who tried not to see the little bright beads that oozed out of the tight-skinned forehead. Even more pathetic was the woman, blazing in 20,000 diamond-power, haggard under her rouged smile, her large uncovered back and breast heaving, her fat, ungloved hands mere bunches of fingers and rings. The girl did not so much matter. She was young and handsome, her moustache as yet but the shadow of a coming event; and the affair was not so tragic to her since she had the attention of Rongier and plenty of other men. But Vanno had seen such faces and figures as those of Sam Holbein and his wife in dusky shops at Constantine. They had been happier and more at home there. Disgustedly he knew that it comforted the woman to be talking with Prince Giovanni Della Robbia, yet he gave the comfort and spread it thickly for her by showing deference, listening patiently to desperate boastings of her splendid possessions: her house in Park Lane, the castle "Sam" had bought in Fifeshire. "I am a county lady _there_, I can tell you, Prince!" she said, with a giggle that just escaped being a sob. "I hope you will come to my ball at Dornock Castle next August, in the Games Week, your Highness; all the men in kilts and mostly with titles; our own family pipers, never less than six, playing for the reels. My daughter has taken lessons, and I tell you she can give points to some of those Calvanistic cats with Macs to their names, and a lot of rot about clans, who think just because they're Scotch they're _everybody_. Why, some of the old nobility up there have got such poor, degenerated taste in decoration, they have nasty plaid carpets and curtains all over their houses. _We_ had a firm from Paris send their best men to do our castle over new from cellar to attic, Empire and Louis. It's an example to some of those stuck-up Scotch earls and their prim countesses. If _I_ had a title I'd live up to it!" "You seem to do very well without," Vanno said. "Well, we like to show them what's what. And I shouldn't wonder if my daughter would attract one into the family some day. But talking of titles, here comes the Viscount and Viscountess Dauntrey and that gentleman friend of theirs who may be a king any minute. There's a foreign Marquis and an Englishman with them, and some pretty girls, so maybe things will begin to wake up a bit." Vanno turned in the direction of her glittering eyes, and saw Mary Grant approaching with a large party; three over-dressed, over-painted, over-jewelled women; the Maharajah of Indorwana, scintillating with decorations; six French officers in uniform, and eight other men. The little brown Indian royalty was walking with Mary, clinging closely to her side, seeing no one but her, and trying ostentatiously to "cut out" Dom Ferdinand, who kept almost equally near on the other side. Mary, as she waited for Lady Dauntrey to be boisterously greeted by host and hostess, smiled gently and softly from one man to the other, as if she wished to be kind to both, and was pleased with their attentions. So, indeed, she was pleased. It was nice to be admired. Men were amusing novelties in her life. She thought them most entertaining creatures, and quaintly different in all their ways from women. She was charmed with her own dress and the lovely filet of diamond laurel leaves which she had bought at the shop of the nice jeweller who was so kind. She had smiled and nodded to her image in the mirror before leaving the hotel, as Cinderella might have smiled; for this was her first ball. Never had she been to a dance except those got up among a few young people after dinner at Lady MacMillan's, years ago when she was only a schoolgirl, and the convent dances where the pupils had learnt to waltz together, and one of the dear sisters had played the old piano in the schoolroom. Mary was wearing a good deal of jewellery, because she loved it, and had never had any before. Much of her winnings she had given away. Any one who asked, and made up a pitiful tale, could have something from her. The latest story going about in connection with her reckless and unreasoned generosity was of what she had done for a band of strolling Italian musicians. She had encouraged them to bleat and bawl their wornout songs in wornout voices, under the windows of the Hôtel de Paris, until it had been politely intimated to her that the shriekings and tinklings were a nuisance. Mary, who loved and understood good music, had enjoyed these disastrous efforts no more than others had, but her heart had been full of pity for the battered little band. She could not bear to have their feelings hurt; and when at last she had to tell them that they must sing no more under her window, she gave the leader and his wife a _mille_ note each to buy new instruments and costumes for the entire company. The man and woman had been seen bursting into tears, and pressing garlic kisses on Mary's hands, apparently against her inclination. Thus the story had got about, with many others of her eccentric and exaggerated charities. But beyond what she did for all who were in need, or made her think they were, she had more money than she knew what to do with for herself; and much of it she had spent with the jeweller in the Galerie Charles Trois, who was openly her slave. If he offered her beautiful things at prices which gave him no margin of profit, she in her ignorance of values did not know that the jewels were surprisingly cheap. She bought of this man because he was kind, because he begged her to come to his place, because he seemed to enjoy showing her lovely ornaments, and knew always, as if by instinct, exactly what was most suitable and becoming. But gossip said that the jeweller made presents to the eccentric and beautiful girl whose career at Monte Carlo was an interesting mystery to every one. Vanno had heard these stories from Rongier, before he could find presence of mind to cut them short by turning to another subject: and seeing her to-night, dazzling with diamonds, surrounded by men whose admiration she evidently liked, the good thoughts of her which he had eagerly cherished were burnt up in a new flame of suspicion, a rage of jealous anger. He was furious with the girl for coming to this dance which ladies of position had ignored, furious because she had come with such people, women who painted their faces, and a crowd of men of different nations. The two sides of his nature warred like opposing forces. The wild passion of Othello was in him. He could have snatched up the slender white-and-gold figure, wrapped the shining jewelled head in the trailing scarf of point lace, and rushed away with the girl in his arms--anywhere, far from these people who had no right to be near her. He could not bear to see the Maharajah's eyes on her face and on her long white throat. A hateful thought sprang into his mind concerning the rope of Indian pearls, with ruby and emerald tassels, tied loosely round her neck. He wondered if the Maharajah of Indorwana had given it to her, if she would have accepted such a gift from the brown man; and the thought seemed to take colour in his brain, as if it were a bright scarlet spot which grew larger and redder, spreading behind his eyes till he could see nothing else. Vanno had told himself many times that he must not draw too near this girl; that for the sake of love's nobility, for the sake of his respect for womanhood sacred in her and in all women, he must not draw near unless her soul were a star behind the eyes that were like stars. And he had not been able to believe in the stars for more than a few happy, exalted moments, which passed and came again, only to be blotted out once more. But now, suddenly, it no longer mattered whether he believed or not. He had to try and tear her away from the life she was leading. He did not know which impulse was master--the impulse to save a soul, or the impulse to possess selfishly a thing coveted; at least, to snatch it from others, if he did not take it for himself. As he stood pale and quiet in the background, Mary was accepting invitations to dance; for now Mrs. Collis and Lottie had arrived, bringing three American girls and a youthful American mother from the Hôtel Metropole, where they had gone to stay. Counting the hostess and her daughter, the number of women had been swelled to a dozen by these last arrivals, and dancing was to begin. The younger men, entering into the spirit of the occasion, struggled with each other to engage partners, and the smiling ladies were promising to split each dance between four partners. Mary, being the prettiest girl as well as something of a celebrity, was almost alarmingly in request. She was besieged by men who begged her bodyguard to introduce them quickly, and laughing like a child she was busily giving away dances when Vanno came forward. For a moment he stood silently behind the other men, taller than any, dark and grave, and as always mysteriously reproachful, as if for some sin of Mary's which she had committed unconsciously. She looked up, struck almost with fear by the contrast between his gravity and the frivolous gayety of the others. But he made all the rest look puerile, and even common. "Will you dance with me?" he asked. "Yes," she answered, forgetting to add the polite "with pleasure," which years ago had been taught at the convent as the suitable reply for a débutante to a prospective partner. "The third waltz?" "Very well--the third waltz," she echoed. There was no question of splitting it up. No man dared make the suggestion. Something in the Roman's manner and Mary's look gave every one the idea that they knew each other well, that no one must try to interfere between them. XVI Although her Roman Prince had looked so grave, Mary argued to herself that he could hardly be angry, or he would not have asked her to dance. Yet she half dreaded, half longed for the third waltz. As a schoolgirl she had shared with Marie Grant the distinction of dancing more gracefully than any other pupil. A girl who has danced well and has a perfect ear for music does not forget; and after the first waltz on the smoothly waxed deck Mary felt as if she had been dancing every night for the last four years. When the moment arrived, Vanno came and took her away from the Maharajah of Indorwana. He did not speak or smile, and they began at once to dance. Their steps went perfectly together, and he held her strongly, though at first he kept her at an unusual distance. Then, as though involuntarily, he drew her close, so that she could feel his heart beating like something alive, in prison, knocking to come out, and her own heart quickened. A slight giddiness made her head spin, and she asked to stop before the music sobbed itself to sleep. "I have something I want to say to you," Vanno began. "Will you come with me where we can speak alone, without being interrupted?" "I--I am engaged to four partners for the next dance," Mary stammered, laughing a little. She wished to hear what he had to say; she wished to stay with him, yet his voice made her afraid. And it was true that she did not like to break her promise. "I beg that you will come with me," Vanno persisted. He did not say that he would not make her late for the others. He meant to take her away from them altogether, if he could. "Then--I will come, for a few minutes," she consented. "But--where?" "I will take you on the bridge," he said. "You will not be cold, for I know they've had it roofed over with flags for to-night. Mrs. Holbein told me. There will be room only for you and me, for I shall let no one else come." Perhaps never before had Mary been so torn between two desires, except when she wished to leave the convent, yet longed to stay. Now she did not want to go on the bridge with this sombre-eyed man who spoke as if he were taking her away from the world: and yet she did want to go, far more than she wanted not to go. If anything had happened at this moment to part them, all the rest of her life she would have wondered what she had missed. Mary knew nothing about the bridge of a vessel, or what it was for; but when she had mounted some steps she found herself on a narrow parapet walled in with canvas up to the height of her waist. Above her head was a tight-drawn canopy made of an enormous flag; and on the white floor, wedged tightly against the canvas wall, were pots containing long rose-vines that made a drapery of leaves and flowers. Here and there folds of the great flag were looped back with wooden shields, gilded and painted with coats of arms--the crest of the Holbeins, no doubt, invented to order at great expense. These loopings were like curtains which left square, open apertures; and as Mary looked toward the shore the balmy night air brushed against her hot cheeks like cool wings. "I don't know, I don't suppose it's possible--no, it can't be possible that it should be with you as it is with me," Vanno said, in a low voice which sounded to her ears suppressed and strange, as if he kept back some secret passion, perhaps anger. "Ever since the first moment I saw you standing on the platform of the train at Marseilles, looking down like Juliet from her balcony, I have felt as if I'd known you all my life, even before this life began, in some other existence of which you remain the only memory: you, your eyes, your smile." Her heart bounded as sometimes the heart bounds at night, in that mysterious break between waking and sleeping, which is like a leap, and a fall over an abyss without bottom. She wished to hold his words in her mind and dwell upon them, as if upon a suddenly opened page of some marvellous illuminated missal of priceless value. Conscious of no answer to give, or need of answer for the moment, her subconscious self nevertheless began at once to speak, and the rest of her listened, startled at first, then with wonder acknowledging the truth of her own admission. "Why, yes," the undertone in herself answered Vanno. "It was like that with me, too, at Marseilles and afterward--as if I had known you always, as if our souls had been in the same place together before they had bodies. When you looked at me first, I felt you were like what a picture of Romeo ought to be, though I never saw a picture of Romeo, that I can remember. How strange you should have had Juliet in your mind! Yet perhaps not strange, for each may have sent a thought into the brain of the other--if such things can be." "Such things are," Vanno answered, with passion. "In the desert where I've lived for months together, alone except for one friend, a man of the East, or an Arab servant, a voice used to say when I waked suddenly at night sometimes, that there was a woman waiting for me, whose soul and mine were not strangers, and that I should recognize her when we met." "It is like a dream!" Mary broke in upon him, when he paused as if following a thought down some path in his mind. "As if we were dreaming now--to the music down there. Maybe we _are_ dreaming. What does it all mean?" "It means that when the world was made we were made for each other. But what has happened to us since? How have we so drifted apart? I think I have been faithful to you in my heart always. But you? You've wandered a million miles away from me. Nothing told you to wait. You have not waited, or you would not live your life as you seem to be living it--among such men and such women. For God's sake, even if you don't care for me as things are now between us, let me take you away from all this, let me put you where you will be safe, where you can be what you were meant to be." "I--I don't understand," Mary said, her breath coming so quickly that her words seemed stopped, and broken like water that tries to run past scattered stones. "Don't you? Don't you understand that I love you desperately, that I can't bear my life because I love you so, and because I see you drowning? I'm telling you this in spite of myself. But I know now it had to be. I swear to you, if you'll trust me, if you'll come away with me, you shan't repent. Let me put you somewhere in a safe and beautiful place. That's all I ask. I want no more. I shall force myself to want no more." "You--love me?" Mary repeated, still in the dream that was made of music and moonlight, the ripple of the sea and the stirring of something new in her nature of which all these sweet and beautiful things seemed part. "Love! I never thought this could happen to me." Suddenly he caught her hands and held them so that she was forced to turn and look at him, instead of gazing out at sea and moonlight. "Does it mean anything to you?" he asked, almost fiercely. "Oh, a great deal," she answered. "I hardly know how much yet. It is so wonderful--so new. Yet somehow not new. I must think about it. I must----" It was on her lips to say "I must pray about it," but something stopped her. He was strange to her still, in spite of the miracle that was happening, and there were some thoughts which must be kept in the heart, in silence. Perhaps if she had not kept back those words, much of the future might have been different, for he must have guessed at once that, if she were sincere, his thoughts of her had been false thoughts. "Don't stop to think. Promise me now," he cut her short. The note of insistence in his voice frightened her, and seemed to break the music of the dream. "I can't promise!" she exclaimed. "I've never wanted to marry. It never seemed possible. I----" Something like a groan was forced from him. She broke off, drawing in her breath sharply. "What is the matter?" she asked. "Are you suffering?" "Yes," he said. "I am suffering. It's my fault, for not making you understand, and yours because you haven't let me believe in you, worship you as the angel you were meant to be. I don't know what you are, but whatever you are I love you with all there is of me. Only--what I asked was--that you'd let me take you out of this life to something better. Now don't misunderstand in another way! I'd rather die a thousand deaths than wrong you. I ask nothing from you for myself. When I knew that you were safe I'd go, and not even see you again, unless--but how can I explain that I mean only good for you, with no evil or selfishness, yet not marriage?" "Not marriage!" Mary wrenched her hands away, and stepped back from him. There were men, she knew, who loved women but did not marry them. She had learned this thing through the tragedy of her schoolmate, her friend, whose life had been swallowed up in mystery and darkness because men could be vile and treacherous, taking everything and giving nothing. No one save himself could have made her believe that this deep-eyed Prince was such a man. After all, the light in which she had seen their souls together in the beginning of things had been a false light. She had never known his soul, for what she thought she knew had been very noble and splendid, and the reality was bad. It was as if she had begun to open the door of her heart, to let in a white dove, and peeping out had seen instead a vulture. She slammed the door shut; and the sweet new thing that had stirred in the depths of her nature fell back asleep or dead. "I'm going down now," she said, in a toneless voice. "Don't come with me. I never want to speak to you again." [Illustration: "'I CAN'T PROMISE!' SHE EXCLAIMED. 'I'VE NEVER WANTED TO MARRY'"] She turned away with an abrupt mechanical movement like a doll wound up to walk, but he snatched the lace scarf that was wrapped round her arm, and held her back for an instant. "I implore you----" he begged. Her answer was to drop the scarf, and leave it in his hands. She seemed to melt from his grasp like a snow wreath; and not daring to follow then, he was left alone on the bridge with the black and horrible ghost of his own mistake. XVII Mary's one thought was to escape and hide herself from every one. She felt as fastidious women feel after a journey through miles of thick black dust, when they cannot bear to have their faces seen with the disfiguring stains of travel upon them. But she had to go back to the deck where people were dancing, before she could find her way to any hiding place; and even then she did not know how she should contrive to leave the yacht without answering questions and fighting objections. She was thankful to find Captain Hannaford not dancing, and standing near the foot of the steps she had just descended. He was some one she knew, at least, some one whose calm manner made him seem dependable. Then, too, the physical affliction which repelled her, in making him appear remote from the world of fortunate men, almost attracted her at this moment. Standing there as if waiting for her, very quiet, apparently quite unemotional, he was like a lifeboat in a merciless sea. She snatched at the help he silently offered. "I feel ill," she said, chokingly. "Do you think I could get away without any one noticing? I want to go home." Instinctively she was sure that she might count upon him to serve her, that he would rather do so than stay and watch the dancing, for he himself did not dance. "Come along," he said, with the calmness which was never ruffled. "People will think you're engaged to sit out this dance with me. Get your wraps, and I'll see that the launch is ready to take you across to the slip." The ladies' dressing-room was below. One of the largest and finest of the staterooms had been set apart for that purpose; but there were so few cloaks that Mary had no difficulty in finding hers, half-dazed as she was. To her relief, Captain Hannaford was waiting for her not far from the door when she came out. "I thought as you're seedy you mightn't be able to find the way alone," he said. "It's all right about the launch." Five minutes later she was being carried toward the shore, the explosive throbbing of the engine sending stabs of pain through her temples. Beside her sat Hannaford; silent, his arms folded, his black bandaged face turned away from her. He had a habit, when he could, of seating himself so that the unscarred side of his head was in sight of the person next him; but to-night he had not done this with Mary. He knew that she would be blind not only to his defects, but to his existence, if he did not irritate her by trying to attract attention. Neither spoke a word during the few moments of transit, and Mary gazed always toward land, as if she did not wish to see the great lighted yacht which illuminated the whole harbour. It had not occurred to her that she ought to say, "Don't trouble to come with me. I shall do very well alone." She took it for granted not only that he would come, but that he would be glad to come; and there was no conceit in this tacit assumption. It was borne in upon her mind from his, as if by an assurance. When the motor launch had landed them upon the slip, and puffed fussily away again, Hannaford steadied Mary's steps with a hand on her arm. It was not until they were on the pavement, and facing up the hill that leads from the Condamine to higher Monte Carlo, that she spoke. "Oh, I ought to have left word for Lady Dauntrey!" she exclaimed. "I thought of that," Hannaford quietly answered. "I wrote on a card that you had a headache and I was taking you home." "Thank you," Mary said, mechanically. As soon as she had heard the words she forgot them, and let her thoughts rush back to the arena of their martyrdom. Hannaford took her hand and laid it on his arm. She allowed it to rest there, depending unconsciously on the support he gave. They did not speak again until they had reached the top of the hill, turned the corner, and arrived at the steps of the Hôtel de Paris. Because Lady Dauntrey had chosen to make a late entrance on the scene, it was after midnight now, though Mary and Hannaford had come away comparatively early from the dance. The Casino was shut, but Christmas eve festivities were going on in the restaurant, as well as in the brilliantly lit Moorish Café de Paris on the opposite side of the _Place_. Mary's longing for peace and quiet in "coming home" was jarred out of her mind by the gay music and lights, and sounds of distant laughter which seemed to have followed her mockingly from the yacht. But they brought her out of herself; and standing on the lowest step she thanked Hannaford for all that he had done. "You know I've done nothing," he said. "I wish there were something I really could do for you. Isn't there? Wouldn't you like to have an English doctor prescribe for your headache? I know a splendid one. He'd cure you in an hour." "I must try to cure myself," Mary said. "I shall be better soon. I must be! There's nothing more you can do, thank you very much. Unless----" "Unless what?" He caught her up more quickly than he usually spoke. "Now I've come back, I can hardly bear to go indoors after all. I feel as if I couldn't breathe in a warm room, with curtains over the windows. Would you take me on the terrace? I think I should like just to sit on one of the seats there for a few minutes; and afterward maybe I shall be more ready to go in." "Come, then," was the brief answer that was somehow comforting to Mary. She began consciously to realize that this man's calm presence helped her. She was grateful, and at the same time smitten with remorse for the faint physical repulsion against him she had never until now quite lost. At this moment she believed that it was entirely gone, and could never return; but she felt that she ought to atone in some way because it had once existed. She took his arm again, of her own accord, and leaned on it with a touch that expressed what she dimly meant to express--confidence in him. They went down the flight of steps at the end of the Casino, and so to the terrace, which was completely deserted, as Mary had hoped it would be. Here, away from the golden lights of hotel and café windows, the moon had full power, a round white moon that flooded the night with silver. They turned to walk along the terrace-front of the Casino, facing toward Italy, and away from the harbour half girdled by the Rock of Hercules. They could not see the yacht, but the great illuminated shape rode in Mary's thoughts as it rode on the water. She knew that in coming back along this way she would have to see the harbour, and _White Lady_ blazing with light, pulsing with music. Just yet she could not bear that, and when they came near the eastern end of the terrace she said that she would sit down on one of the seats. The moonlight had seemed exquisite as an angel's blessing when she looked out between the flags and rose branches, drinking in the words "I love you," as a flower drinks in dew. Now the pale radiance on the mountains was to Mary's eyes wicked, wicked as a white witch fallen from her broomstick. All the world was wicked in its weary pallor; and the dark windows of far-off, moon-bleached villas were like staring eyeballs in gigantic skulls. She had not meant to talk, but suddenly the fire within her flamed into words. "What have I done--what do I do--that could make people think I am--not good?--make them think they have a right to insult me?" "Nobody has a right to think that," Hannaford answered, quietly as always. "If any man has insulted you, tell me, and I'll make him sorry." "I--there is nothing to tell," she stammered, frightened back into reticence. "It's only--an idea that came into my head because of--something I can't explain. But, oh, do be honest with me, Captain Hannaford, if you are my friend, for I can never ask any one else, and I can never ask you again. It's just asking _itself_ now, this question, for I want an answer so much. Is there anything very different about me, and the way I behave, from other girls or women--those who try to be good and nice, I mean?" It was a strange appeal, and went to the man's heart. If Mary had puzzled him once, and if at first he had thought cynically of her, as he thought of most pretty women he met, love had washed away those thoughts many days ago: and in this moment when she turned to him for help he wondered how it was that he had ever been puzzled. He saw clearly now into the heart of the mystery, and it was a heart of pure rose and gold, like the heart of an altar fire. "Wait a minute," he said, "before I answer that, and let me ask _you_ a question. Did you ever hear the story or see the play of Galatea?" "No. Not that I remember. What has it to do with me?" "I'll tell you about her, and then maybe you'll see. The story is that a Greek sculptor made a beautiful statue which he worshipped so desperately that the gods turned it into a living girl. Well, you can imagine just how much that girl knew about life, can't you? She looked grown up, and was dressed like other young women of her day, but any kitten with its eyes open was better equipped for business than she, for kittens have claws and Galatea hadn't. Naturally she made some queer mistakes, and because a rather beastly world was slow to understand perfect innocence--the pre-serpentine innocence of Eve, so to speak--a lot of injustice was done to the poor little statue come alive. Some of the people wouldn't believe that she'd ever been a statue at all." "I see!" exclaimed Mary, sharply. Then she was silent for a moment, thinking; but at last she put a sudden question: "What happened to Galatea?" "Oh, the poor girl was so disgusted with the world that she went back to being a statue again eventually. I think myself it was rather weak of her, and that if she'd waited a bit she might have done better." "I'm not sure," Mary said, slowly. "To-night I feel as if there was _nothing_ better--than going back and being a statue." "You won't feel like that to-morrow. The sun brings courage. I know--by experience. You think, Miss Grant, for some reason or other--I don't even want you to tell me what, unless it would do you good to tell--that you're down in the depths. But you're not. You never can be. Where you are it will always be light, really." "What makes you believe I am good, if others don't believe it?" She turned on him with the question, the moon carving her features in marble purity, as if Galatea were already freezing again into the coldness of a statue. The whole effect of her, in the long white cloak with its hood pulled over the shining hair, was spiritual and unearthly. Hannaford would have given his life for her, happily, just then. "I don't know what others believe," he said. "I have seen for a long time now, almost since the first, that you were a very innocent sort of girl enjoying yourself in a new way, and losing your head over it a little. Perhaps because I've been down in the depths we talked about, and look on life differently from what I did before, I may have clearer sight. I don't know what you did or were until you came here, but I've realized to-night all of a sudden that you are absolutely a child. There is no worldly knowledge in you. You're what I said. You're Galatea." "_You_ see this, without any telling," she cried. "And yet----" She bit her lip and kept back the words that would have rushed out, to shame her. But he knew with the unerring knowledge of one who loves, that she had nearly added: "And yet the one man who ought to understand me, does not. It is only you." It was a bitter knowledge, but he faced it, hating the other man, who had hurt and did not deserve her. But he did not guess that the man was Prince Vanno Della Robbia. He had not heard Vanno almost commanding Mary to dance with him, and had not seen them go up on the bridge together. Hannaford was not even aware that they knew each other. The man in his mind was Dick Carleton, or possibly the Maharajah of Indorwana, whom some women found strangely attractive. "I should like to be the one to make all others see--any fools or brutes who don't," he said. "I don't want anybody _made_ to see." "Of course you don't. Well, there isn't one anywhere about worthy to think of you at all--not a man Jack of us--including me." "And yet," Mary said, almost pitifully, "I have _liked_ men to think about me! It's been so new, and interesting. What harm have men done me, that I should avoid them, just because they are men? Are they all so much worse than women, I wonder? Oughtn't we to be nice and sweet to them? It would seem so ungrateful to be cold, because they are so very, very kind to us. At least, that is what I felt till now--I mean till quite lately. Men interested me, because they seemed rather mysterious, so different from us; and I wanted to find out what they were really like, for I've been with women all my life. I wish now--that is, I hope I haven't behaved in ways to make people misunderstand?" "Only fools, as I said before." "But--what have I done to make the fools misunderstand? You must tell me!" "Nothing serious. Only--well, you have gone about with a queer lot sometimes." "Men or women?" "Madame d'Ambre, for instance." "Yes; but I haven't talked to her for a long time now." "You've talked to others like her, and--worse." "Would you have me be cruel? If some of the poor, pretty creatures here aren't quite what they ought to be, because they've been badly brought up or unfortunate, would you think it right and womanly not to answer when they speak, or to turn one's back on them, or slam the Casino door in their faces, as some cross-looking people do? Wouldn't that drive them to being worse?" It was difficult to answer this question with due regard to the laws of God and man, and at the same time give Galatea a lesson in social decorum. "I suppose," he said slowly, "you'll just have to follow your star." "I don't see any star now worth following. Oh, Captain Hannaford, I was so happy! It was such a beautiful, lovely world till to-night! Now I feel as if joy and luck were both gone." "Does it comfort you a little to know that here's one man who'd do anything for you?" he asked. "There never was such a friend as I'll try to be, if you'll have me." "Thank you," Mary answered. "I shall be very glad of your friendship. I shall feel and remember it wherever I go." "Wherever you go? You mean----" "Yes. I think I must go away--go on to Italy." "If somebody has hurt you, don't go yet," Hannaford urged. "It would look as if--well, as if you felt too much. Don't you see?" "I shouldn't like to give that impression," she said, almost primly. Then, with a change of tone, "But I can't--I won't stay at the hotel where I am. To-night at her house Lady Dauntrey invited me to come and stay there. I was asked before, to Christmas dinner. I could accept, I suppose?" "Hm!" Hannaford grumbled, frowning. But he thought quickly, and it seemed to him that perhaps even Lady Dauntrey's chaperonage might be better than none. There was nothing against the woman, as far as he knew, except that she whitewashed her face and had strange eyes. The rich Mrs. Ernstein, who was staying at the Villa Bella Vista, was undoubtedly--even dully--respectable, if common. Neither was there any real harm in Miss Wardropp; and poor Dauntrey did not seem to be a bad fellow at heart. "It's not ideal there, I'm afraid," Hannaford said at last, "but for lack of a better refuge it might do." Mary felt suddenly as if some very little thing far down in herself was struggling blindly to escape, as a fly struggles to escape when a glass tumbler has been shut over it on a table. She drew in a long, deep breath. "I'll leave the Hôtel de Paris to-morrow," she said, as if to settle the matter with herself once and for all. "And I'll go and stay at Lady Dauntrey's." Almost unconsciously her eyes were fixed upon the old hill town of Roquebrune, asleep under the square height of its ruined castle, which the moon streaked with silver. All the little firefly lights of the village had died out except one, which still shone "like a good deed in a naughty world." "It is perhaps the curé's light," Mary thought; and told herself that as he was a friend of the Prince, she would never dare to go and see him now. XVIII Vanno stood without moving for some minutes, when Mary had gone. She had forbidden him to follow, but it was not her command which held him back. It was the command laid upon him by himself. In a light merciless as the crude glare of electricity he saw himself standing stricken, a fool who had done an unforgivable thing, a clumsy and brutal wretch who had broken a crystal vase in a sanctuary. For the blinding light showed him a new image of Mary, even as she had suddenly revealed herself to Hannaford: a perfectly innocent creature whose ways were strange as a dryad's way would be strange if transplanted from her forests into the most sophisticated colony in Europe. Something in Vanno which knew, because it felt, had always pronounced her guiltless; but all of him that was modern and worldly had told him to distrust her. Now he was like a judge who has condemned a prisoner on circumstantial evidence, to find out the victim's innocence after the execution. Standing there on the bridge, the dance-music troubled the current of his thoughts, rising to the surface of his mind, though he heard it without listening, like the teasing bubbles of a spring through deep water. Though he tried, he could not fully analyze his own feelings; yet he was sharply conscious of those two conflicting sides of his nature which Angelo saw, and he could almost hear them arguing together. The part of him that was aristocrat and ascetic excused itself, asking what he could have done, better than he had done? Had he not broken his resolve for a good motive and for the girl's sake, not his own? Had he begged anything of her for himself? Ought she not to have understood that though he loved her, he could not ask her to be his wife unless or until she could prove herself worthy--not of him--but of a name and of traditions honoured in history? Ought she not to have trusted him, and seen that he was resisting temptation, not yielding to it, when he implored her to take his help and friendship? Already Angelo had disappointed their father, by marrying a girl of whom no one knew anything except her beauty and talent as an artist. Marie Gaunt had come to Rome to paint the portrait of a fashionable woman; had been "taken up" by other _mondaines_; and Angelo, meeting her at a dinner, had fallen in love with and followed her to Dresden, where she lived and had made her reputation as an artist. In spite of the Duke's objections they had married; and Vanno, who was his father's favourite, surely owed some duty to the old man who loved him. At worst, Marie Gaunt the artist had in no way laid herself open to gossip. According to what friends had written from Rome, she was more than discreet, demure as a Puritan maiden, and the elderly chaperon who travelled with her was a dragon of virtue. With this girl whom Vanno had met at Monte Carlo it was different. She was not discreet. Whatever else she might be, she was not Puritan. She was gossiped about on all sides, and gayly fed the fire of gossip by appearing in startling dresses, by doing startling things, and picking up extraordinary acquaintances. Even as far away as Mentone and Nice she was talked about. Two women had started some story about her travelling to Paris with a French artist; and the man himself, who had arrived since, had made a fool of himself at the Casino, and apparently tried to blackmail her. She was said to have given him money. No love, no matter how great, could justify Prince Giovanni Della Robbia in making such a girl his wife while uncertain of the truth which underlay her amazing eccentricities, and the gossip which followed her everywhere, like a dog that barked at her heels. This was what one side of him protested anxiously to the other side, which in turn raged against it and its cold plausibilities. The side which was all passion and romance and high chivalry lashed its enemy with contempt, and evil epithets of which the hardest to bear was "prig." For no man can endure being thought a prig, even by himself. "You, who said that her soul was meant for yours, and the next moment distrusted it!" he reproached himself in bitterness. "What a fool--what a hypocrite! If you've known her since the beginning of things, you should have known by instinct what she was, down under the surface frivolities and foolishnesses, mistakes any untaught girl might make." This Vanno, who was all man and not prince, said that no punishment could be too severe for one who doubts where he loves. He saw himself justly punished now, by learning Mary's truth through her noble indignation. Because he had waited for this proof he acknowledged that he had sinned beyond most women's pardon; yet he meant to win hers. He cared more for her than before, and determined that he would never give her up; yet all the while that other, worldly Vanno, who was prince as well as man, held stiffly back. How could one whose small knowledge of women good and bad came mostly through hearsay be sure of a woman? His one boyish venture in love he saw now had been in shallow water; but it had not tended to strengthen his faith in the innate nobility of women. On the contrary, it had shown him that a woman who seemed sweet and loving could be hard and calculating, even mercenary. Innocence being a charming pose, why should it not be adopted by the cleverest actresses, professional sirens, specialists in enchantment, who wished to be admired by all men, even men for whom they cared nothing? How could he tell even now that this girl was not a clever actress who judged him well and planned to lead him on? So he asked himself questions, and answered in rage, only to begin again, fiercely breaking down one set of arguments and building up another. It was the arrival of Dodo Wardropp with Dom Ferdinand on the bridge which drove him away and out of himself sufficiently to bid his host and hostess good-night. When the motor launch had taken him ashore, the impulse was very strong in him to go up to Roquebrune and tell the curé what had happened. He knew that his friend kept a light burning all night in a window, and he could see it, as Mary had seen it, sending out its message for any who needed help. Yet what good could come of talking to one who had never met the girl? Fate had kept the two apart, for some reason, and Vanno could but consult his own heart. Its counsel was to write to Mary, explaining all those things that she had not let him explain in words. This matter of explanation seemed easier than it proved. Letter after letter had to be torn up before Vanno was able to express on paper anything at all which she might understand, which might soften her to forgiveness. Even then he was dissatisfied; but something had to stand, something had to go. "Write me at least one line," he ended, "if only to say that you know I did not mean to insult you, in the way you thought when you left me." Mary was still "Miss M. Grant" to him, and so he addressed his letter. Dawn had put the stars to sleep when he sealed the envelope, and he had to wait for a reasonable hour before sending to her room; but he did not go to bed, or try to sleep. "Christmas!" he said to himself, aloud. "The day of peace on earth and good will toward men. If she remembers, can she refuse to forgive me?" At half-past eight he thought it might be taken for granted that she was awake. "Don't ask for an answer," he told the young waiter to whom he gave his sealed envelope, and the lace scarf which Mary had left in his hands. "Say only that you're not sure whether there is an answer or not, and you will wait to see." Vanno had hoped the servant might be away a long time, as delay would mean that Mary was taking time to think, and writing a reply. But in less than ten minutes the man was at the door again. "The lady was in, and when I gave her the scarf and letter, asked me who had sent them," was the report. "I told her it was his Highness the Roman Prince, staying in the hotel. Then she said, 'This scarf is mine, but the letter must have been sent by mistake, as I do not know his Highness.' So I have brought it back, as the lady desired. I hope I have done right?" "Quite right, thank you," Vanno returned mechanically, and took his own letter. His ears tingled as though Mary's little fingers had boxed them. If she had but known, she was more than revenged upon him for the snub which had clouded her first dinner in the restaurant of the Hôtel de Paris. For a moment Vanno was intensely angry, because she had dared to humiliate him in the eyes of a servant; but by and by, when his ears stopped tingling, he told himself that he deserved even this. He respected her all the more, and no longer feared that she might be a clever actress trying to lead him on. A woman who wished to attract a man would not use so sharp a weapon. Still, Vanno had no thought of giving up. If she would not read his explanation she must hear it, and justify him in one way, even if she would not forgive. He hoped to see her at luncheon time, but she did not come into the restaurant. Again, at dinner she was absent. A merry little Christmas party of four sat at her table: an English duke and duchess, a great Russian dancer, a general of world-wide fame. "Where is the lady who usually sits opposite?" he asked of his waiter, draining his voice of all expression. "Is she away for Christmas?" "She is away altogether," answered the waiter. "She left before luncheon." "Left altogether--left before luncheon!" Vanno echoed, almost stupidly, forgetting to appear indifferent. "I believe she is still in Monte Carlo," the man went on, delighted to give information. "I do not know where, but I can no doubt find out for your Highness." "No, thanks, I won't trouble you," Vanno replied hurriedly. He would not learn her whereabouts from a servant, but would find out for himself. Where could she be? To whom could she have gone? The uncertainty was unbearable. If it were true that she was still in Monte Carlo, she would probably be in the Casino this evening. Vanno had not gone there often, after the first night or two, for he hated to see Mary in the Rooms alone, playing a game which attracted crowds, and caused people of all sorts to talk about her. Now, however, he finished his dinner quickly, and went immediately to the Casino. It was just nine o'clock, and though it was Christmas the crowd was as great as ever, even greater than he had seen it before. Vanno walked through the Salle Schmidt, where Mary usually played, stopping at each table long enough to make sure that she was not there. Then he passed on into the newer rooms lit by those hanging lights which Mary had thought like diamond necklaces of giantesses. The three life-size figures of the eccentric yet decorative picture, nicknamed "The Disgraces," seemed to follow him mockingly with langorous eyes, whispering to each other, "Here comes a fool who does not understand women." Mary was not playing at any of the tables in these rooms; but there was hope still. The Sporting Club had now opened for the season, and it was more fashionable at night even than the Casino. Vanno had walked through once or twice, after midnight when the Casino had shut, and found there a scene of great beauty and animation: the prettiest women in Monte Carlo, wearing wonderful dresses and jewels, and famous men of nearly all the countries of the world, princes and politicians, great soldiers and grave judges, and even one or two travelling kings. It was very likely that Miss Grant would have gone on to the Sporting Club, after dinner with friends on Christmas Day. He went across the road and a little down the hill, where the white clubhouse owned by the Casino blazed with light. But as he reached it, Dick Carleton dashed through the door, began running down the steps, and almost cannoned into him. "Beg pardon, Prince," he exclaimed. "I've just been told that a friend of mine's losing like the dickens, in the _Cercle Privé_, and I'm going to dart across and take out my subscription. I've never done it yet. But it will be worth the hundred francs to stop her, if I can." "Is it Miss Grant?" Vanno did not deliberately put the question, but heard himself asking it. "Why, yes it is," Carleton admitted. "Have you been in--have you seen her?" "No. But I felt somehow that you were speaking of Miss Grant." "I thought you scarcely knew her," Dick caught him up, jealously. "You are right. I--scarcely know her. But one has intuitions sometimes. I must have had one then. So--she is losing? I heard she had wonderful luck." "She has had, up till now. Seemed as if she couldn't lose. Christmas night, too! Isn't it a shame?" And Dick was off, hatless, in evening dress without an overcoat. Vanno stood still in front of the Sporting Club for a moment, watching the slim boyish figure go striding up the hill. A liveried porter, seeing the Prince at the foot of the steps, obsequiously opened the door, but Vanno made a sign that he did not wish to enter. As soon as Dick had disappeared, Vanno followed him. As he went seldom to the Casino, he had not taken a subscription to the newest rooms, or _Cercle Privé_, where the price of admission is a hundred francs. These rooms are for ardent gamblers who dislike playing in a crowd, and Vanno, who had not felt inclined to play at all, scarcely remembered their existence. Now he bought a ticket, however, and having written his name upon it, followed Carleton at a little distance, to a door at the far end of the trente et quarante rooms. His heart was beating heavily, for in a few minutes he would perhaps know to whom Mary had gone when she left the Hôtel de Paris. XIX Even the new rooms were crowded, and preoccupied as he was, it struck Vanno oddly, as it always did strike him anew in the Casino, to hear every one who passed talking of the all-absorbing game. They were obsessed by it, and threw questions to each other, which elsewhere would have meant nothing, or some very different thing; but here no explanations were needed. "Doing any good?" asked a pallid young man with a twitching face, like that of a galvanized corpse, as he met a weary-eyed woman in mourning, whose bare hands glittered with rings. "No," she answered peevishly. "You never saw such tables--all running to intermittences. Nobody can do anything, except the old man who lives on two-one." Then the pair began speaking of Miss Grant, for her name was common property. She was one of the celebrities of the season. Vanno went on, pausing at each table in the immense Empire room, whose pale green walls glittered with Buonaparte's golden bees; and everywhere he heard the same questions: "How are you doing? Tables treating you well?" Or, "Have you seen Miss Grant? She's simply throwing away money to-night. I'm afraid her luck's out." There was something ominous and fatal in these words, repeated again and again, with variations. "Poor Miss Grant! Her luck is out." All these gamblers discussing her affairs, commenting, criticising, bewailing the end of her long run of luck. The idea came to Vanno that it was like a chanting chorus in a Greek tragedy; but he thrust the thought out of his mind with violence. He could not bear to associate Mary with tragedy. She was not made for a life and a place like this, where pain and passion and heartburning lie in sharp contrast of shadow side by side with sunshine and flowers. Vanno would have liked to spirit her away out of this garden of painted lilies, to a sweet, old-fashioned garden where pure white Madonna lilies lined the quiet paths. If only she had listened to him last night, how different might have been her Christmas day and his! Presently he saw Dick Carleton, standing on the outer edge of a crowd which had collected round one of the tables farthest from the entrance. He was peering over people's heads, frowning, his hands deep in his pockets. Then Vanno knew that he need look no farther for Mary. He was taller than Dick, and almost pushing his way to a place, he saw Mary seated at the opposite side of the table. She sat at the left of a croupier, who was helping her to place her numerous stakes. Beside her was Lady Dauntrey, and behind her chair, tall and pale and very haggard, Lord Dauntrey stood. Vanno guessed, with a mingling of relief and regret, that Mary must have gone to live at the Villa Bella Vista. The ball spun round, rested in the pocket of number 11, and all Mary's stakes were swept away. "That's the eighth time in succession she's lost maximums round twenty-four," mumbled a man close to Vanno's shoulder, in a young, weak voice. "She deserves it, for being an idiot," petulantly replied a woman, in French, though the man had spoken in English. "I was her mascotte. I showed her how to play and how to win; but I was not good enough for her when she began making grand friends. Some women are so disloyal! She has hurt me to the heart." Vanno glanced down impatiently, and saw the woman who had been with Mary on her first night at the Casino. He remembered the faded, white-rose face, with its peevish crumples that were not yet lines, and the false little smile that tried to draw attention away from them. He noticed that she was no longer shabby, but wore a smart new dress and hat, with a huge boa of ostrich feathers half covering her thin, bare neck. There was a glint of jewels about her as she moved. The man with the young, weak voice gazed at her admiringly, with a half-pitiful, half-comic air of pride in being seen with so _chic_ a creature. "Never you mind. We men ain't disloyal, anyhow," he consoled her. She smiled at him pathetically, and his pale blue eyes, like those of a faded Dresden china shepherd, returned her look with ecstasy. "That wretched boy will marry the woman," was the thought that jumped into Vanno's mind. He recognized the insignificant face, with its receding chin and forehead, as that of a very young baronet, the last of a degenerate family, weak of intellect, strong only in his craze for jewels and horses. He had been in love with two or three English girls, and one noted American beauty, but all, though comparatively poor, had refused him, saying that one "must draw the line somewhere, and he was the limit." Madeleine d'Ambre would not be fastidious. The brief revelation, like something seen in the flare of a match that quickly dies out, struck Vanno with pity and disgust. But a youth of this calibre was sure sooner or later to drift to Monte Carlo; and perhaps the Frenchwoman's leading strings would be better for him than none. Again the wheel spun round, and Mary lost several piles of gold and notes. It seemed to Vanno that she was changed not only in expression, but even in features. The outline of her face looked sharper, thinner, less girlish. Her eyes, very wide open, were bright, but not with their own happy brightness, like a reflection of sunlight. They were more like thick glass through which a fire can be seen dimly burning: and she looked astonished, piteous, as a child looks when it has been seized and whipped for a fault committed in ignorance. She seemed to be saying to herself dazedly, "What has happened to me? Why should I be punished?" High on each cheek burned a round spot of bright rose colour. Sometimes Lady Dauntrey spoke to her, and Lord Dauntrey bent down and appeared to advise. At first Mary shook her head, with a quivering smile; but when the piles of money continued to be swept away, she lost confidence in herself, and accepted their suggestions. Evidently she tried to follow the new plan of action, whatever it was, but her luck did not change for the better. Almost invariably her stakes, no matter where placed, were taken from her. Even the croupiers looked surprised. From time to time they darted at her glances of interest. A great longing to be near, to protect her with love and sympathy, rushed over Vanno. He forgot that she was angry with him, or that he had given her cause for anger. He remembered only his love, and the instinctive knowledge he had in spite of all, that her heart was for him. He felt, unreasonably yet intensely, that if he were to sit at the table where she could see him and receive the magnetic current of his love, she would come to herself; that she would stop fighting this demon of misfortune; that she would be filled with strength and comfort, and would know what was best to do. As if moved by the force of Vanno's will, a man got up from a chair directly in front. It was Captain Hannaford, who looked less impassive than usual. His somewhat secretive face was flushed, and he was frowning. Without appearing to see the Prince, or Dick Carleton, who was on the point of speaking, he walked quickly away from the table as if anxious to escape. Almost savagely, Vanno grasped the back of the chair and flung himself into it, though Madeleine d'Ambre had been on the point of sitting down. A moment later Hannaford strolled back, having changed his mind for some reason; but Vanno had already forgotten him. He remembered only Mary, for she had glanced up for an instant, and their eyes had met, his imploring, hers startled, then hastily averted. Hannaford stood shoulder to shoulder with Carleton, who nodded and spoke. "I wish we could get her to stop! I've tried--came over from the Sporting Club on purpose, but she won't listen to me." "We can't do anything with her at the table," said Hannaford. "Norwood told me she was losing a lot, and I ran across from the Sporting Club," Dick went on. "No good, I suppose, as you say. One can't keep whispering a stream of good advice down the back of people's necks. Only a very special kind of an ass tries that twice: but still, I did hope----" "Yes, there's that 'but still' feeling, isn't there?" Hannaford smiled his tired smile, that never brightened. "I was going to cut it, because she was getting on my nerves a bit. But I've come back to hang around, as you're doing, and try the effect of will power, though I'm afraid it won't work." "It seems a vile table," Dick remarked. "It's got a grudge against Miss Grant apparently, but it was all right for me till I began to get nervy, watching her lose." "You won?" "Yes, and felt a beast--as if I were taking her money. Whenever I was on one colour, she seemed always to choose a number on the other. I've got enough money to buy my villa now, thanks to this night's work; so I shall consider it a Christmas gift from the dear old Casino." "Hurrah!" said Dick, his eyes always on the table and Mary's play. "I'm glad some one's in luck, anyhow." He had heard from Rose Winter, and from Hannaford himself, of the negotiations for Madame Rachel Berenger's place just across the Italian frontier. Every one knew of her wild play at the Casino and of her losses, which were now so great that she wished to sell the old château which she had bought after her retirement from the stage; and Hannaford's friends were aware that for some months he had been quietly bargaining for it. His ambition was to buy the place out of his winnings, but until to-night they had not reached the price asked by the old actress. Twenty years ago she had paid two hundred thousand francs for the huge house, almost in ruin. Later she had spent nearly as much again in restoring it, and creating a garden which for a while had been the marvel of the coast. Long ago, however, it had gone back to wilderness. The splendid furniture imported by Madame Berenger from the palace of an impoverished Bourbon princess had lost its gilding and its rich brocade of silk and velvet. Two discouraged servants remained with her, out of a staff of twelve. Once there had been ten gardeners; now there was none; and the one hope left for this lost palace of sleep was in a new ownership. The whole place smelt of decay and desolation, yet to Hannaford it was more attractive than such a beautiful and prosperous domain as Schuyler's Stellamare. The sad loveliness of the old house and the old garden made a special appeal to him. He wanted to save the Château Lontana from ruin, and felt superstitiously that the interest he would find in such a task might redeem him from the desolation which, like a high wall, rose between him and life. Something of this feeling Mrs. Winter had gathered from Hannaford, though he had never put it in words, and Dick knew she would be glad of to-night's news. It was no secret that Madame Berenger had refused to accept less than three hundred thousand francs; therefore Dick sprang to the conclusion that this must be the sum of Hannaford's winnings. "I congratulate you heartily," he said. "My cousin will be delighted. She likes you, and has been interested about the Château Lontana." "She's been very kind and sympathetic. No wonder everybody loves her! I know what she'll want to say now, even if she doesn't say it. 'Pay for your château, and play no more.' Well, if you see her sooner than I do, please tell Mrs. Winter I'm going to take her advice before I get it--to a certain extent. Not a louis do I risk till the place is mine. Then--perhaps I'll follow my luck, and try to make the Casino help me restore the house and garden. Not that I want to do much, only enough to make the place habitable, and give the flowers a chance to breathe." "Then you mean to live there?" "For a while at all events. Perhaps not long. Who knows what one may do? But I shall have the pleasure of knowing it's mine." Dick, though interested, had fallen into absent-mindedness. Two or three persons having slipped away, he was able to get nearer the table, and to see more clearly what Mary was doing. It almost seemed that if he and Hannaford concentrated their whole minds upon willing her to stop play for the night, she must feel the influence. Her luck was out, certainly. She had lost a great deal, but she had a goodly store of winnings to fall back upon. "Let's will her hard, to leave off," he suggested, half ashamed of the proposal, yet secretly in earnest. Hannaford smiled indulgence. "All right," he said. "Here goes!" Vanno Della Robbia less deliberately yet with more ardour had thrown himself into the same experiment. He thought that Mary's anger against him might have one good result: in making her wish to leave the table where he had come to sit. She could scarcely fall upon worse luck elsewhere, and perhaps she might give up play for the evening if she went away from this unlucky corner. If a wish of his could be granted by fate, she would never play again. Yet, desiring this with all the force that was in him, he began nevertheless to gamble, for the first time since coming to Monte Carlo. No conscientious scruple had held him back hitherto; but the game had not appealed to him. He disliked the crowding, the sordidness and vulgarity which, to his mind, attended it; and it seemed to him that public gambling was an unintelligent, greedy vice. His idea in putting on money now was merely to "pay for his place," whence he did not mean to move as long as Mary stayed. Many other men would be ready to snatch the chair the instant he abandoned it, therefore he had no right to usurp the Casino's property without payment. He had no small money with him, and to avoid the trouble of changing notes with a croupier, he staked a hundred francs on red, the colour of the number which Lord Dauntrey had just advised Mary to choose. As if she fully realized that her luck had failed her to-night, for several spins she had been guided entirely by Lord Dauntrey. He was directing her play according to his system, to which his faith still desperately clung, though he now admitted to his friends that his own capital was not big enough to test it fairly. His game was upon numbers, columns, and dozens, all at the same time, increasing the stakes, as he said, "with the bank's money," or, in other words, after a win. It was therefore a loss following directly upon a win which was the worst enemy of the system, and occasionally there came a long run of exactly this alternation: win, loss, win, loss, win, loss. It happened so to-night, greatly to his annoyance, as he hoped to interest Miss Grant in his method. Dom Ferdinand was sulkily waiting for more remittances, and amusing himself meanwhile by throwing about a few louis here and there, undirected by his friend Lord Dauntrey. The Marquis de Casablanca had stopped play entirely, perhaps in the hope of setting his patron a wise example. The Collises had never been useful. Dodo Wardropp liked to gamble "on her own," and Mrs. Ernstein, though rich, was a coward when it came to risking her money at the tables. Others in the house made themselves as irritating to Lord Dauntrey in their selfish obstinacy as Dodo; and all his hopes centred upon Mary. She was a lamb whom his wife had cleverly caught in the bushes, a lamb with golden fleece. He would have liked above all things to help her win this first night; but curiously enough she lost monotonously, no matter what game she tried, unless Prince Giovanni Della Robbia pushed money on to some chance where her stake happened to lie. Then and then only she won; so that if she inclined to superstition (as did most women at the tables) she would believe that not Lord Dauntrey but the Roman "brought her luck." Nevertheless she seemed vexed rather than pleased when the Prince (whom Dauntrey knew by sight and name) fixed upon a chance where she had staked. Presently, though she won four times running when this occurred, she kept back her money until the last, staking only just before the croupier's "Rien ne va plus," to prevent Della Robbia from following her lead. At last, she got up impatiently. "I am tired!" she said, in a voice that trembled slightly. "I hardly know what I'm doing." Mary did not pick up the money--comparatively little--which was the remnant of her losses, and Dauntrey asked sympathetically if she would like him to play for her, according to the plan they had begun to follow out. "Yes, if you please," she replied, seeming to attach no importance to her answer or to the small pile of gold and notes, all that remained of a hundred thousand francs with which she had begun the evening. Without another glance at the table, or a flicker of the lashes at Vanno, she turned away; and after a whispered word or two in Lord Dauntrey's ear, Eve went with her, in the direction of the Salle Schmidt. Vanno had an immediate impulse to rise, but common sense forbade. Mary had so unmistakably shown her dislike of his presence, and the association of his play with hers, that it was impossible for him to follow her. Though he detested Lady Dauntrey, in his heart he preferred her to a man as a companion for Mary, even a man like Dick Carleton; and for the moment the jealousy he could not control was at rest. Seeing that Lord Dauntrey's weary eyes were fixed upon him, he continued to play, as if he had not noticed Mary's going. By and by the game began to absorb him in a way he would not have believed possible. He became excited, with an odd, tense excitement which had an almost fierce joy in it. Never before had he felt an emotion exactly like this, except once, when in India he and a friend had lain in wait for a man-eating tiger, in the night, at the tiger's drinking place. Dimly it amused him to compare this sensation with the other; and it surprised him, too, that he should feel as he felt now; for gambling had always seemed to him not only greedy and sordid and vulgar, but a stupid way of passing the time, unworthy a man or woman of sense and breeding. To his own amazement, the pleasure of the game was balm for the heartache Mary had made him suffer. He did not forget her, or his repentance, or the determination to right himself in her eyes; yet the hot throb of his anxiety was soothed, as by an opiate. What he felt for Mary was but a part of this keen emotion that flowed through him like a tide. He remembered the prophecy of his friend the astrologer, in the Libyan desert, that his star in the ascendant would bring him good fortune this month of December. Certainly he had not found luck in love. Perhaps it was to come to him through gambling. He wondered if there could be any possible connection between the stars and the actions of a man, or the chances of a game like roulette. Though his studies of the stars had been confined to astronomy, the romance in him, and the dreamer's love of mystery, refused to shut the door on belief in another branch of the same science. It was enormously interesting to think that perhaps the stars, the planets, controlled this tiny sphere of ivory in its mad dash round the revolving wheel. Since the whole universe was made up of marvels almost beyond credence, who with certainty could say "no?" Vanno was not rich. He had no more than thirty thousand francs a year, left him by his mother, and had refused an extra allowance from the Duke. It had been his pride to live within his income, all through his travels, and despite his love of collecting rare books. His father had given him his observatory at Monte Della Robbia, but nothing else of importance. His invention was beginning to bring him in a little, but it would never make a fortune; and he was not one who could afford a "flutter" at Monte Carlo without counting the cost. To-night, however, after winning some thousands of francs, it did not occur to him--as it might if some other man in his circumstances had been concerned--that it would be wise to stop. The spin of the wheel began to exert a fascination over his mind, appealing to all that was adventurous in him. Not once was he conscious of putting on a stake for the sake of the money it might gain; not once did he hesitate from fear of loss. It was the call of the unknown that lured him, the thrilling doubt as to where the ball would stop. The little dancing white thing, magical as a silver bullet, seemed a miniature incarnation of destiny, spinning his fate. Always Vanno was pricked by the desire to try again, and see if he could once more foretell the result. There lay the poignant, the indescribable charm: in not knowing. He saw now that he had misjudged gamblers in believing them all to be mercenary, at least at the moment of gambling. Some might be so, many perhaps; but he began to realize that the chief appeal was to the imaginative temperament, such as he knew his own, and guessed Mary's, to be. When his stake was larger than usual--larger a good deal than he could afford in prudence--he revelled in the uncertainty of the event which he intensely desired. And it dawned in his mind that this was the true intoxication of the gambler, the delicious anguish of playing with the unknown. It was a more dangerous intoxication than he had supposed it to be, because more subtle, as the effect of cocaine or morphia is more insidious than that of alcohol. Like a hunter, he pursued the game until, to his great surprise, a croupier announced, "Les trois derniers." It was almost impossible to believe that he had sat at the table for hours. By this time Vanno had abandoned all attempt to check his winnings and losses. It was not until he had gathered up his money and counted it on leaving the table that he knew he had lost not only his winnings, but three thousand francs besides. The discovery filled him with a peculiar, bitter annoyance, as if an alkaloid fluid ran through his veins: and this not because of the loss, which was comparatively insignificant, but because he had failed, because he had been ignominiously beaten by the bank. He had had his luck, and had stupidly thrown it away, after the manner of all those fools for whom he had felt a superior, pitying contempt. Still, he was not sorry that he had played. His short experience of roulette and the curious exhilaration the spin of the wheel had given brought him nearer to understanding Mary than he had ever come before, or could have come otherwise. Also, his combativeness was roused. His nerves seemed to quiver, to bristle with an angry determination to justify himself in his own eyes, and to have his revenge upon the brutal power of the bank. "I'll get it all back from them to-morrow," he thought, "and more besides. I won't be beaten. And when I've done something worth doing, I'll stop. That's the way to gamble." XX Mary was not comfortable at the Dauntreys', and the house depressed her; but it was a refuge from the Hôtel de Paris, where Prince Giovanni Della Robbia was; and Lady Dauntrey was so kind, so affectionate, that Mary felt it her duty to be grateful. Almost strangers as they were, her hostess poured into her ears a great many intimate confidences, and asked her guest's advice as well as sympathy. Mary was touched by this, for Lady Dauntrey seemed a strong woman; and, besides, the slight put upon her by Vanno had left a raw wound which appreciation from others helped superficially to heal. She had been so openly admired and flattered at Monte Carlo that vanity had blossomed in her nature like a quick-growing flower, though she had no idea that she had become vain. Men looked at her with the look which is a tribute from the whole sex. She could hardly bear it that the One Man should disapprove. Those impecunious painters who haunt the open-air restaurants at Monte Carlo, on the chance of selling a five-minute portrait, had buzzed round her like bees round a honey-pot, but they were not the only ones. Two artists of some renown had got themselves introduced through acquaintances the Casino had given her, and begged her to sit to them. Also it was true, as gossip said, that the artist she had met in the train had arrived, and hastened to renew the acquaintance. He had painted her portrait. She had paid for it and--burnt it. She, the quiet schoolgirl, the earnest postulant, the novice who had never thought of her own face, who for a year had not seen it in a mirror or missed the sight of it, knew herself now for a beauty, a charming figure of importance in this strange, concrete little world where Hercules entertained his guests. And then, to be despised by the one person who occupied her thoughts, despised and thrust away at the very moment when he confessed to loving her! It was a blow to the woman's pride which had not consciously stooped to unworthiness, and a still sharper hurt to her new vanity. She wanted to show Vanno, if he still thought of her, that others burned incense to her beauty, though he had not placed her on an altar. The discomforts of the Villa Bella Vista mattered little to the girl who had gone through a hard novitiate in a Scotch convent. She made her own bed and dusted her room. She did not care what she ate; and she tried to throw her whole heart into the life of the household, that amazing household which was unlike anything she could have imagined out of a disordered dream. Always after coming to the Dauntreys' she continued to lose at the Casino, often large sums, occasionally picking up a little, as if luck hovered near, awaiting its cue to return, only to be frightened away again. But after a few days' time, in which more than two hundred thousand francs slipped through her fingers, Lady Dauntrey suggested that Miss Grant should "rest" for a while, meantime letting Dauntrey play his system for her benefit and with her capital. This idea did not amuse Mary. The "gambler's blood," of which she had been warned by her father, warmed to the excitement of the game. She craved this excitement, and felt lost without it, now that the interest of Prince Vanno's distant presence in her life was gone. Still, she could not bring herself to refuse an offer which seemed meant in kindness. She gave Lord Dauntrey one thousand louis, the smallest capital, he explained, necessary to exploit his system with five-franc pieces at roulette. He assured her that with pleasure he would add this money to the same sum of his own, and play for her as well as himself, the syndicate he had originally formed being now dissolved. Dodo hinted that operations had been stopped because the whole capital was lost, but Lord Dauntrey had already mentioned to Mary that a few slight reverses had frightened the "shareholders." This cowardice, he said, had so disgusted him that he had given back the capital to each one intact, and politely refused to play any longer for the syndicate. A position of such responsibility was only possible if he were upheld by the confidence of all concerned. Otherwise, he preferred to gamble only for himself, or for a personal friend or two who trusted him. Each night, after Mary placed her thousand louis in his hands, Lord Dauntrey gave her five hundred francs. This was as high a percentage, he made clear to her, as could be got out of the capital except at a risk of heavy losses, and he "did not care to run big risks for a woman." On a thousand louis, Lord Dauntrey explained, five hundred francs profit nightly represented 900 per cent. a year, which was of course enormous; and regarded thus, her risk was an investment, not a speculation. When some of Lady Dauntrey's bright particular stars left her firmament (as they did leave occasionally with the quick flight of comets) she hastened to fill the vacancies with any small luminaries available. The Villa Bella Vista remained full, even when Mrs. Ernstein went suddenly to Cannes, where "villa life" might be considered even more aristocratic than at "Monte"; and Dom Ferdinand took himself and his ally out of danger's way when Dodo refused to understand that only flirtation, not marriage, was possible with a "commoner." The price of Dauntrey hospitality had, however, fallen. Those who could be attracted by the bait of their barren title had now to be looked for low in the social scale: and it was difficult to get eligible _partis_ with whom to dazzle heiresses. The slender Austrian count, whom Dodo scornfully pronounced a "don't count," vanished mysteriously soon after Mary's arrival. He did not even say goodbye; and Dodo, who vowed that she had often heard him groaning behind the thin partition which divided her room from his, went whispering about the house that he had committed suicide in the Casino gardens. "Why not?" she argued almost convulsively, when Mary protested that surely such a dreadful thing could not have been kept secret. "Would the Dauntreys tell, if they knew? No, of course they'd hush it up, and get rid of anything he'd left--in one way or another. Not that there was much to get rid of, for the Mont de Pieté was a kind of home from home for the Count. He used to run back and forth between there and the Casino, like a distracted rabbit: pawn his watch; play with the money; win; race back and get his watch; lose again; and so on a dozen times a day, till he was stripped of jewellery down to his studs and collar buttons. It all came from his obstinacy in believing that the croupiers at trente et quarante were signalling to him whether it was going to be _inverse_ or _couleur_, when they were really only licking their thumbs to deal the cards better! _I_ say, if you must have a fetish, have a reasonable one, like playing for neighbours of zero at roulette. But that silly boy thought himself too smart for roulette, and he wouldn't take any advice, so this is what comes of it. I feel in my bones that _his_ are in the suicide's cemetery this minute. Has nobody told you that there are no inquests of coroners here in this principality? And a jolly good thing, too! Why make the rest of us gloomy by putting nasty details in the papers, when we've come here to enjoy ourselves? _They_ don't ask people to gamble, they merely make it nice for 'em if they're determined to, and anyhow it's honest gambling. They don't want you to play if you can't afford it and are going to be an idiot, because they hate rows and scandal. It's all for _our_ benefit! If a man's cad enough to blow his brains out at the tables, all over a lady's dress, he is whisked away so quick nobody has time to realize what's up before a glass door in the wall has opened with a spring and shut again as if nothing had happened. Not a croupier stops spinning. I call it magnificent. But it does make you feel a bit creepy when anybody you've known disappears into space!" Lord Burden, the dilapidated earl imported as a _parti_, was of opinion that the Austrian count had merely applied for the _viatique_; and being granted by the management a sum large enough to pay his fare and his food, had departed without caring to show his face again at the villa. Others were inclined to agree with Dodo, especially the women, who were of the type that secretly enjoys mystery and horror, when unconnected with themselves. No one ever really knew, however (unless perhaps the Dauntreys), what had become of the youth with hair _en brosse_, and wasp waist so slim that the body seemed held together by a mere ligament. He was gone: that was all, and his small place in the household was more than filled by a German couple, an ex-officer with an adoring wife, both of whom spent half their days in bed, testing on a roulette watch various exciting systems which, now they had come from afar off, they lacked courage to play at the Casino. Their name was so intricate that Dodo Wardropp said it ought to be kept a secret. As nobody could pronounce it, however, it amounted to that, in the end. They did not stay long; and indeed, after the disappearance of the Austrian count, a microbe pricking people to departure seemed to multiply in the Villa Bella Vista. The sailor went suddenly, on receipt of a letter from the Admiralty, that prying institution having learned and disapproved of the way in which he was spending his leave and his pay. Lord Burden followed Mrs. Ernstein to Cannes; and Dodo, who never ceased to want good value for her money, was bitterly dissatisfied with the unmarried men who remained. The principal one had at first attracted not only Dodo but every other woman, with the exception of Mary. He spoke English well, yet appeared to be equally at home in all socially useful languages. He looked like a Russian, dressed like a Frenchman, claimed to have estates in Italy, copper mines in Spain, a shooting in Hungary, and told delightful anecdotes of his intimate friendship with most existing sovereigns. Not a king or queen of any standing but--according to him--came often to his "little place" in this country or that, and addressed him as "Dear Alfred." His manner, his voice, were so smooth that they oiled the creaking wheels of life at the villa; and his stories, told at the table, distracted guests' attention from the skeleton at the feast--a premature skeleton of a once muscular chicken, or a lamb that had seen its second childhood. Unfortunately, however, a journalist who knew everybody and everything in the world was brought in to luncheon by Lord Dauntrey one day, and recognized the favourite of the household as a famous Parisian furrier. He had supplied enough sable coat linings for kings and ermine cloaks for queens to give him food for a lifetime of authentic anecdotes. His acquaintance with royalties was genuine of its kind, but it was not of a kind that appealed to the paying guests at Lady Dauntrey's. Dodo turned a cold shoulder upon him, and for a day or two gave her attention to the only other man in the house who pluckily advertised himself as unmarried. He advertised himself also as a millionaire, and not without reason, though Lord Dauntrey had cleverly picked him up in the Casino. When he mentioned, however, that he was a Sydney man, Miss Wardropp ceased to talk at him across the table. This change of tactics her enemies attributed to fear that he "knew all about her at home." But she told Mary that he had such slept-on looking ears, he took away her appetite; and one needed all the appetite one could muster to worry through a meal at the Bella Vista. Besides, she believed that he had made his fortune by some awful stuff which kept hair from decaying or teeth from falling off, and it did one no good to be seen in the Casino with a creature like that. It was almost better to go about with a woman, though she did hate being reduced to walking with a female; it made a girl look so unsuccessful. At length Dodo decided that, even for Mary's sake, she could no longer "stick it out" at the Bella Vista. She felt, she said, so wretched that she was "quite off her bonbons." The crisis came at luncheon and indirectly through the marmoset. Dodo paid well and regularly; therefore she was tacitly allowed certain privileges, not always approved by her fellow-guests. Diablette had been a standing cause of friction between Lady Dauntrey and the dog's mistress; but the marmoset, its successful rival in Dodo's affections, was grudgingly permitted whenever Lord Dauntrey had borrowed fifty francs or so, to select its own fruit from the dessert. Some people were even amused at seeing the tiny animal jump from Dodo's lap on to the table, and pick out the best grapes in an old-fashioned centre-piece. On the last fatal day, however, Lady Dauntrey's nerves had been rasped by the loss of her fifth cook. When the marmoset was taken suddenly and desperately ill in the bread plate, Eve flew into a rage, and high words passed like rapier flashes between her and Miss Wardropp. Dodo attributed her pet's seizure to the fact that Dauntrey fruit was unfit even for a monkey's consumption, and Eve informed the whole company that Dodo was a disgusting Australian pig. This was the last insult. Dodo shrilly "gave notice," while the marmoset was dying in her napkin. The meal ended in confusion; and Miss Wardropp went away that afternoon with the living Diablette, the dead monkey, two teddy bears, an umbrella-mosquito-net, and seven trunks. "Ask that man for your money back!" she advised Mary on the doorstep. "I don't say go to _her_, for she'd only tell you some lie. 'Lie and let lie' is her motto. She's reduced lying to a fine art. But ask him for your capital, my dear, and watch his face when you do it. Compared to his wife he's a model, even if it's a model of all the vices." Mary missed Dodo. Diablette had been an invincible and dangerous enemy to the blue frog from the Mentone china shop, poor, blasé Hilda, who spent most of her time choking in flies a size too large for her, or trying helplessly to push them down her blue throat with a tiny turquoise hand. Dodo, however, had been a ray of brightness in the house: meretricious, garish brightness perhaps; still she had given a tinselline sparkle to the dull rooms when things were at their worst, and Lady Dauntrey clouded with sullen gloom. When the newest and humblest guests of the Villa Bella Vista lost money beyond a certain limit, the bare thought of the Casino gave them mental indigestion. They then stayed safely at home, and infested the unaired drawing-room--pale people reading pink papers, and talking "system"; or flushed people playing bridge for small points, with the windows hermetically closed and their backs to the sunset. They quarrelled among themselves in a liverish way over cards and politics, and agreed only on the subject of such titled acquaintances as they had in common, all of whom seemed to be perfectly charming. But these heraldic conversations bored Mary even more intensely than the squabbles. There came a time when desperation got the upper hand of that prudence so earnestly recommended by Lord Dauntrey. She could not endure the long evenings in the villa, and felt that she must again tempt fortune at the Casino. One night after dinner she broke to her host the news that she need no longer trouble him to win money for her. She would take back her own half of the capital he was using, and play the old game once more. "If I have a few days' luck, I think the wisest thing to do next would be to go away," she went on, forcing herself to laugh quite gayly, as if there were nobody at Monte Carlo whom it would hurt her cruelly never to see again. "I've stayed on and on, when all the time I ought to have been somewhere else. And I've never had courage to write my--my friends at home what I've been doing. Just one more 'flutter,' and then--goodbye!" Her thoughts flew afar, as she made this little set speech. She saw Vanno as he had looked that day, and on other days when she had deliberately cut him in the street, or in the Casino, though she knew he had been waiting in the hope that she would relent and let him speak. His eyes haunted her everywhere. It seemed to her that they were very sad, and had lost that burning, vital light of the spirit which in contrast had made the personalities of other men dull as smouldering fires. Occasionally he was near her at the tables, for he played constantly now, recklessly and often disastrously according to Hannaford. The word "goodbye" and its attendant thought of departure brought Vanno's image as clearly before Mary as if he had walked into the ugly drawing-room, where people were shuffling cards for bridge or putting on their wraps for the Casino. It was Vanno alone who was real for her, not the other figures; and she did not see the grayness that settled like a shadow on Lord Dauntrey's lined and sallow face. "I'm awfully sorry, Miss Grant," he said, "but I can't give you back your money now, for the simple reason that I banked most of your capital and mine this afternoon. I felt rather seedy, and didn't mean to play seriously to-night. If only you'd spoken in time, it would have been all right enough. But now I'm afraid the best I can do for you, until to-morrow, will be a few hundred francs. My wife and I must see what we can scrape together." He jumbled his words, as if in a hurry to get them all out, and laughed apologetically, staring Mary straight in the face, insistently, with his melancholy eyes. Something in them caught her attention, distracting it from the thought that was always forcing itself in front of others. She readily believed that he "felt seedy," for he looked extremely ill. There were bags under the gray eyes, and his skin seemed loose on his face, almost like a glove on a hand for which it is too large. Mary was sorry for him, and protested that after all she did not care about playing that night. She would wait till to-morrow, and he must not mind what she had said. He appeared to be slightly relieved; but though he smiled, his eyes kept the dull glassiness which gave them an unnatural effect. Late that night Eve knocked at Mary's door. She had on a bright green dressing-gown, with a Chinese embroidery running over it of golden dragons and serpents. In her hand she carried a cheap silver-backed brush, and her long dark hair was undone. She looked strikingly handsome, but the thick black strands hanging down on either side of the white face recalled to Mary a picture in the library at Lady MacMillan's. It was a clever painting of the Medusa, level-eyed, with a red mouth like a wound, and dimly seen, pale glimmering features, between the lazy writhing of dark snakes. The thing had fascinated Mary in her impressionable schoolgirl days, but now she tried to huddle the idea quickly out of her head, for it seemed disloyal and even disgusting in connection with her hostess. "I saw your light under the door," Lady Dauntrey said, "and I thought maybe you wouldn't mind my sitting with you for a bit. I do feel so beastly down on my luck, and you always cheer me up, you're so different from any of the others." Mary had begun, for perhaps the twentieth time, a letter to Reverend Mother; but she was half glad of an excuse to put it away unfinished. She too was in a wrapper, with her shining hair over her shoulders, but she suggested a St. Ursula rather than a Medusa. There was no comfortable chair in the room, but she drew the only one whose legs could be depended upon, in front of a dying wood fire for Lady Dauntrey. Eve sat for a few moments brushing her hair in a lazy, aimless way, and staring at the red logs. "Perhaps," she said at last, "I shall have to cheer _you_ up, though, when you've heard what I've come for. Might as well out with it, I suppose! I know _I_ can't bear having had news 'broken' to me. My husband told you he was seedy, didn't he?--and hadn't meant to play, so he'd banked all the money. He hadn't the courage, poor chap, to tell you what really happened. He's simply sick over it, so I offered to see you. In a way, it was true, what he said. The bank _has_ got the money, only--it's the Casino bank. Dauntrey had an awful débacle to-day, the first time since he's been playing for you, and lost everything; not only your capital, of course, but his own too. It's your money he's so sick about, though. He could stand the loss of his own, though it's a blow, and I don't quite know what we shall do. But to lose yours! He's almost off his head. If it weren't for me, and my saying you'd forgive him, I believe he'd blow his brains out." "Oh, don't speak of anything so horrible!" Mary cried. "Of course I forgive him." "He's afraid you may think he has juggled away your money. When you asked him for it to-night he was already wondering how you'd take the loss; but your proposal coming suddenly like that bowled him over, and he made an excuse to put off the evil hour. What a weird coincidence you should have wanted your capital back the very day he'd lost the lot! He's so sorry you didn't think of it yesterday; for then it would have been safe in your hands now, unless you'd lost it yourself, which I can't help thinking, my dear, you probably _would_, the way things were going with you before." "I daresay I should have lost the money if he hadn't," said Mary kindly. In her heart, she wished that she had been given the chance, as at least she would then have had some amusement, before the money was gone. And certainly it was an odd coincidence that the loss should have happened just before she had suggested playing for herself again. She could not help remembering Dodo's parting shot at the Dauntreys. She wished that the idea had not been put into her head; for though she would not believe that Lord Dauntrey had robbed her, she saw that it was a mistake to have lent him the capital--a mistake from his point of view, as well as her own. The money was gone; and even if there were something wrong in the way of its going, she could not prove the wrong. Nor did she wish to try. She wished to believe the story Lady Dauntrey had told, which might easily be true. Yet there would always remain the little crawling snake of doubt; and that was not fair to Lord Dauntrey. "It's too, too bad, and we are both terribly upset," Eve went on heavily. "But it's the fortune of war, isn't it? And, thank goodness, you've got plenty left of what the Casino's given you, I hope, in spite of that awful Christmas night." "Oh, yes, I've got more, in Smith's Bank," said Mary. "I can draw some out to-morrow, and begin playing again. Tell Lord Dauntrey he mustn't mind as far as I'm concerned." "I did tell him you'd be sporting, and that you were a good plucked one, but I couldn't console him. The truth is, _our_ part of the loss is pretty serious. The Casino didn't give us any of our capital, you know, and we aren't rich. We've lost an awful lot this season. Monte Carlo's been disastrous to us in every way." "But I thought Lord Dauntrey had done well with his system?" Mary ventured. "Oh, the system!" Eve caught herself up, quickly. "Yes, that was all right. Only we never made much, as he couldn't afford high stakes. But he's so good-natured and generous. He lent money to others to gamble with--I won't say _who_, though perhaps you can guess--and never got a penny back. And some of the people we've had staying here ran up big bills and skipped without paying them. We simply had to let them go, and make the best of it. Oh, dear Miss Grant--Mary--this is a bad time to ask a favour, I know, when my husband's just come a cropper with your money, as well as his own; but I was never one to beat about the bush. And you're a regular brick. You're in luck, and we're out--down and out! I wonder--_would_ you be inclined to lend us--say, a thousand pounds, just to tide over the few weeks till our dividends come? We'd give you good security, of course. We have shares in South African diamond mines." "I think I might be able to do that," said Mary, who could not bear to see Lady Dauntrey humble herself to plead. "How good you are!" Eve exclaimed. "You're a _real_ friend, the only one we've got. The rest are sharks, or cats. It--it won't run you down low to let us have a thousand?" She fixed her eyes sharply on Mary, under the shadow of her falling hair, which she brushed as if mechanically. "Oh no, I'm sure I can manage it very well." "And keep enough to go on playing with?" "Yes. I don't quite know how much I have in the bank. I've given away a good deal here and there, I suppose, besides what I lost--and this now. But there's sure to be plenty." "Suppose, though, you go on losing? Of course I hope you won't. But there's that to think of. Still, I presume you needn't worry if the Casino should get back every penny they've given you? I hope you have ever and ever so much of your own. I think I heard you telling the Wardropp girl--wretched little beast!--that you had a big legacy left you?" "I believe I did tell her so, in the train," said Mary. "I don't remember speaking of it since." "I couldn't help overhearing what you said then. You were both talking at the top of your voices. Well, I'm glad for you. If you're wise, you'll put yourself out of temptation's way, and won't keep much beyond your winnings where you can lay hands on it." "I came here with very little," Mary confessed. "You see, I'd meant to go on to Italy." "And you were so lucky at first, that you've lived on your winnings, and have never had to write a cheque on your own bank in England or anywhere?" "Not one!" laughed Mary. "Since I came into my money, I haven't drawn half a dozen cheques--except in the cheque-book I got at Smith's, after Mr. Shuyler and Mr. Carleton advised me to keep my winnings there." "You fortunate girl! And think of all the lovely jewellery you've bought, too! Of course I'm glad for our sakes, that your friends advised you to store the best things in the bank, when you're not wearing them, for one never knows about one's servants; and there are such creatures as burglars. Still, I wonder you can bear having those heavenly things out of your sight. _I_ couldn't!" "I've felt rather tired of my jewellery lately," said Mary. "I hardly know why. But I don't seem to take the pleasure in wearing it that I did at first, when it was new to me." Lady Dauntrey rose from the creaky chair with a sigh, and a slight shiver. "You look too much like a saint for jewellery to suit you as well as it does other people--me for instance!" she said. "And you _are_ a saint. I don't know how to thank you enough. My poor boy will be grateful! Well, I must go. You ought to have more wood on your fire. But I suppose it's gone. Everything always is in this house, if it's anything one wants. If ever you're in trouble of your own, and need a couple of friends to stand by you, you've got us. Let's shake on it!" She put out her hand and drew Mary toward her. If the girl had not shrunk away almost imperceptibly, she would have bent down and kissed her. XXI The curé of Roquebrune learned in an odd way that his Principino was gambling; just in the queer roundabout way that secret things become public on the Riviera. His housekeeper had a sister. That sister was the wife of a man who kept cows at Cap Martin, sold milk which the cows gave, and butter which he said that he made (gaining praise thereby), though it was really imported at night in carts from Italy. The daughter was eighteen, and it was her duty to carry milk to the customers of her father, who did business under the name of Verando, Emilio. She was a beauty, and her fame spread until people of all classes made errands to the laiterie of Verando, Emilio, to stare at the dark-browed girl who was like a splendid Ligurian storm-cloud. When the twelve white cows of Emilio were occasionally allowed an outing, and could be seen glimmering among the ancient olive trees, the Storm-cloud walked with them; early in the morning, when the gray-blue of mountain and sky was framed like star sapphires in the silver of gnarled trunks and feathery branches; or else early in the evening, when the moon-dawn had come. The cows were supposed to chaperon Mademoiselle Nathalie Verando, who was by blood more Signorina than Mademoiselle; but they countenanced several flirtations which were observed by the caretaker of Mirasole, the villa presently to be occupied by Prince Angelo Della Robbia and his bride. The caretaker, consumed with jealousy because one of the flirters had flirted also with her daughter, told everybody that Nathalie Verando had been kissed in the olive woods. Jim Schuyler's cook was a friend of Luciola, the curé's housekeeper. When she heard of the incident in the Verando family, she told Nathalie's aunt that Mrs. Winter, the chaplain's wife at Monte Carlo, was in need of a parlour maid. The maid must be pretty, because Mrs. Winter could not bear to have ugly people about her. They ruined her appetite. This peculiarity was known at Stellamare, because Mrs. Winter's cousin, Mr. Carleton, was visiting there. Would it not be wise to put Nathalie into service, at a distance from Cap Martin, so that everything might be forgotten? Mrs. Winter, to whom the suggestion was made by her cook (cousin to the cook at Stellamare), snapped at it eagerly. She had been out walking with Dick, and they had both seen the beautiful dark Storm-cloud chaperoned by the white cows, among the olives. Nathalie became _femme de chambre_ in the apartment of Mrs. Winter. She was so charmed with her mistress, and with certain hats and blouses that Rose bestowed upon her, that she did not much miss the flirtations. But, being a good Catholic, and having been confirmed by the curé of Roquebrune, her conscience asked itself whether it could be right to live in a household not only Protestant, but the abode of a priest who spread heresy. It occurred to her that she would go and put this question to the curé, her spiritual father; and she was not deterred from her resolve by the fact that Achille Gonzales had finished his military service and returned to visit his family. Achille's father was the Maire of Roquebrune, a peasant landowner of wealth whose pride was in his son and in their Spanish ancestry, which dated back to the days of Saracen fighting on the coast. Achille was a great match; and the white cows had nibbled mint and clover from his hands before he went away with his regiment to Algeria. His father was about to make over to him some land adjoining the curé's garden, and the young man was there planting orange trees on fine days. Nathalie chose a fine afternoon to ask Mrs. Winter if she might go to Roquebrune. The curé, who was broad-minded, set her heart at rest about the possible iniquity of her service. He said that different religions were all paths leading up a steep hill, in the same direction, only some were more roundabout than others. Nathalie need not after all have taken the trouble to climb the mule track in the afternoon sun; yet she was not sorry she had come. Seldom had she looked so beautiful as when her aunt was giving her orange-syrup with water after her talk with the curé, the oranges being a present to the house from Achille Gonzales. On the table in the little kitchen stood a silver photograph frame which Luciola was going to clean, as the salt air had tarnished its brightness. In the frame was a photograph of Prince Giovanni Della Robbia as a boy of eighteen; but so little had eleven years changed Vanno, that Nathalie recognized the picture at once. "Ah," she exclaimed, "surely that is the handsome, tall young gentleman who walks over often to look at the Villa Mirasole, near our laiterie: the brother of the prince who is coming soon to live there." "Why, yes, it is he," replied her aunt. "He is a friend of our curé's, and was once his pupil. He is the Prince Giovanni Della Robbia, a very noble, good young man." "I am not sure he is so very good," retorted Nathalie, pleased to know something which her aunt perhaps did not know, about a person of importance. Luciola's tiny body quivered with indignation. "Not good! How dare you say such a thing of our curé's Prince? What can you have to tell of a great noble in his position--you--a little no-one-at-all?" The Storm-cloud lowered. "There are those as important as your Prince who do not think me a 'little no-one-at-all.' The grand folk who come to Cap Martin to call upon our lady the Empress Eugenie tell each other about me; English dukes and duchesses they are, and Spanish grandees, and high nobility from all over the world, who visit the Cap to do her reverence. They make one excuse or another to have a look at your 'little no-one-at-all.' And a famous American artist has sketched me, in the olive woods. He would not let me run home even for five minutes to change into my best dress, nor would he permit that I put away my milk cans: that was my one regret! As for your Prince, he passed, taking a short cut to the villa, while I posed. Do you think he went on without looking? No; he stopped and spoke with the artist." "Then that was because they were acquaintances," snapped Luciola. "It is true they knew each other. But it was not for the _beaux yeux_ of the big red-bearded artist that the Prince stopped. It was to look at my face in the sketch-book. There were other faces there, too, and on the page next to mine the profile of a most lovely lady, all blond like an angel, whose name the Prince knew, for he and the artist talked of her, and called her Miss Grant. I have heard much conversation about her since then, at Madame Winter's, at tea-time in the afternoon when I bring in the tray and give cakes to visitors. They all, especially Madame's cousin, speak of Miss Grant, and she is celebrated for her beauty as well as for her gambling: yet your Prince looked as much at my picture as at hers, quite as much; and the artist could have taken no more pains with me if I had been a queen. So you see what other people think. And as it happens, I _do_ know a great deal about this Prince." "Nothing against him, then, I am sure," persisted Luciola, though somewhat impressed. "Monsieur le Curé loves him, which alone proves that he is good." "Does Monsieur le Curé consider it good to gamble at Monte Carlo?" inquired Nathalie, with assumed meekness. "Of course not. Prince Giovanni would not stoop to such a pursuit." "Oh, would he not? That is all you know of the world, here on your mountain, dear aunt. Me, I hear everything that goes on, though I live in the house of a cleric. Madame's cousin knows well your Prince, who, it is true, did not gamble at first, and seemed to scorn the Casino, so I heard from Monsieur Carleton while I poured the tea. But for some reason he has taken to play, the Prince. He is always in the Casino. He has refused to live in the villa at Cap Martin with his brother and sister-in-law, who have now arrived, because he hates to be too far from the Casino, though perhaps they may not know why. Monsieur Carleton has told Madame that not once have they been inside its doors, or shown themselves at any Monte Carlo restaurant. Oh, your Prince is a wild gambler, aunt, and loses much money, which is a silly way of amusing one's self, in my opinion. And that is why I say he is not so good as you and Monsieur le Curé think him, you who are so innocent." "I do not believe one word of your foolish gossip," was the only satisfaction Nathalie got from Luciola. But when the girl had gone, the little old woman was in such haste to retell the tale to the curé, that she did not even throw a glance at Nathalie. If she had, she might have seen the Storm-cloud brightening when, quite by accident, she was met by Achille Gonzales within a few yards of the curé's door. Old as she was, Luciola had an excellent memory for anything that interested her, though she was capable of forgetting what was best forgotten in a household, such as the breaking of a dish, or the reason why the cat had been left out of doors all night in the rain. She repeated what she had heard from her niece, almost word for word, wandering a little sometimes from the straight path of the narrative into side tracks, such as the anecdote of the artist who took as much pains with Nathalie's portrait as with that of the great beauty, Miss Grant, who was always gambling at the Casino, the place where wicked people said that Prince Giovanni played. No exciting detail did Luciola neglect. The curé listened to the end, without interrupting, greatly to the housekeeper's disappointment, as she had made her narrative piquant in the hope of tempting her master to ask questions. But he showed no emotion of any kind, and only remarked at last that Luciola was quite right not to believe gossip about the Prince, or indeed evil of any one. Nevertheless her story left him reflective. He thought it not impossible that Vanno was gambling; and if it were the case, several things would be explainable. It was many days since the Prince had come to Roquebrune, although the curé had done what he did not wish to do, in order to please his one-time pupil. Vanno was well aware that it was not the curé's affair to call upon strangers out of his own parish, except by special request. To call uninvited upon a person in Monaco might seem to the curé and abbé of San Carlo like an intrusion: and to present himself at a hotel, inquiring for a young lady whom he did not even know to be a Catholic, had been an ordeal. This, for the Principino's sake, he had done not once but twice, as Vanno knew. And in truth the Prince had seemed too preoccupied with disappointment because Miss Grant was not at home to express much gratitude when the curé told him of the two calls. Not since the third day before Christmas had Vanno come to Roquebrune, nor had he written his old friend; and certainly the curé had wondered, for now the new year was more than a week old; and always the weather had been of that brilliance the peasant women consider necessary after Noël for the washing of the Christ child's clothes by the Sainte Vierge, His mother. There had been no such excuse as rain to prevent a visit; but at last the curé guessed at a reason which might have kept Vanno from wishing to see him. On New Year's Day--the great fête--the priest had called in the afternoon on Prince and Princess Della Robbia, at the Villa Mirasole, knowing that their arrival had been delayed until the night before. Vanno, who had lunched with them, had already gone; and it was no news to the curé that the younger brother was not living at Cap Martin. Angelo referred to this change of plan, saying laughingly that no doubt the foolish boy feared to interrupt a tête-à-tête. Nonsense this, of course; for the honeymoon had extended itself over months, and the Princess was anxious to see as much as possible of her new brother-in-law. Angelo, too, particularly wished Vanno to love Marie as a sister, and report well of her to the Duke, whose favourite he was. It was no secret that Vanno could do what he liked with his father, although no other soul was permitted to take liberties with the Duke. Nothing had been left unsaid which might assure Vanno of his welcome, yet he insisted on remaining at some Monte Carlo hotel, only coming over to lunch or dinner, though Angelo quite understood that his brother had promised to live with him. The curé, soothing the elder and defending the younger gayly, thought in his heart that he knew better than Angelo why Vanno clung to Monte Carlo. He supposed Miss Grant to be the attraction, but this was the Principino's affair, and the curé kept the secret. Miss Grant's name was not mentioned. Evidently Prince and Princess Della Robbia had not heard of her. Vanno's infatuation for the girl did not seem a light thing to the curé, and he thought of it anxiously, hoping and sometimes believing that the young man would be strong enough to hold himself aloof, unless Miss Grant should show herself worthy of a noble, not a degrading, love. The priest had kept his promise in going to see her; but until this rumour of Vanno's gambling reached him he had not been able to regret his failure. The responsibility of judging and truthfully reporting his opinion of a young woman had weighed heavily upon his spirits. Supposing the curé had said to himself that he saw Miss Grant and thought nothing but good of her? The Principino might on the strength of his report be reckless enough to propose marriage. A good and beautiful girl might still be an unsuitable match for a son of the Duke of Rienzi; and on the priest's head would, in a sense, lie the blame if she became the wife of Prince Vanno. Altogether, the curé had been inclined to think that the saints had perhaps had a hand in sending him twice to call when Miss Grant was not visible. Now, however, he took himself to task. He had been careless. He had considered his own selfish feelings too much in this matter. If the Principino had taken to gambling (a vice he had once sneered at as a refuge for the destitute in intellect) there must have been some extraordinary incentive. The curé was sure of this; and granting it without mental argument, he set himself to the task of deduction. "One would say I flattered myself by thinking that I had been born a detective!" he remarked aloud to his favourite rose-bush, when Luciola had emptied her news-bag for him, in the garden. "Me, a detective? Heaven forbid! Yet at the same time, if I have brain-power to be of service to my Principino, the saints give me wit to use it." Then he thought very hard, sitting in his arbour, on the wooden seat which gave a view over the whole coast, with its mountains whose feet were promontories. Half amused, half alarmed lest the pretence were sin, he tried to put himself in Vanno's place; and so doing it was borne in upon his mind that something of importance must have happened between the Prince and Miss Grant. She had been gambling all the while, though Vanno had not at first gambled: but if they had met--if there had been a scene which had driven the Prince to desperation--might that not explain the change? Had she definitely proved herself unworthy, or had Vanno openly done her some injustice, which had wrought bitterness for both? In any case, the curé decided that he had been mistaken in the designs of Providence for himself. After all, perhaps it had been meant for him to meet Miss Grant, and he had been indifferent, had turned a deaf ear to the voice which bade him try again and yet again. He resolved to call upon the girl, not only once more, but many times if necessary, and when there was something to report, he would have an excuse to go and see Vanno. All this, indirectly through Nathalie Verando's walks with the white cows, in the olive woods of Cap Martin, and more directly through the tarnishing of a silver frame on an old photograph. XXII Eve Dauntrey was in the act of opening the door as the curé of Roquebrune put out his hand to touch the bell at the Villa Bella Vista. Somehow it was a shock to find herself face to face with a priest, on her own doorstep; and before she could quite control her nerves, she broke out with a brusque, "What do you want?" The curé looked calmly at her, his pleasant, sunburned face betraying none of the surprise he felt at such a reception. In his modest way he was a quick and keen observer, though he had never deliberately prided himself on being a judge of character. It seemed to him that the handsome, hard-eyed woman with the white face and scarlet lips was startled at the sight of his black cassock, as if she had done something which she would not like to have a priest find out. This made him spring to the conclusion that she had been brought up as a Catholic, but was one no longer. "I have called upon a lady who, I am told, is staying here," he explained politely in French. "Miss Grant." "Miss Grant?" Eve could not help showing that she was puzzled and not pleased. "Yes, Miss Grant is visiting me," she admitted. Then, with a sudden impulse which she could hardly have explained, quickly added: "Unfortunately she's out. Is there any message you would like to leave?" As she asked this question, Lady Dauntrey stared with almost ostentatious frankness straight into the curé's face, and her voice had lost its sharpness. She was dressed in purple velvet, and wore a large purple hat. The rich dark hue gave her light eyes a very curious colour, more green than gray; and as she stood on the doorstep, tall and somehow formidable, the curé thought that she looked Egyptian, an elemental creature who might have lived by the Nile when the Sphinx was new. The afternoon sunshine streamed into her eyes, and caused her pupils to shrink until they appeared to be no larger than black pinheads. Perhaps, the curé acknowledged to himself, it was only this that gave them a deceitful effect; nevertheless he felt suddenly sure that for some reason she was lying to him. He did not believe that Miss Grant was out. "This lady does not wish me to meet her guest," he told himself. But aloud he said that he regretted missing Miss Grant; and there was no message, thanks, except that the curé of Roquebrune had called again. He was making up his mind to a certain course, and stood aside politely, meaning to let Lady Dauntrey pass, and then follow her down the steps of her villa. What he would do after that was his own affair; for with those who are subtle it is permitted to be subtle in return. Lady Dauntrey, however, seemed unwilling to let him linger. Instead of passing him, she asked, "Are you coming my way?" "As you tell me, Madame, that Miss Grant is out, I will go on to the Church of Sainte Devote, which is not far away," the curé answered. "Oh!" The slight look of strain on Lady Dauntrey's face passed, as if her muscles relaxed. "Then we go in different directions. I am walking up the hill to Monte Carlo. Good afternoon. I will remember to give Miss Grant your message." They parted, but Lady Dauntrey turned her head twice, each time to see the curé's black-robed figure marching at a good pace away from the villa. Then she went on faster; and the importance of the incident began to fade from her mind. Not that it had ever had any real importance, she assured herself. Only, she hated priests as she would hate to see a raven fly over her head. They seemed somehow ominous; and she could not understand why a member of the interfering tribe wanted to see Miss Grant, unless to try and get her away into less worldly surroundings. Lady Dauntrey did not wish Mary to go; and she was glad she had acted on impulse, saying that the girl was out. It was lucky that she had met the priest, for had he arrived a minute sooner or a minute later, a servant would have told him that Miss Grant was in. Eve decided that she would forget to mention the curé of Roquebrune's visit. Having said that he would go to the Church of Sainte Devote, the curé conscientiously kept his word. Luckily the Villa Bella Vista was not far from the deep, dim ravine where the patron saint of Monaco was supposed to have drifted ashore in a boat, piloted by a sacred dove, and rowed by faithful followers after suffering martyrdom in Corsica. The curé was fond of the strange little church of sweet chimes, almost hidden between immense, concealing walls of rock; but to-day he merely paid his respects to the saint and quickly went his way again. Twenty minutes after parting from Lady Dauntrey, he rang the bell of her villa, and was told by an untidy servant that Miss Grant was at home. Mary was waiting in the house to receive Mrs. Winter, who had been persuaded by Carleton to overlook the girl's neglect, and to call once more, with him. Dick had asked Mary not to speak of the visit in advance to Lady Dauntrey, as his cousin wanted a chance for a talk, uninterrupted by the mistress of the villa; and Mary half guiltily, though with a certain pleasure, had consented. Instinctively she guessed that Eve would have taken the call for herself, and that Mrs. Winter would have found little time to chat with any one else. It was hateful to be hypercritical, Mary felt, yet she had begun to see that Lady Dauntrey was curiously jealous of her; that she did not like to see her talk with strangers, or alone even with other guests of the house. When the curé of Roquebrune was ushered in, Mary was expecting Dick to arrive with his cousin; but for the moment she was alone in the drawing-room which she had made less depressing by a generous gift of flowers. The alertness with which the girl sprang up, on his entrance, and the quick change of expression told the curé that she was expecting another visitor. "Could it be the Prince?" was the question which darted through his mind. But, no. There was neither disappointment nor relief on her face, only surprise. He argued in consequence that the visitor was not awaited with emotion. The servant who admitted the curé had not said that the occupant of the drawing-room was Miss Grant, but his first glance assured him of her identity. Yes, this must be the face, the eyes, which had appealed to all the romance in Vanno. Even the man whom conviction had dedicated body and soul to the religion of self-sacrifice had enough humanity mingling with his saintliness to feel the peculiar appeal of this gentle girl. She was not only a woman, she was Woman. Unconsciously she called, not to men, but to man, to all that was strong, to all that was chivalrous and desired to give protection. There was nothing modern about the type, the curé told himself, though it might be that this particular specimen of it had been trained to modern ideas. Such a woman would never struggle for her "rights." They would be flung at her feet as tribute, before she could ask, and quite without thought she would accept them. The curé would have laughed had he been accused of lurking tendencies toward romance, except perhaps in his love of gardens; yet he seemed to reflect the impressions of Vanno, to realize with almost startling keenness the special allurement Miss Grant had for the Prince; that remoteness from the ordinary which suggested the vanished loveliness of Greece with all its poetry; which would make an accompaniment of music seem appropriate to every movement, like the _leit motif_ for a woman in grand opera. "She is good and sweet," he said to himself, even before he spoke. "I seem to see her surrounded by a halo of purity." And he thought that a man who loved this girl could not forget, or love another woman. He did not lose sight of Vanno's position, or belittle it, in thinking it of small consequence compared to love: but he said, "This is a girl in a million. She is worthy of the highest place." And in an undertone something else was whispering in him, "I may have but a few minutes to do what I have come for." His spirit rose to the occasion. If the certain reward had been a cardinal's hat, he could not have determined more obstinately on success; perhaps he would not have strained toward the goal with the same energy, for rightly or wrongly the curé had no temporal ambition for himself. He loved his mountain flock, and had no wish to leave it. His garden was to him what a boxful of jewels is to some women. What he had to do in the next few minutes was to secure Vanno's happiness and the girl's; for it did not occur to him as possible that she had no love for Vanno. "I think," began Mary, "that you must be the curé of Roquebrune, and that it was you who came to see me at the hotel. It was very kind of you, and so kind to come again. I meant to have gone up to your church, but----" "I understand," he put in when she paused, showing embarrassment. "Still, I want you to come not only to my church, but to my garden. It will do you good. It is that which I have called to ask you to do. That, and one other thing." "One other thing?" Mary looked a little anxious. Now he would perhaps say that he had heard from the convent, that they knew where she was, and had begged him to admonish her. "Yes, one other thing. You will think I am abrupt in mentioning it, but you see, I must speak quickly, for at any moment I may be interrupted, and the thing is of great importance--to me, because it concerns one whom I love--he who first asked me to come and see you, Prince Vanno Della Robbia." "It was he who asked you?" The words burst from her. She had been pale; but suddenly the lilies of her face were turned to roses, as one flower may seem to be transformed into another, by the trick of an Indian fakir. "Yes. Because I am his old friend, and he wished that you and I might also be friends. That was before he had ever spoken one word to you, or you to him; but now, I feel sure, you have met?" Mary's flaming face paled and hardened. "What has he told you?" she asked sharply. "Nothing. I have not seen him for many days. But because I have not, and because of what I hear of him, I think you have met. I think, too, that perhaps you both made some mistakes about each other. I will not even beg you not to consider me impertinent or intrusive. It would insult your intelligence and your heart. I ask you, my child, to tell me whether or no I have guessed right?" "He made mistakes about me," she replied, almost sullenly. "I don't see how it's possible that I have made any about him." "It is not only possible but certain if you believe him capable of wronging you in thought or act. I know him. And I heard him speak of you. Any woman might thank heaven for inspiring such words from a man. I tell you this, I who am a priest: He loves you, and did love you from the moment he first set eyes upon your face." "I know," Mary answered simply, and with something of the humbleness of a child rebuked by high authority. "He said that to me. But--no, I can't tell you any more." "That 'but' has told me everything. You sent him away?" "Yes." "And I know him well enough to be sure that he has tried to see you again, to justify himself?" "He has written. I sent back the letter. And he has wanted to speak, but I have never let him. I thought it would be wrong." "Then, my poor child, did you think it less wrong to send him to his ruin?" "To his ruin--I?" "Because you believed him evil, you have roused evil in him, and driven him to evil. I wish to read you no moral lecture on gambling; but for him, for a man of his nature, it is a dangerous and powerful drug if taken to kill pain. I have come to ask you to save him, since I believe only you can do it." "I?" she echoed, bitterly. "But I am a gambler! There's gambler's blood in my veins. I was warned, and wouldn't listen. Now I know there's no use struggling, so I go on. How can I save any one from a thing I do myself--a thing I feel I shall keep on doing?" "Because he loves you, you can save him; and because you love him, too." She threw her head back, with the gesture of a fawn in flight. "Why should you say that?" "I say what I know. I read your heart. And it is right that you should love him." "No! For he insulted me." "You thought so. It was a deceiving thought. Let him prove it false. Come to my garden to-morrow, and I will bring him to you there. I would not say this unless I were sure of him. And I tell you again, his salvation is in you. You have driven him to the drug of forgetfulness. You owe it to his soul to give him justice. For the rest, let him plead." "Madame Veentaire and Meestaire Carleton," announced the shabby man-servant, blundering abruptly in, as if the door had broken away in front of him. The fire died out of the priest's face, but there was no sense of defeat in his eyes. His calm after excitement was communicated subtly to Mary, and enabled her to greet her new guests without confusion. The curé bowed with old-fashioned politeness, and with a slight fluttering of the voice Mary made him known to the chaplain's wife and Dick Carleton. "But we know each other already, Monsieur le Curé and I," exclaimed Rose, putting out her hand. She explained this to Mary with her bright, enthusiastic smile. "My husband and I take long walks together. One of our first was up to Roquebrune; and we went into the church--such a huge, important church for a little hill town! Monsieur le Curé was there, and we talked, and he showed us the picture under a curtain. How I do love pictures under curtains, don't you? They're so beautifully mysterious. And through a door there was a glimpse of fairyland. I couldn't believe it was real--I hardly believe so now, though Monsieur le Curé waved his wand and made us free of the place, as if it were a 'truly' garden. Have you been there yet, Miss Grant?" "I was just inviting her to come for the first time, to-morrow," said the curé. "Advise her to accept, Madame, for three o'clock." "Indeed I do!" Rose smiled from him to Mary. The curé moved forward, holding out his hand. He made it evident that this was goodbye. "Will you not take Madame's advice, and my invitation?" he asked, his good brown eyes warm and gentle. "Yes!" Mary answered impulsively, laying her hand in his. He clasped it, looking kindly into her face. "I am very glad. Thank you. I will meet you in the church," he said; no more; but Mary knew that he meant, "Thank you for trusting me." * * * * * * * "His Highness is out," was the answer at the Hôtel de Paris to the curé's inquiries. No, the Prince had left no word as to when he would come in. Often he was away for dinner, and sometimes did not return until late at night. "Eh bien! I will wait," said the curé with a sigh. He had determined to carry the thing through, and would not fail for lack of persistence. Vanno might be in any one of a dozen places, but the curé with his mind's eye saw the young man at the Casino. There he could not seek him even if he would, as a man in clerical dress would not be admitted. Resignedly the priest sat down in a retired corner of the hall, where he could watch those who came in by the revolving door. That he should be sitting in this home of gayety and fashion at Monte Carlo appealed to his sense of humour. "A bull in a china shop," he thought, "is in his element compared to poor Father Pietro Coromaldi in the hall of the Hôtel de Paris." At first he was half shyly diverted by the gay pageant around him, the coming and going of perfectly dressed men and women of many nations, who drank tea and ate little cakes, while the band played the sort of music which can have no mission save as an incentive to conversation. But time went on, and Vanno did not come. The curé tired of the people, most of whom he felt inclined to pity, as no real joy shone out of their eyes, even when they laughed. He thought the pretty, smiling young women were like attractive advertisements for tooth-pastes, and face-powders, and furs, and hats. They did not look to him like real people, living real, everyday lives; and Miss Grant, though perhaps she led just such an existence, seemed to belong to a different order of being. At last Lady Dauntrey, in her smart purple dress, came in with a tall, haggard man who had the eyes of a chained and starving dog. They joined a conspicuous party whose principal members were a fat woman massaged to the teeth, a dark girl who had evidently a sharp eye to the main chance as well as to the picturesque, and a hook-nosed, appallingly pompous man who would strut on the edge of the grave. "Those are the Holbeins," said a woman, who at that moment came with another to a seat near the curé's inconspicuous corner. "They represent the ideal vulgarity. Rich beyond the dreams of reasonable avarice! When the mother and father die, the girl's last tribute to their memory will be to order them bijou tombstones. And _they_ are the sort of people those wretched Dauntreys are driven to know!" The curé, catching a name made familiar to him earlier in the day, turned his head to glance at his neighbours, who were seating themselves at a small round table. At the same time one of the two women, the one who had not spoken, looked at him. Instant recognition flashed in the eyes of both. The lady bowed with distant politeness, and he returned the courtesy. She it was who had come to him at Roquebrune, one day weeks ago, asking for news of Prince Della Robbia, of whose acquaintance with him she was evidently informed. She was dressed more elaborately this afternoon. The curé had described her to Vanno as wearing a gray travelling dress. To-day she was in black, with a large velvet hat which set off her pale face, her pale eyes and hair, making her look striking and almost handsome; younger, too, than the curé had thought, though she had no air of girlishness. "Idina Bland" was the name Vanno had ejaculated, on hearing her description; and he had gone on to say that she was a distant relative, who had lived for some time in Rome and at Monte Della Robbia. Certainly Vanno's surprise at hearing of her presence on the Riviera, and her questions concerning the family, had not been of an agreeable nature. He had thought that she was in America, and evidently would not have been sorry if she had stayed there; yet any uneasiness he felt had not, apparently, been on his own behalf. Angelo's name had been mentioned, and then Vanno had rather abruptly turned to another subject. The curé blamed himself for curiosity, yet he could not help feeling curious concerning the young woman with eyes which he had described as like those of a statue. He wondered if she knew that the Prince was at the Hôtel de Paris, and if she had come there to see him; or if, perhaps, they had already met since he first mentioned her to Vanno. He wished that his small knowledge of English were larger, but though he spoke the language not at all, and understood only a little, he gathered here and there a word of the conversation. Idina Bland's companion was evidently telling her about the "celebrities"; therefore he deduced that she was better acquainted with the Riviera than was the younger woman. Now and then the curé caught the word "Annonciata," and he wondered if the pair were staying at the place of that name. He knew it well, the beautiful little pointed mountain above Mentone, with its deserted convent, its sad watching cypresses, its one hotel in a fragrant garden, and its famous view of the Corsican mirage. If Vanno's cousin lived in that hotel, which could be reached only by a funicular or a picturesque mule path, it looked as if she had a wish for retirement. The priest would have liked to know if she had been at the Annonciata ever since her visit to him. Prince Della Robbia had not mentioned her, on New Year's Day, but that was no sure argument of his ignorance. Miss Bland's presence might not seem of importance to him. The curé asked himself if it would be indiscreet to bring up the subject when he next saw Angelo. Any day, now, he might have a summons to lunch with the bride and bridegroom, and to bless their villa, which he had been requested to do as soon as they were settled. Almost involuntarily he kept alert, listening for the name of Della Robbia, but it was not uttered. The elder woman evidently enjoyed her position as cicerone, and at last her catalogue of celebrities so wearied the curé that he grew nervous. He turned to watch Lady Dauntrey, at a distance, trying to read her face and that of the melancholy man he took to be her husband. He did not like to think of Miss Grant--his Principino's Miss Grant--being at that woman's house. "We shall see what can be done," he said to himself, trying to enliven the long minutes of his waiting, minutes which seemed to grow longer and ever longer, like shadows at evening. By six o'clock the great hall and tea-room adjoining were nearly empty. The Dauntreys and the Holbeins had gone, and nearly all the pretty, chattering young women who were like advertisements in picture-papers. Still Miss Bland and her friend lingered over their tea and cakes, though they had ceased to eat or drink; and the curé could not help thinking that they had a special object in staying on. Eventually, however, they paid the hovering waiter, and slowly walked out, Idina Bland once again bending her head coldly to the priest. Night's darkness shut round the brilliant _Place_ of the Casino, like a blue wall surrounding a golden cube of light, and the curé would have a dark walk up the mule path. In order to come down that afternoon, he had given the service of vespers to a friend from Nice, who had just arrived for a short visit and a "rest cure"; still, he had expected to be back by this time. He began to feel oddly homesick and even unhappy in this hall which to his taste appeared garish. It seemed to him that he was a prisoner, and that he would be detained here forever. A childish yearning for his little parlour filled his heart. The waiters stared at him. But he sat very upright and unyielding on the chair which was made for lazy comfort. "I will stay," he said to himself, "if it must be, till after midnight. Those two shall be made to save one another. It is the only way. And there is no time to waste." At seven o'clock Vanno came in hastily, glancing at his watch. He walked so fast across the marble floor, with its islands of rugs, that he was at the foot of the stairway before the shorter-legged curé could intercept him; but at the sound of the familiar voice calling "Principino!" he turned, astonished. The curé thought that he looked weary, and older than on that first blue-and-gold morning on the mountain; but the weariness was chased away by a smile of welcome. "Why, Father, you here! This is an honour," Vanno said; but in his eyes there was the same shadow the curé had seen in Mary Grant's, the expectation of blame. Poor Vanno! He was resigning himself, his old friend saw, to a lecture. Perhaps he thought that Angelo, hearing of and disapproving certain stories, had begged the priest to come and scold him. "You look tired," Vanno added, as they shook hands. "So do you, my son," said the curé. "I am, rather. But----" He stopped, yet the older man guessed the end of the sentence. "You are dining out, and must get ready in a hurry." "I'm due at Angelo's at eight. I've plenty of time though. I shall take a taxi. I hope you haven't been waiting long?" "More than two hours. I would not go--even to oblige the waiters." "Two hours! Then----" "Yes. It was that, my Principino. I had to see you. I have come--to make you a reproach. You know why?" Vanno's face hardened slightly. "I can imagine. Who told you? Angelo?" "Who told me what?" The Prince shrugged his shoulders, then nodded slightly in the direction of the Casino, which, through the big windows of the hall, could be seen sparkling with light. "That I've taken to amusing myself--over there. But it's no use scolding, Father. It's very good of you to feel an interest in your old pupil, though whoever has been telling tales oughtn't to have put you to this trouble. I must 'dree my ain weird,' as the Scots have it. I can translate it only by saying that I must go to the devil in my own way." "I have not come to scold you for gambling, if that is what you mean," the curé said mildly. "Angelo has told me nothing. Nobody sent me to you. I have to reproach you for something quite different. I have seen Miss Grant, Principino. How you could suspect for a moment that there was anything but a pure soul behind those eyes, I cannot understand." Vanno grew pale. He was obliged to be silent for an instant, in defence of his self-control. "I know very little of women's eyes, and of their souls nothing at all," he answered, harshly. "So much the better, perhaps, because you can learn only good of the sex from Miss Grant's," said the curé. "She will let me learn no lesson from her--unless, that there is no forgiveness for one mistake." "That is because she cared so much that you hurt her cruelly. She did not tell me so, though we have spoken of you, but I saw how it was. There is no question of a mistake this time. And when you have talked together in my garden to-morrow afternoon, she will forgive and understand everything." "Is she going to your place?" "At three o'clock she will be there. You had better come a little earlier." "I shall not come at all," Vanno blazed out, with violence. "She believes already that I've persecuted her. I won't give her reason to think it." "Poor child, she is very unhappy," the curé sighed, meekly. "At least, it isn't I who have made her so." "Perhaps it is herself, and that is sadder--to have only herself to blame. You say you must be allowed to go to the devil in your own way. Well, you are a man. You do not want another man, even if he be a priest, to try and save you. But she needs a man to save her, a strong man who loves her well. She is drifting, without a rudder. She told me to-day--with such a look in her eyes!--that she has 'gambler's blood' in her veins. Only one thing can save her now, for she has got the idea in her head that she is the victim of Fate. The one thing is: an interest ten million times greater than gambling--Love." The blood rushed to Vanno's face. "I'm not fit----" he stammered. "The soul that's in you is fit to do God's work, for love is part of God. 'Thy soul must overflow, if thou another's soul would reach.' Now, my son, I won't keep you any longer. At two-thirty to-morrow in my garden." He did not remember until he was halfway up the mule path that he had meant to speak of Idina Bland. XXIII There came a moment when it seemed to Mary that she had promised to do an undignified thing, a thing which would make Vanno respect her less than ever. To go out deliberately to meet him, after all that had passed!--it was impossible. She must send a message to the curé saying that she could not come to his garden. She even began such a letter, late on the night after his call; but as she wrote, the good brown eyes of the priest seemed to look at her, saying, "I thank you for trusting me." Then she tore up the sheet of paper, and went on trusting him blindly. She slept better afterward than she had slept since Christmas, her first night in the Villa Bella Vista. Mary's habit was to go to the Casino every morning as soon as the doors opened, and she paid the artist whom she had met in the Paris train to seize a place for her, in the rush of early players. For doing this he received ten francs, which gave him two stakes at roulette, and sometimes enabled him to play for several hours before he was "cleaned out." She had lost a good deal by this time; all her original winnings, and had begun to fall back on her own capital, for her luck had never returned for more than a few hours together. A hateful sense of failure was upon her. She was feverishly anxious to get back her losses, not so much for the money's sake as for the pleasure of "beating the bank," as she had continually beaten it at first. Once, she had had the great white, good-natured animal under her feet, and people had looked at her with wondering admiration, as if she had been Una leading an obedient lion. Now the admiring looks, tributes to her lovely face and pretty clothes or jewels, were tempered with pity. The lion had Una in his mouth. There seemed to be no question in the public mind as to how he would eventually dispose of her. Mary felt the difference keenly. She could hardly submit to it. She wanted desperately to do something which, in every sense, would turn the tables. She risked huge sums in a wild hope that her courage might conquer luck, that again she might know the peculiar joy, the indescribable thrill of seeing the "bank" send for more money. Yet deep down within her a voice said that the moment would never come again; and she had no longer her old gay confidence in placing her stakes. The crowds had ceased to collect round her table, to watch the "wonderful Miss Grant." It is the sensational wins, where piles of gold and notes mount up, that people rush to gaze upon. They are not amused by seeing money monotonously swept off the tables, even in immense sums. It discourages and depresses them. Nobody likes to be discouraged and depressed; therefore Mary had lost her audiences. Still she played on, and listened to no advice. This morning, however, when she woke to remember her promise to the curé, she felt oddly disinclined to go to the Casino. Usually she wakened, after dozing fitfully, dreaming over again last night's worries, with an almost tremulous longing to be at the tables once more, a longing that seemed even more physical than mental, an aching of the nerves. Now the burning desire was suddenly assuaged, or forgotten in the powerful sway of a new thought, as illness can be forgotten in sudden fear or joy. The Casino appeared unimportant, trivial. All there was of her was already on the mountain, in the little garden which Rose Winter had said was like fairyland. Mary did not wish to be questioned by anybody in the house, however; so she went out at the usual hour, found her employé in the long queue of those who waited before the Casino doors, paid him, and said that he might keep the seat for himself. She then went to walk on the terrace, hoping that no one she knew might be there: and it seemed likely that she would have her wish, for most of her acquaintances were keen gamblers who considered a morning wasted outside the Casino. Mary walked to the eastern end of the terrace, where the _ascenseur_ comes up from the level of the railway station below. She remembered how she had heard the little boy give his musical cry, and how she had looked out of the train window, and his smile had decided her not to go on. If she had gone on, how different everything would have been, how much better perhaps; and yet--she could not be sorry to-day, as she was sometimes in bitter moments, that she had come to Monte Carlo. As she stood by the balustrade, looking away toward Italy, a voice she knew spoke behind her. She turned, and saw Hannaford, his hat off, his marred face pale in the sunshine. "Oh," she said impulsively, "I think you're the one person I could endure talking to just now!" Since the night of the ball on the yacht, when they had sat on the terrace in the moonlight, they had become good friends, she and Hannaford. She had no feeling of repulsion for him now. That was lost in pity, and forgotten in gratitude for the sympathy which made it possible to confide in him as she could in no one else. He stood entirely apart from other men, in her eyes, as he seemed to stand apart from life, and out of the sun. When she spoke to him of her troubles or hopes it was not, to her, as if she spoke to a man like other men, but to a sad spirit, who knew all the sadness her spirit could ever know. Often they had walked here together on the terrace, but it was usually in the afternoon, when Hannaford could persuade her out of the Casino for a few minutes, to "revive herself with a breath of fresh air," or to see the gold-and-crimson sunset glory behind the Rock of Hercules. Since Hannaford had won the money he wanted for the buying of his villa, he had kept his resolution not to play seriously; but he spent a good deal of time in the Casino, unobtrusively watching over Mary. He did not feel the slightest desire to play, he told Carleton, and other men who were amused or made curious by the sudden change in him. He had a "new interest in life," he explained; and every one took it for granted that he meant the villa, now his own. But he never said it was that which had made life better worth living for him. "If it's a question of bare endurance of me, I'll go," he answered Mary's greeting, "and leave you to walk by yourself." "No," she assured him. "I'd really like to have you. I thought I wanted to be alone. But I see now that being with you is better." Hannaford drew in a long breath of the exquisite air, and looked up into the sunshine as if for once he did not feel himself unfitted for the light. "Do you really mean that, I wonder?" he asked in a low voice. "Yes. I wouldn't say it if I didn't," Mary answered with complete frankness. "How do you happen to be here at this time of day?" "To tell the truth, I saw you go down the steps, and followed to ask the same question." "I came, because for some reason I have to be out of doors. I _couldn't_ go into the Rooms! I'd take a long walk, if I knew where to go." "Good. I'm glad to hear it. Will you let me guide you somewhere, and give you a surprise?" Mary looked undecided. "I'd like that. But I have an engagement this afternoon. Not in the Casino--or anywhere at Monte Carlo. It's up at Roquebrune. I have promised to go and see the--the curé's garden there." "I'll bring you back from my expedition in plenty of time, if that's all," said Hannaford. He did not urge, but Mary knew that he very much wanted her to say yes. "Will it be out of doors?" "All the time out of doors, except for a few minutes when you're looking at a curiosity. First we have to get to Mentone. I'll spin you over there in a taxi. Then we can walk to--to the surprise. I'm sure you've never been." "Is it to see your villa?" Mary asked, for he had suggested her going there some day. "No, for I wouldn't take you to my house alone. We're not very conventional, you and I, I'm afraid; but there must be a party for your first visit to my 'castle in Spain' transplanted into Italy. I'll give you, and any people you like to ask, a picnic luncheon over there. But to-day I want you to lunch with me alone somewhere." There was rather an odd ring in his voice, which made Mary look up quickly, but his face was calm, even stolid, as usual; and she thought that she had been mistaken. She put herself quietly into his care, feeling the comfort of perfect ease in his companionship. She could talk to him if she chose, or be silent. Whatever she liked, he too would like. Half an hour later the taxi which Hannaford had hired stopped at the bridge dedicated to the Empress of Austria, the bridge which marks the dividing line between the communes of Roquebrune and Mentone. Then the two walked along the sea front, where the spray spouted gold in the sun, and a salt tang was on the breeze. It was a different world, somehow, from the world of Monte Carlo, though it was made up of pleasure-seekers from many countries. There were smartly dressed women, pretty girls with tennis rackets, men in flannels, with Panama hats pulled over their tanned faces; men with fine, clear profiles, who had been soldiers; solemn judges on holiday; fat old couples who waddled from side to side, as if their legs were set on at the corners, like the legs of chairs and tables; thin, middle-aged ladies with long, flat feet which showed under short tweed skirts; ladies clothed as unalluringly as possible as if to apologize for belonging to the female sex; elderly gentlemen with superior, selfish expressions, and faces like ten thousand other elderly gentlemen who live in _pensions_, talk of their "well-connected" friends, and collect all the newspapers to brood over in corners, as dogs collect bones. There were invalids, too, in bath-chairs, and children playing with huge St. Bernards or Great Danes, and charming actresses from the Mentone Casino, with incredibly slim figures, immense ermine muffs, and miniature Japanese spaniels. Mary could see no reason why these people who promenaded and listened to the music should be different both individually and in mass from a crowd to be seen at Monte Carlo, yet the fact remained that they were different; and among the faces there were none she knew, save those of the bird-like girl and her mother, half forgotten since the meeting in the train. Hannaford took her by the Port, and past the old town whose heights towered picturesquely up and up, roof after roof, above the queer shops and pink and yellow houses of the sea level. Then came the East Bay, with its new villas and hotels, and background of hills silvered with olives; and at last, by a turn to the right which avoided the high road to Italy, they dipped into a rough path past a pebble floored stream, where pretty kneeling girls sang and scrubbed clothing on the stones. Two douaniers, one French, the other Italian, lounging on opposite sides of the little stream flowing down from the Gorge of St. Louis, told that this was the frontier. It was not the road to Italy that Mary knew, when once or twice she had motored over the high bridge flung across the dark Gorge of St. Louis on excursions to Bordighera and San Remo. Nevertheless they were in Italy, and a mysterious change had come over the landscape, the indefinable change that belongs to frontiers. The buildings were shabbier; yet, as if in generous pity for their poorness, roses and pink geraniums draped them in cataracts of bloom. Gardens were less well kept, yet somehow more poetic. The colour of the old plastered walls and pergolas was more beautiful here, because more faded, stained green with moss, and splashed with many flower-like tints born of age and weather. Always ahead, as Mary walked on with Hannaford, the high red wall of the Rochers Rouges glowed as if stained with blood where the sun struck it; and between the towering heights of rock and the turquoise sea he stopped her at an open-air restaurant roofed with palm leaves. There Hannaford ordered luncheon, at a table almost overhanging the water, and while the _bouillabaisse_ was being made, he took her to the cave of the prehistoric skeletons. Mary was interested, yet depressed. Life seemed such a little thing when she thought of all the lives that had passed in one unending procession of brief joys and tedious tragedies since those bones had been clothed with flesh and had caged hearts which beat as hotly as hers was beating now. "What does it matter," she said, "whether we are happy or not?" "Does it not matter to ourselves?" Hannaford answered, rather than asked. "Just at this moment, I'm not sure." "Does it matter more about making others happy?" "Perhaps. I should like to think that in my life I had made some others happy." "I'm going to tell you by and by," he said, "how you can make one other very happy. It's just a suggestion I have to offer. There may be nothing in it." He spoke rather dryly and perfunctorily, as he helped her down the stairs of the cave-dwellers' rock-house. Mary had a vague idea that he meant to interest her in a "sad case," as he had done once or twice before, when he thought she needed to be "taken out of herself." She expected to hear a tale of some poor girl who had "lost all," and must be redeemed from disaster by a helping hand lest worse things happen; and as he was evidently determined not to tell his story then, Mary waited without impatience. They were lunching early, and had finished before many people began to arrive dustily in carriages and automobiles. Hannaford had ordered his taxi at two o'clock, and there was no hurry. He told the Italian musicians to play softly, some simple old airs that he loved. Then, when Mary sat staring dreamily into the water, far down through clear green depths, he put his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands, and leaned across to her. "Of course you know," he said, "that I love you. Don't speak yet--and don't look at me, please. Keep your eyes on the water. I told you I had something to ask; but it's not for your love I'm asking. I know that no woman, not even with your kind and gentle heart, could love a man like me. But something has hurt you. I told you once before that I didn't want to hear what it was. Only I'm afraid you're not happy, and perhaps--if the hurt was in your heart--you may never be happy again in exactly the old way, as a young girl is when she is full of hope. We feel alike about a lot of things, you and I. We are good friends. At least, you look on me as your friend. And as for you, no man will ever be your friend, as you think of that word. I'm your friend to this extent, that you've given me back my interest in the world. I used to want to get out of it all, but I don't now, because you're in it. Anyhow, I don't want to go if you'll let me be of use to you--if you'll let me love you. Is it possible, dear, that you could think of marrying me--just in a friendly sort of way, you know, to have a protector, a man to look after you, and worship you, without any return except a little sympathy and kindness?" Not once had Mary looked up at him, after the first fluttering glance of surprise when he began. Even when Hannaford stopped, and waited, she still kept her eyes on the water; but he saw that her hand trembled on the balustrade, and that a little pulse beat in her throat. "I never thought!" she quavered, miserably. "I know that, very well. I wouldn't believe most women who made such an excuse, after being as kind to me as you have been--a man like me! I should have thought you knew, and that you were playing, as the boys play with the frogs. But I realized from the first that you weren't going to 'think,' unless I put thoughts into your head. I wouldn't ask such a thing of you if you were happy, but you're not happy. I don't believe you know what to do with your future. You're not interested in things, as you were when you first came--except in the Casino, and that can't go on forever. The sort of thing you're doing now eats a woman's soul away. Men can stand it longer than women. Almost anything else would be better for you. Even marrying me. Maybe you would take an interest in the place I've bought. It could be made so beautiful! You can't imagine the joy I've had in simply picturing you there." "I should love to come--to see it--but only as your friend," Mary said, stammering guiltily, as if she were doing wrong in refusing him. "Oh, I can't tell you how sorry, how sorry I am!" "You needn't be sorry," he answered. "I might have known what I wanted was too good to come true. I might have known I was beyond the pale. And I did know, in my heart. Only I had to find out, for sure. You mustn't mind. I wouldn't be without the memory of this day with you, anyhow--not for the world. It's good enough to live on for the rest of my life." "But--you speak as if we weren't to see each other any more," said Mary. "Can't we go on being friends?" "Yes. Wherever we are, we'll 'go on being friends.' But you may leave Monte. You probably will. And I--I shall be leaving too. Still, we'll 'go on being friends.' And the next favour I ask of you, if you possibly can, will you grant it?" "Indeed I will," Mary promised eagerly. "Ask me now." "Not yet. Not quite yet. The time hasn't come. But it will before long. Then you must remember." "I'll remember always." She stood up and held out her hand. He took it in his, and shook it heartily. His manner was so quiet, so commonplace, his face and voice so calm, that she could hardly believe that he really cared, that he really "minded much," as she put it to herself. Can a man shake hands like that with a woman, she wondered, if he is broken-hearted because she has refused him? "Now we must go," she said. "I--shouldn't like to be late for my appointment." "You shan't be late," he assured her, cheerfully. Then, just as they were moving away from the table, he stopped. "Will you give me one of those roses," he asked, "to keep for a souvenir?" Their waiter had adorned the little feast with a glass containing a few short-stemmed roses. Mary selected the prettiest, a white one just unfolding from the bud, and gave it to Captain Hannaford. So quickly that no one saw, he laid it against her faintly smiling lips, then hid it inside his coat. When the taxi had rushed up the upper Corniche and had taken the carriage road to Roquebrune, Mary said goodbye to Hannaford in the _Place_ under the great wall of the old castle. She guessed that, perhaps, he would have liked an invitation to go with her to the curé's garden, which he had never seen. But she did not give the invitation. She even lingered, so that he must have seen she wished him to drive away; and he took the hint, if it were a hint, at once. "Goodbye," he said, pleasantly. "Thank you a thousand times, for everything." "But it's I who have to thank you!" she protested. "If I could think you would ever feel like thanking me for anything, I should be glad." He released her hand, after pressing it once very hard; got into the taxi, gave the chauffeur the name of his hotel in the Condamine, and was whirled away. The last that Mary saw of him he was looking back, waving his hat as if he were saying goodbye for a long, long time. XXIV The big clock had just finished striking three when Mary entered the church of the old rock-town on the hill. She could feel the vibration of the last stroke, as if the heart of the church were beating heavily, in sympathy with her own. Coming into the dimness after the golden bath of sunlight outside was like being plunged into night. For an instant all was dark before Mary's eyes, as if she had been pushed forward with her face against a black curtain. The once familiar perfume of incense came pungently to her nostrils, sweet yet melancholy, like a gentle reproach for neglect. She seemed to be again in the convent chapel of St. Ursula-of-the-Lake. Every well-known feature of the place was sharply visible; she saw the carved screen of black oak; the faces of Reverend Mother and the sisters, white and ardent in the starlike light of tall wax candles; she heard the voices of women singing, crystal clear, sweet and sexless as the song of angels. The old oppression under which she had panted in the last days of her novitiate fell upon her again, like a weight. She felt that her soul was in a strait-jacket. Then, as she had often felt--and prayed not to feel--while the pure voices soared, the sensation of being shut up in a coffin came back to her. She was nailed into a coffin, lying straight and still under cool, faintly scented flowers; dead, yet not dead enough to rest. The terrible longing to burst the coffin lid and live--live--made her draw a deep, quick breath as of one choking, just as she had often struggled gaspingly back to realities after this obsession, while the singing went on in the dim chapel of the convent. It began, and was all over in a few seconds. By the time her eyes had grown used to the twilight the impression of old, past things was gone; and relieved, as if she had waked from a dream of prison, Mary took note of everything round her: the largeness of the church, the effect of bareness, the simple decorations of the altar. She dipped her finger in the holy water, and knelt to pray for a moment, wondering if she had the right: and when she rose from her knees, the curé stood before her. "Welcome, my daughter," he said. "I thought you were of the old faith. Now I am sure. Thank you for coming. I should like to give you my blessing before you go into the garden." Presently he pointed to the open door which framed a bright picture of sky, and flowers growing against a low green and gold background of orange and lemon trees. "Go out alone," he told her. "I have to stay here in church a while. Walk down the path to the wall, and look at the beautiful view. Then to the left you will see an arbour at the end of the garden. Wait there for me. I shall follow before you have time to grow impatient." He said nothing of Vanno, whom she had been brought there to meet, and to "save." Perhaps the Prince had not cared to come. This seemed very probable to Mary; yet the thought that he might be avoiding her did not stab the girl's heart with any sharp pang of shame or pain. A radiant peace had taken possession of her spirit, stealing into it unaware, as the perfume of lilies may take possession of the senses, before the lilies are seen. Though she felt gratitude and something almost like love for the curé, she was glad that he had sent her into his garden alone. The flowery knot pinned on the bare breast of mountain seemed even more to her than the "fairyland" Rose Winter had described. "Angel-land," she thought, as she saw how secret and hidden the bright spot was on its high jutting point of rock, with its guardian wall of towering, ivied ruin on one side, and the tall pale church on another. She felt that here was a place in which she might find herself again, the self that had got lost in the dark, somewhere far, far below this height. She stood by the low wall which kept the garden from the precipice; and when she had looked eastward to Italy, and westward where the prostrate giant of the Tête de Chien mourns over Monaco, she turned toward the arbour in which the curé had told her to wait. Most of the big gold and copper grape-leaves had fallen now, but some were left, crisped by frost until they seemed to have been cut from thin sheets of metal; and over the mass of knotted branches rained a torrent of freshly opened roses. They and their foliage made a thick screen, and Mary could not see the inside of the arbour; but as she reached the entrance Vanno stood just within, waiting for her, very pale, but with a light on his face other than the sunlight which streamed over him. Then Mary knew that something, more intimately herself than was her reasoning mind, had expected him, and had never believed that he would refuse to come. He held out both hands, without a word; and without a word she gave him hers. He lifted them to his lips, and kissed first one, then the other. Still keeping her hands fast, he drew them down so that her arms were held straight at her sides. Standing thus, they looked into each other's eyes, and the glory of the sun reflected back from Vanno's almost dazzled Mary. Never in her life had she known happiness like this. She felt that such a moment was worth being born for, even if there were no after joy in a long gray existence; and the truth of what she had many times read without believing, pierced to her heart, like a bright beam from heaven: the truth that love is the one thing on earth which God meant to last forever. "Will you forgive me?" Vanno asked, his eyes holding hers. "Yes," she said. "And will you forgive me, for not forgiving you?" "How could you forgive me, when you thought of me as you did? But you know now that you thought wrong." "Yes. I know. Though I don't know how I know." "And I know you to be _yourself_. That means everything. I can't say it in any other way. Because it was your real self I knew at Marseilles--the self I've known always, and waited for, and am unworthy of at last." "Don't call yourself unworthy." "I won't talk about that part at all--not yet. I love you--love you! and--God! how I need you." "And I----" "You love me?" He loosed her hands, and catching her up, lifted her off her feet, her slight body crushed against his, her head pressed back; and so he kissed her on the mouth, a long, long kiss that did away with any need of explanation or forgiveness. There was no returning afterward to the old selves again, they both knew before their lips had parted. It was as if they two had climbed to the top of a high tower together, and a door had been shut and locked behind them. By and by he made her sit on the wooden seat under the rose canopy; and going down on one knee, he took up a fold of her dress and kissed it. No man but one of Latin blood could have done this and kept his dignity; but as he did the thing it was beautiful, even sacred to Mary, as if he knelt to pour balm on the wound that once he had given her. Though his lips touched only her dress, the very hem of it, she felt the thrill of the touch, as she had felt his kiss on her mouth. This was her lover, and her knight. She half feared, half adored the thought that from this moment she had granted him rights; that a man loved her, and had kissed her, and that she had confessed to loving him. It was so different from anything which she had dreamed could come to her that she could hardly believe it was happening: for when she had left the convent she was still a nun in her outlook upon life. Yet now this bowed dark head, and the rim of brown throat between the short, thick hair and the stiff white collar, looked somehow familiar, as if the man who knelt there had always been hers. So dear was the head, so boyish in its humility, that ridiculous tears rushed smarting to her eyes. She wanted to laugh and to cry. Where his lips had touched her dress, she almost expected to see a spark of light clinging, like a fallen star. When he looked up and saw the tears, still kneeling he put his arms around her, and slowly drew her to him. Then her hands stole out to clasp his neck, her fingers interlacing, and she let her cheek lie softly against his. His face was hot as if the sun had scorched it, and she could feel a little pulse beating in his temple. There was a faint suggestion rather than a fragrance of tobacco smoke about his hair and his clothes, which made her want to laugh with a delightful, childish sense of amusement that mingled with the thrill of her love for him. "You always belonged to me, you know," he said. "What time I have wasted, not finding you before! But I knew you existed. I knew always that I should meet you some day. And then I nearly lost you--but we won't talk of that, because you have forgiven me: and forgiving means forgetting, doesn't it?" She answered only by pressing her face more closely against his. "But there are other things for you to forgive," he went on. "I used to think I was very strong, not only in my body but in my will. Now I see that I can be weak. Can you love a man who does things he knows to be beneath him? I have made a fool of myself in the Casino--a fool like the rest. I began because I was miserable, but----" "Was it I who made you miserable?" "Yes. But that is no excuse for me. I deserved it all and more: I'd hurt you. And afterward, I went on being a fool, because--it gave me a kind of pleasure, when I'd lost pleasure in other things. It's the weakness of it that I hate in myself, not so much the thing I did. A woman should have a man's strength to lean on, if she is to love him. Weakness is unpardonable in a man. Yet I'm asking you to forgive it, and let me begin over again." "I love you as you are," Mary said. "What am I, to judge? What have I myself been doing?" "You are a girl; and you are so young. You knew no better. I knew. You were led on. I walked into the trap with my eyes open." "I was warned. My father just before he died wrote me a letter saying there was 'gambler's blood' in my veins. Those words always run in my head now. And a friend who loves me begged me not to come to Monte Carlo." "It was Fate brought you--to give you to me. Do you regret it?" "I don't regret anything--if you don't; because what is past--for both of us--doesn't feel real. This is the only real part. We were brought to Monte Carlo for this, it seems now." "It seems, and it is." They looked with one accord down at the Casino far below, which from the curé's garden had more than ever the semblance of a large, crouching animal. Its four horns glittered in the beginning of sunset, as if they were crusted with jewels of different colours. Its dominance over all that surrounded it, all that was smaller and less powerful and impressive than itself, was astonishingly evident from this bird's-eye point of view; but brightly as the jewels gleamed, they had lost their allurement for these two. With Vanno's arms around her, Mary wondered how she could ever have felt that the Casino was a vast magnet compelling her to come to it in spite of herself, drawing her thoughts and her money to itself, as an immense magnetic rock might draw the nails from the sides of a frail little boat. With Mary's fingers warm and soft as rose-petals against his neck, her cheek on his, Vanno could have laughed with contemptuous pity at the wretched image of himself which he seemed to see down below, stupidly hurrying along with an offering for the Casino. He was not so much shocked at his own yielding to the attraction as he was surprised that there could have been so strong an attraction. "Doesn't it look stupid down there?" Mary asked, almost in a whisper. "Like a lot of toy houses for children to play with?" "And the children are tired of playing with them!" Vanno answered. "The toys there were only worth playing with when there was nothing better to do." "That's it!" she echoed. "When there was nothing better to do. I think that was what the curé must have meant." "The curé!" Vanno echoed. "I'd forgotten him!" "So had I. How ungrateful of us. But you have made me forget everything except--_you_." She rose slowly, reluctantly, and then pretended to exert her strength in lifting him up from his knees. "The curé stayed away on purpose," she said. "Yes. For he meant this to happen--just as it has." Mary smiled, half closing her eyes, so that the world swam before her in a radiant mist. She was less afraid of love and the man who gave and took it, now. Already it seemed that Vanno and she had always been lovers, not sad, parted lovers, but happy playmates in a world made for them. There could not have been a time when they did not understand each other. Everything before this day had been a dream. "Do you know," she said, "why I came here--I mean, why the curé asked me? He told me that I must come and 'save' you. As if I could! It was I who needed saving." [Illustration: "'IT WAS FATE BROUGHT YOU--TO GIVE YOU TO ME. DO YOU REGRET IT?'"] "He knew," Vanno answered, speaking more to himself than to her, "that we should save each other." As he spoke, a foot ostentatiously rattled the gravel of the path, at a safe distance. The curé coughed, and coughed again. A serious catching in the throat he seemed to have, for a man who lived in the fresh air and laughed at the notion of a "sunset chill." Vanno took Mary's hand and kept it in his as he led her out of the arbour. "This is what your blessing has done, Father," he said. Then, the curé must have blessed him, too! The priest smiled his good smile as he came toward them, the sky flaming behind his black-clad figure, like banners waving. "I thought. I hoped. No, I knew!" And he smiled contentedly. "The stars have ceased to desire the moth, a well-known phenomenon which often upsets the solar system. The moth has lost its attraction. The stars have found each other." "We have found each other," Mary said, "and I believe--I believe that we have found ourselves, our real selves." "You have found yourselves and each other," echoed the curé, "which means that you have found God. I have no more fear"--and he waved a hand toward the towered building down below, set on fire by the sun--"no more fear of the moth." XXV They stayed on, after their friend had come to them; and all three sat together in the arbour, while the shadows hewed quarries of sapphire deep into the side of the mountains; and in the violet rain of twilight everything on land and water that was white seemed to become magically alive: the fishing boats turned to winged sea birds: the little waves were lilied with foam blossoms: the sky became a garden of stars. When Mary first went to live at the convent, an impressionable child of eight, one of the nuns told her that the stars were spirits of children in heaven's nursery, sent out to play in the sky, that their mothers might see them and be glad: and the moon was their nurse. She repeated the legend to Vanno and the curé, and said that she had been brought up from childhood in a convent school, because she had lost her mother, and her father had gone away to India; but she did not say that she had taken the first steps toward becoming a nun. She wanted Vanno to hear this first, when they were alone together. Not that she feared the knowledge might endanger his love for her. In this immortal hour it seemed that nothing could ever again come between them. "That accounts for what she is, does it not?" the curé exclaimed, turning to Vanno with the joy of the discoverer. "A convent school! Now, my son, what puzzled you in her is made clear. I, at least, might have guessed. A girl brought up by a band of good and innocent cloistered women must always be different from other girls. She should not be let out to wander alone in the world without guardians, as this child has been; for without a guide a few mistakes at the beginning are certain. Now, she has made all the mistakes she need ever make; and she is no longer alone." "Never again!" Vanno said fervently, pressing her hand under the blue cover of dusk. It did not occur to Mary that they both took her for a much younger girl than she really was. She had lived so entirely under the jurisdiction of those older than herself that in many ways she had remained a child. And she had begun by feeling still younger than before, after suddenly blossoming into independence. It was only since the night of Christmas, when the frost of unhappiness nipped the newly unfolded petals, that the flower had begun to droop. Now that dark time was already forgotten. She could hardly realize that it had ever been. In the joy of Vanno's love for her, and his old friend's fatherly kindness, she basked in the contentment of being understood, loved, taken care of; and she knew that she was a woman, not a child, only by the capacity to love a man as a woman loves. If she had said, "But I am nearly twenty-five," the two men would have realized at once that her school days must have ended long ago, even if prolonged beyond the usual time; and they would have asked themselves, if they had not asked her, where she had spent the years between then and now, in order to account for that ignorance of the world which to them explained and excused everything she had done at Monte Carlo. But it did not enter Mary's mind to mention her age. "Upon some natures such teaching might not have made the same impression, of course," the curé went on, thoughtfully. "This dear child, it seems to me, has a very--how shall I express it?--a very old-fashioned nature. Nothing, I believe, could ever have turned her into one of those hard modern girls they are running up now like buildings made of concrete on steel frames. But the convent teaching has accentuated all in her that was already what I call 'old-fashioned.' And you, too, my Principino, you are old-fashioned!" "I?" exclaimed Vanno, surprised. "Yes. You will suit each other well, you two, I prophesy. You have an old-fashioned nature: but do not think when I say that, I place you on a shelf at the back of the world's cupboard. All Romans, all Italian men, are old-fashioned at heart--and it is the heart that counts, though we do not always know it; and most of us would not like others to know it of ourselves. You have been much in the East, Principino, and you have learned to love the desert; but you would not have loved it as you do were it not for the spirit of romance which keeps you old-fashioned under a very thin veneer of what is modern. I saw this in you when you were a boy and my pupil; and I must say it made me love you the better. It is perhaps the secret which draws the love of others toward you, without their knowing why, though it has caused life to jar on you often, no doubt, and may again. You would not, perhaps, have fallen into the mistake by which you hurt yourself and this dear child if you had not been old-fashioned. Don't you see that?" "I suppose it is old-fashioned to have an ideal," Vanno admitted, laughing a little. "Yes. And most old-fashioned of all, even I can see, are your ideas of women. So it is well you have fallen in love with one who is not modern." "I know she is the Only Woman. But I grant that I may have picked up some Eastern ideas of what a woman's life ought to be. I must get rid of them, I suppose." "You didn't 'pick those ideas up,' my son. They were in your blood. All the same, you may get rid of a few--a very few--with advantage. And safely too, because you are going to have an old-fashioned girl for your wife." "I'm going to have her very soon, I hope," Vanno added, in a different tone. Mary spoke not a word; and he did not press her then for an answer. But when the sudden darkness of the southern evening had warned them that it was time to go, he began in the same strain again, after they had left the tunnelled streets of the rock-village. It was so dark that Vanno had the excuse of saving Mary a stumble on the rough cobblestones, as they went slowly down the mule path. He held her tightly, his arm around her waist. She walked bareheaded, trailing her hat in her hand; and the warm perfume of her hair came to him like the scent of some hitherto unknown flower, sweeter than any other fragrance that the evening dew distilled. "I want you to be my wife very soon," he said. "I must have you. And if you're as old-fashioned as the curé thinks, you won't say no to me when I tell you that. Shall he marry us?" "Oh--that would mean it must be _dreadfully_ soon!" "Is there a 'dreadfully?' But--there's one thing, dearest, that I almost forgot. I must write to my father. Not that anything he could say would make any difference now; only I want him to love you, and our marriage to bring him happiness, not pain, even in the thought of it before he sees you. My brother Angelo has married lately, and he didn't let our father know till just before the thing was done. Perhaps it was not his fault. I can't tell as to that: there must have been a strong reason. But our father was deeply hurt; and it would be even worse with me, for he makes it no secret that I'm his favourite son. I believe I'm more like my mother than Angelo is. She was an Irish-American girl, and my father adored her: though sometimes I wonder if he knew how to show his love. Anyhow, she died young, and he's been almost a recluse ever since. I'll write him at once--and I may even go to see him, though I can hardly bear to think of leaving you long enough for that. Still, it needn't be for more than three or four days and nights. I could go and come back in that time. I'll see! But if I do go, it must be to tell him we're to be married at once, from my brother's house." "Your brother's house?" Mary repeated. "Yes. Angelo has taken a villa at Cap Martin for the season. Perhaps you've seen it. He and my new sister-in-law went to Ireland to visit relatives of my mother, and to England afterward. They've been married more than two months; but I saw my sister-in-law for the first time on New Year's eve, the day they arrived. She's English, though she has lived mostly in southern Germany, I believe. She's an artist--does portraits beautifully, I hear, and was much admired in Rome, where she had come to paint, when my brother met her. I know very little of her except that she's pretty and charming--if any woman who is not _you_ can be either. I'm sorry for all the men in the world, poor wretches, because there's only one you, and I've got you for mine, and I shall let them see as little of you as possible." "That really _is_ old-fashioned!" Mary laughed. "Do you mind? Do you want to see them?" "Not particularly. Because you have begun to make me feel the others aren't worth seeing." "Angel!" They both laughed, and Vanno was entranced when her heel slipped on a stone, and he could clasp her so tightly as to feel the yielding of her body against his arm. He would have liked to sing, the night was so wonderful, and all nature seemed to be singing. Distant bells chimed, silver sweet; frogs in hidden garden pools harped like bands of fairy musicians; and from everywhere came the whisper and gurgle of running water: springs from the mountains, pouring through underground canals to houses of peasants, who bought water rights by the hour. As the two walked down the many windings of the mule path they met labourers coming up from the day's work in the country of the rich, far below. Some of the young men, clattering along in groups, joined in singing the strange tuneless songs, memories of Saracen days, which Vanno had heard on his first mountain walk. The old men did not sing. They climbed stolidly, with heads and shoulders bent, yet not as if discouraged by the thought of the long, steep way before them before they could rest at home. They had the air of taking life as it was, entirely for granted. The darkness was bleached with a sheen of stars, and the pulsing beams that shot across the sky from the lighthouses of Cap Ferrat and Antibes. Here and there, too, an electric lamp dangled from a wire over the mule path, and revealed a flash of white teeth in a dark face or struck a glint from a pair of deep Italian eyes. But they were the eyes and the teeth of young men, or of girls climbing with baskets of washing on their heads. The old men looked down, watching their own footsteps; and their stooping figures were vague and shadowy as ships that pass in the night, not to be recognized if seen again by daylight. Now and then a little old woman stumbled up the path, driving a donkey which tripped daintily along in silent primness, under a load of fresh-cut olive branches. The sound of the tiny feet on the stones and the swish of olive leaves against the wall added to the poetry of the night for Vanno, though he reflected that it was all commonplace enough to the donkeys and the women, who were as important as he in the scheme of things. After all, it was but a question of thinking! Boys coming up from some late errand, played at being soldiers, and sprang out at each other from behind jutting corners of rock, imitating the firing of guns, or uttering explosive cries. Vanno felt a great kindness for all the world, and especially for these people who--almost all of them--had the blood of Italy in their veins. He remembered the curé's saying with a smile that even now, if all Italians were banished from the French coast between Cannes and Mentone, the Riviera would be emptied of more than half its inhabitants; and it gave him a warm feeling in his heart to be surrounded by people of his own blood, at this moment of his great happiness. He would have liked to give these men something to make them happy also, for he knew that they were poor, and that those who were most fortunate were those who worked hardest. Each shadowy figure, as it passed on its way up the mountain, gave out a faint odour, not disagreeable or dirty, but slightly pungent, and like the smell of iron filings: what Tolstoi called "the good smell of peasants." The fire which had enveloped all Monte Carlo at sunset had burnt out long ago, but in the west a faint red-brown glow smouldered, as if a smoky torch had been trailed along the horizon. Monte Carlo and the Rock of Monaco rose out of the steel-bright sea like one immense jewel-box, or a huge purple velvet pincushion, stuck full of diamond and topaz headed pins, with here and there a ruby or an emerald. These lights, reflected in the water, trailed down into mysterious depths, like illuminated roots of magic flowers; and the bright shimmer spreading out over the moving ripples lay on the surface like glittering chain-armour. Although they had the blaze of these amazing jewels always before their eyes, somehow in talking Mary and Vanno contrived to lose the way, descending to the high road nearer Cap Martin than Monte Carlo. It was six o'clock, and a long tramp home along the level, in the dust thrown up by motors and the trotting hoofs of horses, but in the distance a tram car coming from Mentone sent out a shower of electric sparks, like fireflies crushed to death between iron wheels and iron track. As the car advanced, Vanno stepped out into the road and hailed it. No _arrêt_ was near, but the driver stopped, with an obliging, French-Italian smile, and the two young people almost hurled themselves into empty seats at the first-class end of the tram. Faces which had been inclined to frown at the illegal delay, even of six seconds, smoothed into good nature at sight of the handsome couple. Every one at once took it for granted that they were lovers. Mary's hair, ruffled by the hasty putting on of her hat, without a mirror, told the story of a stolen kiss to German eyes swimming with sentiment and romance--eyes which to an unappreciative world appeared incapable of either. Most of the eyes in this first-class compartment were German eyes, and some of the faces out of which they looked were round and uninteresting; but not all. German was the language being loudly talked across the car, from one seat to another; and a German mandate had caused all the windows and ventilators to be shut, in fear of that fatal thing, "a draught." English people sitting stiffly in corners, boiling with the desire to protest yet too reserved and proud to "risk a row," raged internally with the belief that their German neighbours were coarse, food-loving, pushing, selfish creatures who cared nothing for the beauty of the Riviera, and came only because of the cheap round trip, and the hope of winning a few five-franc pieces. The real truth was very different. The "pushing creatures" were selfish only because they were not self-conscious. They were as perfectly happy as children. They raved loudly in ecstasy over the beauty of everything, and were blissfully ignorant that it was possible for any one to despise or hate them. Frankly they admired Vanno and Mary, staring in the unblinking, unashamed, beaming way that children have of regarding what interests them; and their kind, unsnobbish hearts went out to the young couple as no English hearts in the car went out. Two persons sitting together at the other end, but on the same side as the newcomers, could not see what the pair were like, without bending forward and stretching out their necks. One of these, fired by the intense interest displayed on German faces, could not resist the temptation to be curious. She peered round the corner of a large, well-filled overcoat from Berlin, and saw Mary and Vanno smiling at each other, as oblivious of all observers as though they had the tram to themselves. "You must take a peep, St. George," she said in her husband's ear, that she might be heard over the noise of the tram, without roaring. "It's that beautiful Miss Grant I told you about; and she's with the Roman Prince who invented the parachute Rongier used in the Nice 'flying week.' They are certainly in love with each other! They couldn't look as they do if they weren't. Perhaps they're engaged. Poor Dick! All his trouble for nothing." "Why poor Dick?" inquired the Reverend George Winter. "Oh, my dear Saint, don't put on your long-distance manner, and forget everything that hasn't a direct connection with heaven. But these two quite look as if they'd just been up there by special aeroplane. Don't you remember my telling you, Dick's awfully in love with this girl, and took me to see her again yesterday, though she never returned my first call? But I was glad I went, because she was really sweet and charming, and I hated to think of her living in that deadly villa." "Yes, I remember distinctly," said Winter, with a twinkle of humour in the eyes which seemed always to see things that no one else could see. "You told me when I was in the midst of writing a sermon, and had got to a particularly knotty point; so I tangled Dick and his love affairs into the knot, while trying to put them out of my mind. I'm afraid they didn't do my sermon much good. And beautiful as Miss Grant may be, I won't dislocate my neck to look at her in a tram. I advise you not to do so, either. Set our German friends a good example." "Why is it the best of people always advise you not to do all the things you want to do, and vice versa?" observed Rose, pleased with her success in catching Mary's eye. They bowed to each other, smiling warmly. Vanno took off his hat, and Rose thought him exactly what a prince ought to be and generally is not. "That's the wife of the English chaplain at Monte Carlo," Mary informed Vanno, in a stage whisper, "She's an American. She called on me yesterday; and only think, though she'd never seen me before, she said she would like me to visit her." "Did you accept?" Vanno asked. Mary shook her head. "No. It would have hurt Lady Dauntrey's feelings, perhaps. And besides, yesterday I--I thought of going away soon, to Italy--to Florence. I was travelling to Florence when suddenly it occurred to me to get off at Monte Carlo instead. Oh, how thankful I am now! Think, if we had never met?" "We should have met. I was following you from Marseilles, you know, and watching to see where you got off. What can your people have been made of, letting you run about alone--a girl like you?" "Oh, but I have no people--who count. Only such a disagreeable aunt and her daughter! I haven't written to them since I came here. I telegraphed, and gave no address. I shall not write--until--until----" "I know what you mean, though you won't say it. 'Until we are married.' You need not, unless you like, for they must have been brutes of women to have been disagreeable to you. But I wish you would stay with this lady--the chaplain's wife. Or else with my sister-in-law. I shall go to see her and Angelo to-morrow morning, and tell them about you. I'll ask them to call at once, and then--I feel almost sure--Marie will invite you to visit her. Would you accept? For that would be best of all. And in any case we must be married from their house." "Marie!" Mary echoed the name, her voice dwelling upon it caressingly. "Marie! That was the name of my--not my best, but my second best friend at school. We were three Maries. It will be good of your Marie to call on me; but she is a bride, and it's still her honeymoon. Do you think, if we--that is----" Vanno laughed. "If you put it in that way, I don't. No, if _we_ were on our honeymoon I couldn't tolerate a third, if it were an angel. But it seems as if every one must want you." "Hush! People will hear you." Just then a party of three Englishwomen rose, and descended from the tram to go to a villa in the Avenue de la Vigie. This exodus left a vacancy opposite the Winters. "Shall we move over there, before the tram gets going too fast?" Mary suggested. "I feel Mrs. Winter would like to talk to us." Vanno agreed. He was anxious for the invitation to be renewed. And in a few moments after they had begun talking to the Winters across the narrow aisle, his wish was granted. Rose told her husband that she had asked Mary to stay with them, and ordered him to urge the suggestion. "You see," Rose confided to her opposite neighbours, leaning far forward, her elbows on her knees, "I always try to have some perfectly charming person in our one little spare room, while the 'high season' is on, or else the most terrible bores beg us to take them in. People like that seem to think you have a house or an apartment on the Riviera for the sole purpose of putting them up for a fortnight or so. It's positively weakening! We've just got rid of an appalling young man, whom my husband asked out of sheer pity: a schoolmaster, who'd come here for his health and inadvertently turned gambler. At first he won. He used to haunt my tea-parties, which, as we're idiotically good-natured, are often half made up of criminals and frumps. Extraordinarily congenial they are, too! The criminals are flattered to meet the frumps, and the frumps find the criminals thrilling. This was one of our male frumps: like an owl, with négligé eyebrows, and quite mad, round eyes behind convex glasses. He used to shed gold plaques out of his clothes on to my floor, because whenever he won he was in the habit of tucking the piece down his collar lest he should be tempted to risk it on the tables again. But at last there were no more gold pieces to shed, and his eyes got madder and rounder. And then St. George invited him to stay with us, in order that I might reform him. I did try, for I _was_ sorry for the creature: he seemed so like one of one's own pet weaknesses, come alive. But after he threatened to take poison at the luncheon table, my husband thought it too hard on my nerves. I began to get so thin that my veils didn't fit; and George sent the man home to his mother, at our expense. At the present moment a soldier boy on leave--a Casino pet, whom all the ladies love and lend money to, and give good advice to, and even the croupiers are quite silly about, though he roars at them when he loses--is hinting to visit us, so that I may undertake the saving of his soul, and incidentally what money he has left. But he carries a nice new revolver, and shows it to the prettiest ladies when they are sympathizing the most earnestly. And he has _no_ mother to whom we can send him, if he attempts to add his pistol to our luncheon menu. Do, do save us from the Casino pet, dear Miss Grant. I've been holding an awful aunt of George's over the young man's head, saying she may arrive at any minute. But you know how things you fib about do have a way of happening, as a punishment, and I feel she may drop down on us if the room isn't occupied." They all laughed, even the chaplain, whom Mrs. Winter evidently delighted in trying to shock. "I should like Miss Grant to be with you," Vanno said; and this--if she had not guessed already--would have been enough, Rose thought, "to give the show away." "I should like her to go to you at once, since you are so kind." "Kind to ourselves!" Rose smiled. "Will you come, Miss Grant?" Mary hesitated. "I should love it, but--I hate to be rude to poor Lady Dauntrey." "If I hadn't dedicated my life to a member of the clergy, I know what I should want to say about Lady Dauntrey," Rose remarked, looking wicked. "Can't you, Prince--well, not _say_ it, but do something to rescue Miss Grant, without damage to any one's feelings?" "I mean to," Vanno answered. "I wanted her to visit my brother and sister-in-law, but--they're on their honeymoon, and----" "I see," Rose interpolated. She did not volunteer the information that her own honeymoon was but just ended. Evidently it was to be taken quietly for granted that these two were engaged. She guessed that Prince Vanno had hinted at the truth in order that she should not misconstrue Mary's actions. He was almost forcing their relationship upon her notice, and her husband's notice, as if to justify his being with the girl unchaperoned. "Not that we should have minded," Rose said to herself. "There's no room in St. George's 'thought-bag' for any bad thoughts, it's so cram full of good ones. And he's taught me how horrid it is, always rehearsing the judgment day for one's friends." She threw a warm-hearted glance at her husband, valuing his kindly qualities the more because they two had just come from a tea-party, at a villa where the alternative to bridge had been telling the whole truth about people behind their backs, and digging up Pasts by the roots, as children unearth plants to see if they have grown. Luckily St. George had remained in blissful ignorance of the latter popular game. People showed only their best side to him, and made good resolutions about the other, while his influence was upon them. "As for us," Rose went on, "we're quite a staid married couple, and I feel I'm intended by nature for the ideal chaperon--for a blonde like Miss Grant. We shall look charming together, and though we mayn't make her comfortable, I guarantee to amuse her; for as a household we are unique. We live in an ugly, square apartment house--a kind of quadrupedifice--and our cook is in love, consequently her omelettes are like antimacassars; but I have a chafing-dish, and the most wonderful maid, and our tea-parties are famous--honey-combed with countesses and curates, to say nothing of curiosities. And my husband, though a clergyman, lets me go to all the lovely concerts where the dear conductor grabs up music by the handful and throws it in the faces of his orchestra. The only thing beginning with a C, which Miss Grant will have to miss with us, is--the Casino." "I shan't miss that!" Mary exclaimed; then flushed brightly. "Does that mean you will come?" "Yes. It does mean that she will come," Vanno spoke for her. "I think," remarked Rose, "that your future husband is a masterful person who intends you to 'toe the line.' But if it's his heart line, it will be all right." "Perhaps," said Vanno, "for we are both very old-fashioned." He looked at Mary, and she at him. It was adorable to have little secrets that nobody else could understand. Rose, dearly as she loved her husband, almost envied them for an instant: lovers only just engaged, with no cooks and housemaids and accounts to think of: nothing but each other, and poetry and romance. Yet, she was not quite sure, on second thoughts, that she did envy them. Vaguely she seemed to see something fatal in the two handsome, happy faces; something that set them apart from the comfortable, commonplace experiences of the rest of the world. "I think--after all I'd rather be myself than that girl," she decided. XXVI Vanno's way of atonement for continuing to live at Monte Carlo was to lunch or dine each day at the Villa Mirasole. On the first morning of his great happiness he was due there for luncheon at one o'clock, but having news to tell, he decided to go early. There was little danger of finding Marie and Angelo out, for they walked after an early breakfast, and generally spent the rest of the morning in their own garden, or on the covered loggia of the villa, which looked toward the sea. In the afternoon they sometimes took excursions in their motor-car, but they made no social engagements and never went to Monte Carlo, not even to the opera or concerts. This had struck Vanno as being odd; but soon he had taken it for granted that they cared for no society except each other's, which was after all quite natural. Of late, Vanno's habit had been to dash over to Cap Martin at the last minute in a taxi and back again in the same hurried way, in order to give himself as much time as possible in the Casino; but this morning the Casino had seemed of no more importance to him than the railway station. It was as the curé had prophesied, for Vanno as for Mary: the absorbing new interest had pushed out the old, from hearts in which there was room only for love. The other obsession was gone as if it had never been, as a cloud which broods darkly over a mountain top is carried away by a fresh gust of wind, leaving no trace on the mountain steeped in sunshine. Instead of lying in bed until time to bathe and dress for the Casino, Vanno rose early, according to his old custom. It was as if he opened a neglected book at a page where a marker had been placed, and began to read again with renewed and increased interest. By nine o'clock he was at the Villa Bella Vista, asking for Mary, who had promised to see him. They had arranged that he was to tell Lord and Lady Dauntrey not only of their engagement, but of Mary's decision to leave their house for a visit to Mrs. Winter. She, however, had summoned unexpected courage and had already broken the news. It had seemed treacherous, she explained to Vanno, to go to bed and say nothing; so on an impulse she had told them all; and both had been kind. Lady Dauntrey, who seldom appeared before ten o'clock--Casino opening time--was not only dressed but had breakfasted when Vanno came. She broke in upon Mary and the Prince in the drawing-room, seemed surprised to find them there, apologized laughingly, and with an attempt at tact congratulated Vanno. "I've got awfully fond of this dear girl," she said, looking Vanno straight in the eyes, a way of hers when people had to be impressed by a statement. "I think there's nobody like her, and I--we--will miss her horribly. But you've a right to take her away. You can see her more comfortably, and everything will be better at the chaplain's than here. Quite a different atmosphere, I dare say! Only I hope she won't forget us. I've tried to do my best for her." As she said this, a mist softened her hard eyes, and she ingeniously pushed the beginnings of tears back whence they came, with the lace edge of her handkerchief, fearing damage to her lashes. As she did this, Vanno noticed that her hands were extraordinarily secretive in shape and gesture. It seemed to him that they contradicted the expression of her decorative face, whose misty eyes and quivering lips had begun to disarm him, even to make him wonder if he had partly misjudged her. The hands, large and pale rather than white, appeared to curve themselves consciously in an effort to look small, pretty, young, and aristocratic, though they were in reality worn by nervousness, as if disappointments and harsh, perhaps terrible, experiences had kept them thin and made them old, though face and body had contrived to remain young. It was as if things the woman had known and endured had determined to betray themselves in some way, and had seized upon her hands. Suddenly it was as if Vanno had been given a key, and had heard a whisper: "This unlocks the secret of a woman's nature"; and he was almost ashamed of having used the key, even for an instant, as if he had peeped into a room where some one in torment was writhing in silent passion. He said nothing of this, afterward, but he could not forget; and when Mary half guiltily praised Lady Dauntrey's warmth of heart and real affection, he was even more glad than before to take the girl away. He was glad, too, that Angelo and Marie would meet her for the first time at the Winters', not in the Dauntrey ménage. To-day he did not dash off in a taxi to Cap Martin; but having taken Mary and a small instalment of her luggage to the Winters' apartment, sheer joy of life urged him to walk to his brother's. He was so happy that he felt like a mountain spring let loose in wind and sunshine, after being long pent up underground. A short cut through the glimmering olive grove of the Cap led toward the Villa Mirasole, and plunging into the gray-green gloom he came suddenly upon the curé and two little acolytes, the boys robed in white and scarlet. Their figures moving under the arbour of old trees were like red and silver poppies blown by the wind, or wonderful tropical birds astray in the woods: and a glint of sunshine striking the censer was a thin chain of gold linking it to the sky. To meet this little procession astonished Vanno, but the curé turned to smile at him without surprise. "Well met!" he said. "We are on our way to bless the villa. Last night after you went I received a letter from the Princess asking us to come this morning, as they are now quite settled. So here we are, these children and I. And I hoped that you would be lunching with your brother and sister-in-law, for it is a pretty ceremony, the blessing. You will tell them to-day--what has happened?" The curé slackened his pace, for a talk with his Prince, and the acolytes walked ahead, two brilliant little figures, whose robes sent out faint whiffs of incense-perfume. "Yes. I've come early on purpose to tell," said Vanno. "But the first business is the blessing of the house. That will put them in a good mood. I hope you are going to lunch with us afterward?" "Yes. The Princess has been so kind as to ask me, and I will stay. If you like, I can say good things of Mademoiselle, your charming fiancée." "That is what I was thinking!" Vanno admitted. "Do you know, Father, I've been incredibly stupid. You will hardly believe it when I tell you--but I have not yet found out her Christian name." "_Tiens!_" exclaimed the curé. "You did not ask? But, my Principino, it is impossible. What did you call her?" "If you must know, I called her 'Angel,' and 'Darling,' and perhaps a few other things like that. Any other name seemed quite unimportant at the time: but after I'd left her this morning at Mrs. Winter's (where she is going to visit, thank heaven!) it flashed into my mind that I'd never heard her name. It begins with 'M,' that's all I know. I couldn't very well rush back, ring the door bell, and inquire. I must find out somehow now without asking, as it's too absurd, when we've been engaged since yesterday afternoon." Talking, they came near the edge of the olive wood, where a narrow lane divided the olives from a sea of pines. The white main road in the distance was empty, and silent with the digestive silence of Riviera thoroughfares at noon, when all the world, from millionaire to peasant, begins to think of the midday meal. Even motors were at rest, comfortably absorbing petrol and leaving the roads to sleep in peace. Far off among the trees Vanno caught a glimpse of two men picnicking, cabdrivers eating their bread and meat and drinking the rough red wine of the country, while their little _voitures_ stood a few yards away, the horses well in shade, their faces buried in nose-bags, and a miniature wolf-like dog asleep on the back of one. As Vanno and the priest drew nearer both men got up respectfully, wiping their smiling mouths. They seemed not at all astonished to see the figures in scarlet and white, with the swinging censer. And indeed it was a common enough sight in these woods, and elsewhere, the brilliant little procession for the blessing of houses, or for the last sacrament. The curé knew both men, for his parish extended from the old village of Roquebrune down to the outskirts of Mentone on one side and to St. Roman on the other. He asked one after a new wife, and of the other inquired for the health of his tiny dog, Pomponette. Nothing would do but the microscopic animal must be fetched from her ample bed on the horse's back, and displayed proudly. Her master, a very large dark man, stuck the dog into the breast of his coat, whence her miniature head protruded like a peculiar orchid. "_C'est un bon garçon_," remarked the curé, when the bowings and politenesses were over, and they had got away. "A strange world this! He is the last of one of the greatest and oldest families of Southern France. For generations they have been in ruin, reduced to the life of peasants. Jacques cares not at all, and hardly remembers that he has in his veins blood nobler than some kings can boast. What would you? It is as well for him. We are not snobs, we southerners, Principino. And he is quite happy, with his little cab, his little white horse, and his little dog. He will marry a peasant--I think I know who, for she has embroidered a blanket for Pomponette. At one time he was conductor on the trams; but he was _triste_ because few of the passengers said good morning or good evening to him--and he is a friendly fellow. So he gave up his position on the trams. One would not find that in the north. They have their faults, these people, but I love them." The woods of Cap Martin seemed to be populated by the curé's friends. As he and Vanno walked away from the picnickers, a woman, bareheaded, carrying a large basket, came toward them, followed by a very old man with his arms full of bundles. She too was of the peasant class, a noble creature past her youth, with the face of a middle-aged Madonna, and the bearing of a Roman matron of distinction. The old man, whose profile was clear as that of a king on a copper coin, was deeply lined and darkly sunburnt. His head, bald no doubt, was tied up in a crimson handkerchief that gave him the value of a rare picture by the hand of some old master. Seeing the curé, the pair stopped under an immense olive tree, a tree so twisted, so contorted that it seemed to have settled down to treehood only after the wild whirl of a mænad dance. Now in its old age, which had been youth in Cæsar's day, it was more like a gray, ruined tower than an olive tree. It had divided itself into a few crumbling, leaning walls with sad oriel windows and a broken ornamentation of queer gargoyles. Behind the woman with the basket and the old man with the red handkerchief was the distant background of the Prince's garden, like a drop curtain at a theatre: a wall overgrown with flowering creepers; the delicate tracery of wrought-iron gates between tall pillars; bare branches of peach and plum trees, pink as children's fingers held close before the fire, or the hands of Arab girls after the henna-staining; and two cypresses, close together, rising against the blue sky with pure architectural value. As they hurried along, the man and woman crushed under foot, without knowing what they did, the sheeny brown curves of wild orchids, "Jacks in the pulpit," that were like little hooded snakes rearing heads in rage, to guard the baby violets sprouting in the grass. "This is Filomena, the cook I myself secured for your brother's house," said the curé; "the best cook and one of the best women on the coast. See, she is carrying our luncheon in her big basket. That shows how early you are, Principino. She is just back from the market at Mentone, where I'll warrant she was delayed by some nice bit of gossip. They love the marketing, these good creatures." The woman, smiling charmingly, reached out a brown and shapely hand, rather workworn, which the curé shook, and proceeded to make her known to the Prince. Without hesitation or embarrassment she put out her hand to him also. In his, it felt hard and rough, yet glowing with health. It was quite a matter of course to Filomena to be introduced to the Prince, the brother of her new, exalted master, whom she had not until now had the pleasure of seeing, although she had cooked for him already many times. She remarked on this fact, with her bright, engaging smile. Her manner was perfectly respectful, yet free from servility. It would not have occurred to her that any one could have considered her little conversational outburst a liberty; and she proceeded to introduce the old man as her father. "He has eighty-two years," she said, with a glance from the Prince to the curé, "yet he thinks little of walking down from our old home far, far away in the mountains in Italy, to pay me a visit. It was a surprise this time, his coming. I met him near the market, and profited by getting him to help with my parcels. Will Messieurs the Prince and Curé figure to themselves, he married my mother when their two ages together would not make thirty-five, and there in the mountains they brought up eight of us. But, after the marriage, they were still children. It was necessary for the priest to explain to my father why it is that the good God ordained marrying. And look at him now!" She laughed gayly, and the old man, who could speak only a _patois_ from over the frontier, cackled without understanding what his daughter said. He guessed well that he was the subject of the conversation, and jokingly he reproved the middle-aged Madonna with a few toothless mutterings more like Latin than Italian, more Arabic than either. "And now, Messieurs," Filomena finished, "we must be hurrying on, or the _déjeuner_ will be late. That would make me so angry, I should poison all the fishes if I were thrown into the sea! How Monsieur the Prince is handsome, and like my _patron_--yet different, too! Ah, it does seem to me, begging Monsieur the Curé's pardon, that now-a-days the good God is becoming more experienced and therefore fashioning finer men. When He first began, He was but young and had no practice, so it is not strange if He made mistakes." "You people of this country are very free with the great name of your Creator," remarked the curé, but not too sternly. "Think, Principino, I have heard this very Filomena saying that after Christmas it is safe to sin a little, for the enfant Jesus is so very small He takes no notice; and between Good Friday and Easter He is dead, so then again there is a chance. It is well that I know you mean no sacrilege, Filomena, or I should have to scold--and to-day that would be a pity, for it is a day of good omen for us all." "Ah, yes," agreed Filomena. "Monsieur the Curé is to bless the house." "Not only that, but his Highness here has come with great news to tell. He is going to marry a beautiful young lady." "Then is the blessing a double one. I am sure the young lady must indeed be beautiful if she is worthy; perhaps even as beautiful as the Princess, my mistress." "Quite as beautiful, Filomena. But you are the first one to have the news. You must not go and tell. Leave that to the Prince." "Indeed, Monsieur the Curé need have no fear. I've my _déjeuner_ to cook. And I shall make something extra in honour of the great occasion." So, with a flash of white teeth and a bow no duchess could have bettered, Filomena went off about her business, followed by that aged patriarch, her father. Three minutes after the pair had disappeared through the _porte de service_, Vanno and the curé arrived at the great gate, which was a famous landmark at Cap Martin, the Villa Mirasole having been built years ago for a Russian grand duke. Since he had been killed by a bomb in his own country, the house he loved had passed into other hands. Now it belonged to an English earl who had lost a fortune at the Casino: and it was owing to his losses that the villa was let this season to Prince Della Robbia. Much of the furniture, which was of great value, had been sold, and the house was so denuded that it had practically to be redecorated and refurnished, to suit Angelo's ideas of fitness for his wife; because he wished to keep it on year after year. Only to-day was everything finished to his satisfaction. The villa, whose exterior copied the Petit Trianon, had a large entrance hall of marble which opened to the roof, and was surrounded by a gallery. This hall was coldly beautiful, with its few bronzes and gilded seventeenth-century chairs, its tall vases of orange blossoms and tea roses, its faded Persian rugs and mosaic tables. But it made an extraordinarily impressive background or frame for a lovely woman, and Marie Della Robbia was a lovely woman. Vanno had seen her many times now in many different dresses since New Year's eve, when he had met her with Angelo, at the Mentone railway station; but she had never struck him as being a beauty, until to-day. As she came forward to greet her two visitors, he said to himself for the first time that she was beautiful. She and Angelo had evidently just entered from the garden. Her right hand was full of roses, which she hastily changed into her left, and she wore a softly folding white dress, with a great cart-wheel of a Leghorn hat, drooping in all the right places, and wreathed with pink roses. She was a tall woman with a long neck, therefore could well wear such a hat; and it framed her head like an immense halo of dull gold. Her hair was brown with red lights in it, and her eyes were of exactly the same shade, the colour of ripe chestnuts. She had a beautiful short, rather square face, of a creamy paleness; a square, low forehead, straight dark brows, drawn very low over the long eyes; a short, straight nose, and a short, curved upper lip, fitting so charmingly into the full squareness of the under lip that her mouth looked like two pieces of pink coral cleverly carved one upon another. Her short, square chin was deeply cleft, and her long yet solid-looking white throat was like one of those slender marble columns which divide the arch of a Moorish window. At first sight, before she spoke, she would be taken for a woman of sensuous temperament, lazy, luxury-loving, not talkative, and the gay smile which flashed over her face at sight of Vanno and the curé seemed somehow unsuited to it, giving almost the effect of electric light suddenly turned upon a still pool, covered with the waxen weight of white water-lilies. Her manner, too, was a contradiction of her type. It had a light, sleigh-bell gayety, bringing thoughts of sparkling snows and iced sunshine. There was charm in it, yet it was oddly remote and cold, as if she, the woman herself, had gone away on an errand, leaving some other woman's spirit in temporary charge of her body. She looked to be twenty-five or six, and was meant by nature to be more dignified than she chose to be. She had elected to be light and girlish; and whatever she was, it was evident that in her husband's eyes she was perfect. He watched her admiringly, adoringly, as she welcomed her brother-in-law and the curé. The love in his eyes was pathetic, and would have been tragic if it had not been a happy love, fully returned, and culminating in a perfect marriage. Angelo was delighted to see his brother, and especially to see him come in with their old friend the curé. This meant, he hoped, that the good man had found a chance to talk to Vanno, and perhaps to persuade him to stay at the Villa Mirasole. The two young men shook hands cordially, with an affectionate grip, as if they had not seen each other for some time, though it was really no more than twenty-four hours since they had parted. They were very much alike, and yet, as Filomena had shrewdly noticed at first glance, utterly different. Angelo was five years older than Vanno and looked more, because he wore a short pointed beard, cut almost close to the long oval of his cheeks, like the beards of many Italian naval officers. He was dark, but not so dark as Vanno's face had been painted by the desert; and whereas Vanno was both man of action and dreamer, Angelo had the face of a poet whose greatest joy is in his dreams. He seemed less Roman, more Italian than Vanno, and his profile was less salient, more perfect, being so purely cut that people who had seen him seldom, would think of him in profile, as one thinks always of a sword. Vanno would dream, and strenuously work out his dream. Angelo would dream on, and let others work; consequently the elder was not so vital, not so magnetic as the younger. He showed no trace of those battles with himself which gave Vanno's face strength and his eyes fire; yet it was clear that Angelo was a man of high ideals, and would be lost in losing them; whereas Vanno would fight on without ideals, only becoming harder. All this the curé had known since Angelo was a big boy and Vanno a little one, and he had learned it after an acquaintance of but a few days, for it was a theory of his that character is like the scent of various plants. It must so distil itself that it cannot in any way be hidden for long; and those who cannot recognize character for what it is are like people who have lost their sense of smell, and can detect no difference in the odour of flowers. Almost at once the Princess proposed that the curé should begin to bless the house. He had brought with him a small olive branch which he had gathered in the woods; and with this he sprinkled each room with holy water, while the acolytes accompanied him, one holding a bowl, the other swinging the censer which sent clouds of perfume through the house. All the servants had been called together, even the Princess' English maid, who had left England for the first time to come to the Riviera. They followed the family from room to room, grave and deeply interested, Filomena in a large white apron exhaling a faint odour of spices and good things of the kitchen. When the ceremony was finished and not a room unvisited, Filomena flew back to duty, and carefully, but not anxiously, lifted the lid of each _marmite_ on the huge stove. She had possessed her soul in perfect confidence that the patron saint of the household would look after her dishes during her absence, and she would have been not only surprised but indignant if anything had been burnt. Now had come the moment for Vanno to speak. The curé had sent away the acolytes. It still wanted half an hour of luncheon time, and the Princess led the way to a wide window-door on to the loggia. This was very broad, like an American veranda, with a roof of thick, dull greenish glass which softened the glare of sunlight, and did not darken the rooms inside. Roses garlanded the marble pillars, and Indian rugs were spread on the marble floor. There were basket chairs and tables, and a red hammock piled with cushions was suspended on bars arranged after a plan of Angelo's. Marie Della Robbia in her white dress made a picture among the crimson cushions, and it was scarcely possible for her not to know that the three men who grouped round her found the picture charming. Vanno's heart was thumping. He had thought it would be easy and delightful to tell the news of his engagement, but it struck him suddenly that these two, Angelo and Marie, were utterly absorbed in each other. Perhaps they would not care as much as he had hoped. Or Angelo might disapprove. Not that any disapproval would matter now, not even their father's; but Vanno wanted sympathy and interest. As he searched for the right word to begin, groping for it, ashamed of his shyness, the butler appeared at the window, a Mentonnais-Italian who prided himself passionately upon his English. He too had been found for the house by the friendly offices of the curé--an eager, intelligent man with glittering eyes and a laughable tendency to blushing. He had learned his English in three months at a Bloomsbury boarding-house where, apparently, conversations had been carried on entirely in slang. If he were addressed by an English-speaking person in any other language, his feelings were so deeply wounded that he turned a rich purple. "Highnesses please," he announced, "a French mister has come to appear. It is a Stereo-Mondaine and he have a strong want to prend some photographs of the garden and peoples which is done from colours already, very rippin'." Angelo frowned slightly. And when he frowned his long oval face looked cold and proud, the face of an aristocrat who believed that the world was made for him and his kind. "Tell the man that we cannot allow him to take photographs here," he said. The butler hesitated. "Highness, it is necessary that this man vivre. I think he has not too much oof. _C'est dure, la publicité!_" "I can't help that, Americo," Angelo persisted. "You can offer him food if you think he is poor, but we do not want him to take photographs." Vanno saw that Marie was looking at her husband intently, with a peculiar, almost frightened expression, as if she were studying him wistfully, and finding out something new which she had not wholly understood. "Angelo," she ventured, in a small, beguiling voice, "perhaps this poor man has his pride of an artist. You see, I have a fellow feeling!" She smiled pleadingly, yet mischievously, and turned an explanatory glance on the curé. "I was an artist, and I should so love to know what is a Stereo-Mondaine." Vanno had never before liked her so much. Angelo's face changed and softened. "If you want him, it is different!" he returned. "But you've seemed always to have a horror of snapshotters." "He might take the garden," she suggested. "Bring the fellow, Americo," said Prince Della Robbia. The butler flushed furiously with joy. "Rightho, my good Highnesses," he exclaimed; and the three who understood why he was funny stifled laughter till he was out of earshot. "His English is a constant delight to us," said Marie, instantly picking up again her sleigh-bell gayety of manner, like a dropped, forgotten garment. "It's as wonderful as my English maid's French, which she's earnestly studying, though she finds that a language where meat is feminine and milk masculine simply doesn't appeal to her reason. She's learned to call Wednesday 'Mur_cree_dy' and Saturday 'Samdy.' When she goes to Mentone to buy me something at Aux Dames de France, she says she's bought it at the 'Ox Daimes.' But she reached her grandest height this morning. I walked into my room, to hear her groaning at a window that looks toward Monte Carlo. 'Oh, those poor, poor men committing suicide! I can't get them out of my head,' she moaned when I asked if she were ill. 'That day when I went over there sightseeing. It was too awful, walking on the terrace, to hear those poor creatures blowing out their brains every two minutes down under the Casino. I couldn't stand it, so I had to come away, but nobody else seemed to mind, and some of 'em was hanging over the wall to see what was going on!' I couldn't imagine what she meant, for a minute. Then I knew it must be the pigeon-shooters." Angelo laughed. "Of course. But what do _you_ know of the pigeon-shooters, Marie mia? You have sternly refused to let me take you to Monte Carlo." Marie blushed, a sudden bright blush. "Oh, you have told me about them--how they shoot under the terrace. That's one reason why I love staying here at Cap Martin, or taking excursions where everything is purely beautiful, and nothing to make one sad." "I don't remember telling you about the pigeon-shooting," Angelo said. "Well, if you didn't tell me, somebody else must have, mustn't they--else how could I know?" "Highnesses, Mister the Stereo-Mondaine." A frail wisp of a man was ushered by the butler on to the loggia: a man very shabby, very thin, very proud, with a camera out of proportion to his size and strength, hugged under one arm. He would have been known as a Frenchman if found dressed in furs at the North Pole. He explained passionately that, had he been a mere photographer, he would not have ventured to intrude upon such distinguished company; but he was unique in his profession, a Stereo-Mondaine, a traveller who knew his world and had a _métier_ very special. He was, in short, an artist in colour photography; and before asking the privilege that he desired, he would beg to show a sample of his most successful work at Monte Carlo. "Here, for instance," he went on hurriedly in his French of the Midi, "is a treasure of artisticness; a marvel of a portrait, a poem!" And he displayed a large glass plate, neatly bound round the edges with gilt paper. His thin hand, on which veins rose in a bas relief, held the plate up tremulously against the light. All bent forward with a certain interest, for none of the three had seen many specimens of colour photography. Vanno and the curé both gave vent to slight exclamations. They were looking at a picture of Mary Grant, dressed in pale blue, with a blue hat. She was standing in the _Place_ of the Casino at Monte Carlo, feeding pigeons. It seemed to Vanno that his sister-in-law also uttered a faint, "Oh!" But turning to her, he saw that she was leaning back among the cushions of the hammock, having ceased to take an interest in the prettily coloured photograph. She met his eyes. "I thought I heard Americo coming to call us to luncheon," she said. "It must be nearly time. But it wasn't he, after all. Yes, indeed, it is a charming photograph." Breaking from English into French, she complimented the Stereo-Mondaine. "Will you sell me that picture?" Vanno asked. "But, Monsieur, it is my best. I should have to demand a good price; for it could be produced in a journal, and I would be well paid. When the plate of a coloured photograph is gone--biff! _all_ is gone. There is an end." "I will give you three louis." The Stereo-Mondaine accepted at once, lest the Monsieur should change his mind; and Vanno having taken the plate from him, he proceeded to produce others. "Nothing more, thanks--unless you have any of the same lady." "No, unfortunately, Monsieur. She would have posed again, for she was a most sympathetic as well as beautiful personality. But the crowd closed around us. I may induce her to stand again, however." "I hardly think that is likely to happen," Vanno muttered. "Let him go into the garden, and take half a dozen of the prettiest views--things we should like to carry away with us," the Princess said, hastily, as if she were anxious now to be rid of her protégé. "When they are ready, he can send them to us--and the bill." The Stereo-Mondaine was disposed of, while Angelo took the glass plate from Vanno, and looked at the picture. "Do you know the lady, by any chance," he asked lightly, "or did you buy merely as an admirer of beauty?" "I--am going to marry her, I hope," said Vanno. "We have been engaged since last night. I came over early to tell you." * * * * * * * There was a pause. Each one seemed waiting for another to break the silence. Then the curé stepped into the breach. "I speak from knowledge when I say that the Principino's fiancée is as good as beautiful--a most rare lady. He is to be congratulated." "Of course we congratulate him!" Angelo said cordially. He got up and shook hands warmly with his brother, like an Englishman: then he patted him affectionately on the shoulder. "Dear boy," he added, "you have given us a great surprise. But I am sure it is a happy one. And we can feel for you because of our own happiness, which is so new: though I think it always will be new. Can we not sympathize, Marie mia?" "Yes," said the Princess. "Yes, of course. I congratulate you." There was a different quality in her voice. It did not ring quite true; and Vanno was disappointed. He thought that to please Angelo and him she was affecting more interest than she was able to feel. Angelo still had the coloured photograph on the glass plate, but now he handed it to his wife. "What a lovely girl!" he exclaimed. "I don't believe that in your artist days, dearest, you ever had a prettier model." "No, never," said Marie. She took the plate that Angelo held out, and looked at it with a slight quivering of the eyelids as if the sun, which was very bright, shone too strongly. Then, quickly, she sprang up, leaving the photograph in the hammock. "An awfully pretty girl," she went on. "Vanno must tell us all about her, at luncheon. Here comes Americo to announce it." She hurried to the door, smiling at the three men over her shoulder. The sun had given her a bright colour. Even her ears were rose-pink. Vanno, in following, retrieved the glass plate from among the cushions. He was not sure whether or no his announcement had been a success, but the method of it seemed to have been thrust on him by Fate. For a few minutes after they were seated at the table Marie chatted of other things, talking very fast about a _Blinis au caviar_ for which she had given Filomena the recipe. "I tasted it first in Russia," she remarked, immediately adding "when I was very young." Then abruptly she jumped back to the subject of Vanno's great news. "Tell us about _her_," she commanded, giving her brother-in-law a charming smile. But as he began, rather jerkily, to supply the information asked for, the Princess looked down at her plate, eating slowly and daintily, as a child eats when it wishes to make some delicious food last as long as possible. Not once did she raise her thick, straight eyelashes, as Vanno said that the girl was a Miss Grant, now staying with the wife of the chaplain at Monte Carlo. Her first question seemed to have satisfied the Princess' curiosity, for all those that followed were asked by her husband. "Miss Grant!" he echoed, deeply interested in his brother's love affair, though still puzzled by its suddenness, and a little uneasy. He felt that it would not be well for both the Duke's sons to marry women unknown socially; and almost unconsciously he was influenced by a selfish consideration. Vanno was expected to make his, Angelo's, peace with the father, who worshipped the younger, tolerated the elder, of his sons. It was Vanno's duty to describe Marie in glowing terms, to induce the Duke to feel that despite her social unimportance she was a pearl among women. But if Vanno had his own peace to make, his own pearl to praise, other interests might suffer. "Miss Grant! It is odd, isn't it, that we should choose girls of names so much alike? Marie Gaunt, and--but what is your Miss Grant's Christian name?" Vanno had to confess ignorance; and this forced him to explain that he had known Miss Grant for a very short time. "But I felt from the beginning that I'd known her always," he added bravely. "It was--love at first sight. You--I think you'll understand when you see her. The curé sees. And that's what I want to ask. Will you both go to call upon her with me--and be kind?" "Of course," said Angelo. "It can't be too soon. When shall we go?" "Well," said Vanno, almost shamefacedly, "I thought if you could manage it this afternoon----" Angelo laughed a pleasant but teasing laugh. "He doesn't want any grass to grow between Cap Martin and Monte Carlo before our motor-car has rushed us to his lady's bower. We can go this afternoon, I'm sure, can't we, Marie?" The eyes of the three men were turned upon the Princess, who was still delicately eating her _Blinis au caviar_, though the others had finished. For an instant she did not answer. Then she looked up suddenly, first at Angelo, her glance travelling to Vanno almost pleadingly before she spoke. "I should love to go," she said to him, emphatically. "Only, I do think it would be so much more proper and better in every way for me to call on--on Miss Grant first alone, without either of you. Do let me. It will be far more of a compliment, I assure you. And she will prefer it." "I don't quite see that," observed Angelo. "Because you are a man! Why, she can talk to me, and tell me little confidential things that she will love telling, and couldn't so much as mention before you. Vanno says she has no relatives with her, but is staying with friends; and I will try to make her feel as if I were a sister." "Marie, you _are_ good!" exclaimed Vanno, his eyes warm with gratitude. After all, his sister-in-law was not disapproving, as he had begun to fear. "She's perfectly right, Angelo. It will be splendid of her to go alone." "I begin to see the point of view," said Angelo. "I might have known. She's always right." Marie smiled at him sweetly and softly; and as her husband's eyes met hers a beautiful look of love and understanding flashed from the hidden soul of the woman to the soul of the man. Vanno saw it, and thrilled. So would it be with him and the girl he loved. XXVII The motor was ordered for the Princess at a quarter to three. She wished to arrive early at Mrs. Winter's, in order to have her chat with Miss Grant before tea time. Her idea was to ask only for the guest, not for the hostess, and be ready to leave before the hour when extraneous and irrelevant guests might be expected to invade the chaplain's drawing-room. There was, it appeared, a telephone in the apartment-house where the Winters lived, and Vanno, getting into communication with Mary after numerous difficulties, begged her to be in, and if possible alone, for a visit from his sister-in-law. It was arranged that the curé, who had never been in a motor-car, should be dropped at the foot of a convenient short cut to Roquebrune, and Angelo and Vanno would go on with Marie to Monte Carlo. Having left her at the Winters' door, Angelo meant to walk with Vanno to his hotel, expecting later to pick up his wife again. When the curé had bidden them goodbye, however, Marie proposed a modification of the plan. "Poor Angelo has been pining for Monte Carlo, I'm sure," she said, laughing, her bright eyes and unusually pink cheeks alluring and mysterious, under the thickly patterned black veil she had put on with a large black velvet hat. "He's concealed his feelings well, I must say, out of compliment to me, because I was so good about the villa. At first I didn't want to have a house at Cap Martin. From all I'd heard, I thought the Riviera must be so sophisticated--and somehow I've always detested the idea of Monte Carlo. But you know, Vanno, how Angelo fell in love with the Villa Mirasole when he visited the Grand Duke years ago. He must have written you how he set his heart, even then, on having it for his honeymoon if he married. I gave up my objections provided he would promise that I needn't go to Monte Carlo, and that he wouldn't be always running over there himself. Now, I'm glad, for I love the villa. And you see, I'm on the way to Monte Carlo of my own accord! The next thing is to tell Angelo he may play about there as long as he likes. I shall keep the motor waiting while I'm at Miss Grant's, and go back in it alone whenever I feel inclined. You needn't come to fetch me. I'd rather not." Both men looked disappointed: Vanno because he wanted to hear Marie's impressions of his adored one without delay, confident that they would be favourable; Angelo, because since their marriage he and his wife had not been parted for a single hour. This was the first sign Marie had shown of wishing to assert independence. "Are you sure you're not saying this for my sake?" Angelo inquired anxiously. "I don't want to hang about Monte Carlo. I----" "It will do you good to have a little change," she said. Then she flashed him a meaning, intimate glance which he thought that he interpreted, and therefore raised no more objections. Her eyes seemed to say: "I have a reason. I'll explain to you when we're alone. It has something to do with your brother." "Come and dine with us if you care to, Vanno," she went on. "Or if you have an engagement with Miss Grant, spin over in a taxi for coffee and a few minutes' chat afterward. That is, if you'd like to hear how beautiful and altogether perfect I think she is--and make some plan about bringing her to Cap Martin--sooner or later." Vanno explained that he was to dine at the Winters, but would accept for the "chat," with great pleasure. Dinner was early at the chaplain's. He would leave at eight-thirty, and then go back again for a quarter of an hour, to bid Miss Grant farewell. He leaned suddenly from the window just in time to direct his brother's chauffeur, and the car pulled up before the ugly square building which Rose Winter called a "quadrupedifice." Angelo sprang out, helping Marie to alight with as much care and tenderness as if she might break with a rough touch. Next came the parting at the door; and Vanno smiled to see how Marie lingered with her hand in her husband's. They had as many last words to say to each other as if Angelo were to be absent for three days, although he was assuring her--with needless insistence--that even if he looked into the Casino he would certainly be back long before dinner. The two men watched the Princess begin to mount the stairs, before they turned away. Then, leaving the car at the door as Marie had wished, they walked off together in the direction of the Hôtel de Paris. "Idina Bland called yesterday on Marie," Angelo said abruptly, with a slight suggestion of constraint in his voice. "It was--rather a surprise to me. I supposed she was in America." "Diavolo! She is still here, then?" "Still? Did you know she was on the Riviera?" "I knew she came--weeks ago. She went up to Roquebrune to see the curé. She'd heard he was an old friend of ours--and she inquired for you--wouldn't say who she was. That was before I arrived." "How do you know it was Idina, if she didn't give her name?" "The curé's description. There was no mistaking it. He said at a little distance her eyes looked white, like a statue's." "Ah--that was good! They are like that. Curious eyes. Curious woman. Why didn't you tell me before about her visit to the curé?" "I meant to. But you put off coming so long. And I--well, I confess I forgot." "You're excusable in the circumstances, my dear boy. After all, it's of no importance." "No. And then, as I never saw her anywhere about, there was reason to suppose she'd left. If I thought of her at all, I thought she'd gone." "It seems she's been staying for weeks at the Annonciata--I fancy she called it--a hotel on a little mountain close to Mentone. She says the air's very fine--and she's been ordered south by an American doctor. Had pneumonia in the autumn." "What about the distant cousin over there who was going to leave her money?" "He's dead, and she's got the money. She is wearing a kind of second mourning--gray and black. It made her look rather hard, I thought." "She always did look hard, except----" "Except? What's the rest, Vanno?" "I was going to say, 'Except for you.'" "I--er--she seems to have got over that nonsense now. I must confess it gave me rather a start when I came in from a smoke in the garden yesterday, and found her sitting with Marie in the yellow salon. For a minute I was afraid--well, I hardly know of what." "Dio! You didn't think she'd try to do Marie a mischief?" "No. Hardly that. But it passed through my mind that she might try to make trouble between us. Not that she could." "Did you--don't answer unless you care to--ever tell Marie about Idina?" "Not till yesterday, after her call. It never occurred to me. Idina had gone out of my life before Marie came into it, and she was never anything to me." "I know. It was the other way round. But--you were good to her, and cousinly, and I suppose she misunderstood a little." "I never realized that, until she was going to America, and she hinted--er--that she wouldn't care about getting the money if it weren't for--well, you know. Or you can guess." "She thought father would approve of a marriage between you if she became an heiress." "Partly that, and partly she seemed to believe that I'd have spoken to her of love if she hadn't been a kind of dependent on my father. I tried to make her understand without putting it into brutal words, that I did love her of course, but only as a cousin. It's the devil having to tell a woman you don't want her! I'm not sure she did entirely understand, for she wrote me a letter afterward--it followed me to Dresden, and came the day after Marie had promised to be my wife. I didn't answer. I thought when Idina heard of my marriage she'd see why I hadn't replied, and why it was kinder not to write. I knew she would hear through father, for she corresponds with him. He is very punctilious about answering letters; and suspecting nothing he would tell the news. When I found her with Marie yesterday--but I see now I was a fool. These melodramatic things don't happen. And after all, Idina's a cold woman." "I wonder?" "Well, anyhow, she was very civil to me and pleasant to Marie, whom I questioned afterward about what Idina had said before I came in. It seems there was nothing--but I explained to my wife that there'd been a boy and girl friendship between Idina and me, a sort of cousinly half flirtation, nothing more. And really there _was_ nothing more." "Certainly not," Vanno agreed, emphatically. "But it's just as well to tell Marie, so that in case Idina should do something--one of those things women call 'catty'--she'd be prepared." "Yes, it is better to have no concealments," said Angelo. "Luckily I have no other complications in my past. Nothing to dread. And Marie is an angel. She would forgive me anything, I believe, if there were anything I had to ask her to forgive." "As you would her," Vanno added, impulsively. "With her, there could be nothing to forgive," Angelo replied, stiffening. "She is an angel. And now, enough of my affairs. Let us talk about yours." XXVIII When her husband and brother-in-law had left her, Princess Della Robbia began to go upstairs very slowly. She mounted with her hand on the balusters, as if she were weak or tired. At last, when she had reached the étage of the Winters' flat, she paused, and rested for several minutes before the door which displayed the chaplain's card. She was breathing rather fast, which was but natural perhaps, as she had ascended three flights of stairs, was wearing an immensely long and wide ermine stole, and carrying a huge muff to match. Before she touched the electric bell she pulled her large hat forward a little over her face, and adjusted the thick veil, which had a pattern like a spider's web. Then she opened a gold vanity box suspended from her wrist by a chain, and looked at herself in the small mirror it contained. Her face was so shadowed by the hat and disguised by the veil that at a little distance it might be difficult for any one not very familiar with her features and figure to recognize her at all. When she had shut the vanity box with a sharp snap, she pressed the electric bell, and waited with her head bowed. She kept it bowed when the beautiful Storm-cloud opened the door, and still while she inquired in French for Miss Grant. There was no one in the pretty American-looking drawing-room when Nathalie ushered her in. Throwing a quick glance around, the Princess chose a chair so placed that her back was turned not only to the window but to a table with an electric lamp on it, which would in all probability soon be lighted. Hardly was she seated, when the door was thrown open quickly, and Mary came in. Princess Della Robbia rose, her left arm thrust into her big ermine muff, so that her right hand might be free if it must be given in greeting. But she did not step forward as if eager to greet Vanno's fiancée. "Princess Della Robbia?" Mary said, rather shyly. "How good of you to come to see me." She put out her hand and took that of the Princess. This brought them close together, and as they were of nearly the same height, they looked into each other's faces, though the Princess still kept her head slightly bent, her eyes and forehead in shadow. "Marie Grant!" Mary cried out the name sharply. "Hush!" said the Princess, with a convulsive pressure on the other's hand. "For God's sake! Don't ruin me!" Mary, with the last rays of afternoon light full on her face, turned pale to the lips, and the pupils of her eyes seemed to dilate. "Oh, Marie, darling!" she faltered. "I wouldn't ruin you for the world--not to save my life. I--it was only that I was so surprised. I'm glad--very glad to see you. I've dreamed of you a thousand times--and just before coming to Monte Carlo, too. I expected some one else when I came into this room, a Princess Della Robbia----" "I am Princess Della Robbia," Marie said in a veiled, dead voice. "You--but I don't understand----" "I'll tell you. I want to tell you," the Princess broke in quickly, the words almost jumbled together in her haste. "We must talk before any one comes. Will any one come?" "No, no," Marie soothed her. "Mrs. Winter is out. She won't be back till four. It's only a little after three." The Princess thrust her arm through her muff so that she could take both Mary's hands. She pressed them tightly, her fingers jerking as if by mechanism. "I've come--I've got to throw myself on your mercy," she said. "Don't," Mary implored, "use such words to me. Oh, Marie, how strange--how strange everything is! The night before I left the convent, Peter--dear Peter, who loves you too, always--said that perhaps my dreams meant that you thought of me sometimes--that we might meet. Then I didn't expect to come here. She told me not to come. But she said, 'Anything can happen at Monte Carlo.'" "Anything can happen anywhere," the Princess answered in a muffled voice. "It is a terrible world. It's been a terrible world for me since I saw you. And now--just when it's turned into heaven, you can send me down to hell." "It kills me to hear you talk so," Mary said, tears rising in her eyes, and falling slowly. "_I!_ Why, Marie dearest, didn't you just hear me say I'd rather die than hurt you? I don't know what you mean." "Do you understand that I'm married to the brother of the man you're engaged to marry?" "Why--yes. You told me that you--that you're the Princess Della Robbia." "Well, my husband _doesn't know_. Nobody in my life now, knows anything about--the part that came before. Nobody must know. I'd kill myself rather than have Angelo find out, or even suspect. He thinks I----" She stopped, and choked. "He thinks I am----" The sob would come. She broke down, crying bitterly. "Oh, Mary, I love him so. I worship him. He thinks I'm everything sweet and good and innocent, that I'd give my soul to be, for his sake. And now you've come----" "You don't think I'll tell!" "Not if you say you won't. But I didn't know. You were always so good. You might have thought it your duty. Mary--you won't tell Vanno? I couldn't bear it!" "I won't tell Vanno, or any one at all." "You're sure--_sure_ you won't let anything drop, by mistake?" "Explain to me exactly what you want me to do," Mary said, "and I'll do it. Are we to have been strangers to each other till to-day--is that it?" "Yes, that's the best thing: less complicated. It will save telling lies." "I should hate to tell lies," said Mary. "You needn't. Oh, the hundreds and thousands I've had to tell! The dreary, uphill work! But now I'm on the hill, the beautiful hill in the sunshine where my husband lives. And I'm going to stay there if I have to wade in lies." Mary shivered a little at the words and the look in Marie's eyes as they stared behind the spider web veil. But she tried not to show that she was shocked. She felt she would give her hand to be cut off rather than hurt this miserable girl who had sinned and suffered, and now stood desperately at bay. "Try to be happy; try to trust me," she said. "We used to be such friends." "That was my only hope when I found that Vanno was engaged to you, and that we should have to meet," Marie confessed. "I hated to come, but I had to brave it out. And I thought it just possible you mightn't recognize me, after all these years." She pushed up her veil nervously. "Haven't I changed? Do say I've changed!" "Your hair looks lighter. There's more red in it, surely," Mary reflected aloud. "It used to be a dark brown. Now it's almost auburn." "I bleach it. I began to do that when I first thought of trying to--get back to things. I wanted to make myself different, so that if any of the people who saw me when I--was down, came across me again, they mightn't be sure it was I--they might think it was just a resemblance to--another woman. I took the name of Gaunt instead of Grant, because it was so nearly the same, it might seem to have been a very simple mistake, if any complication came. And I went to live far away from every one I'd ever known. I chose Dresden. I can hardly tell why, except that I'd never been there, and I wanted to paint. I stayed at first in a pension kept by an artist's wife. The artist helped me, and I did very well with my work. That's what saved me. If I hadn't had that talent, there would have been only one of two things for me to do: kill myself, or--worse." "Let's not think of it, since it's all over," said Mary, gently. She took Marie by the hand again, and made her sit down on Rose Winter's chintz covered sofa. Then she sat beside her friend and almost timidly slid an arm round her waist. "All over!" the Princess echoed, in a voice so weary and old, so unlike the bright sleigh-bell gayety Angelo knew, that he would hardly have recognized his wife. "That's the horrible part--that's the punishment: never to know whether it's 'all over,' or whether at any minute, just as one begins to dare feel a little happy and safe, one isn't going to be found out. For instance, when my husband wanted a villa at Cap Martin. Once, before I knew we would be coming here, I told him that I'd never been to the Riviera. It was necessary to tell him that. But, Mary, I had been. It makes me sick when I think what a short time ago it was. I came to Monte Carlo with--_him_, and we stopped for weeks at a big hotel. Every day and all day we were in the Casino. Afterward we went to Russia, and it was in Russia he left me--in St. Petersburg. Often I go back there in dreams, and to Monte Carlo too. I suppose you _knew_ about me, always--you and--Peter?" "Neither of us knew much. But I know all I want to know--unless you feel there's anything it would do you good to tell." "It does me a little good to be able to speak out to some one for the first time in years, now the worst is over, and I haven't to be afraid of you. If you could dream what I went through to-day! Mary, are you sure--sure of yourself--that you won't give me away?" "Very, very sure," Mary answered steadily. "I think it would have been better if you'd told the Prince before you married him, and then you'd have nothing to fear now, but----" "He wouldn't have married me. One of my great attractions in his eyes was--what I have not. You don't know that family yet, Mary. I think the brothers are a good deal alike in some ways, though Angelo is more of a saint than Vanno. They adore purity in women. I think they both have a sort of pitying horror for women who aren't--innocent." Mary was silent. She had reason to believe that the Princess was right. "And I couldn't give him up," Marie went on. "It was too much even for God to expect. It was such a beautiful romance--the first true romance in my life. It seemed to be recreating me. I almost felt as if his love would _make_ me worthy if I could only take and keep it. It was a dreadful risk, but--I dared it, and I'd do it again, if I had it to do, even if I paid by losing my soul. I used to think at first that perhaps when we'd been married a long time, and I was sure of his love, I might tell him--a little, not everything. But now I know that I never, never can. It would be a thousand times worse than before, if he found out. It would mean my death, that's all. I couldn't look into his eyes, his dear, beautiful eyes that adore me, that I adore. You haven't seen him yet. But you know Vanno's eyes, and what it would be to see them turn cold after they have been--stars of love. That expresses them." "Yes, that expresses them," Mary almost whispered. She closed her eyelids for an instant and Vanno's eyes looked into hers, as they had looked in the curé's garden, after the first kiss. Nothing that Marie could have said would have made her understand as clearly. If she were as Marie was, she felt that she could not tell Vanno, now that his eyes had worshipped her. She would not marry him and _not_ tell, if there were things that ought to be told; but she would go away, far away, where the dear eyes might never look at her again. "You don't know yet what it is to love," Marie went on; and Mary answered, as if she were speaking to herself, "I almost think I do know--now." "If you do, you can understand me." "I am beginning to understand," Mary said. "You swear that you've said nothing to Vanno, to make him suspect? When he told you about his brother and sister-in-law, did he mention my name as--as a girl?" "He said your name was Marie Gaunt----" "Oh! And then?" "I believe I talked about having a friend once with a name rather like yours, but not quite. That's all, truly. I had no idea that Marie Gaunt----" "Did you speak about the convent?" "I told him and the curé that I'd been brought up at a convent school, but I didn't say where it was, or anything about it at all. There was no time or chance then. I meant to tell Vanno lots of things when we were alone; but there was only our walk down the mountain together, and we had so much to say to each other about the present and future, I forgot about the past, and I think he did, too. The only thing I've had time to say about myself is that I've no relatives except a very disagreeable aunt and cousin. There was nothing, not a word, that you need be afraid of." "Thank God!" exclaimed Marie, with a sigh as of one who wakes to consciousness free of pain, after an operation which might have opened the door of death. "And you'll swear to me that never will you tell Angelo, or Vanno, or any one else at all, that you'll not even confess to a priest that I was Marie Grant, a girl you knew at the convent of St. Ursula-of-the-Lake." "I'll swear it, if that will make you happier." "It will--it does. Swear that nothing can tempt you to break your word." "Nothing shall tempt me to break my word." "Swear by your love for Vanno, and his for you." "I swear by my love for Vanno and his love for me." Marie bent down suddenly, seized Mary's hand, and kissed it. "Thank you," she said. "Now I can be at peace, for a little while. Now I can be glad that you're engaged to Vanno. And we may see each other, and all four be happy together. The ordeal's over." XXIX In a few days most of the people between Nice and Mentone who had been interested in the beautiful and rather mysterious Mary Grant knew that she was engaged to marry Prince Giovanni Della Robbia, a son of the Roman Duke di Rienzi. Many of them, especially the women, said that she was very lucky, probably a great deal luckier than she deserved; and all the gossip about her which had been a favourite tea-time topic, before her losses at the Casino began to make her a bore, was revived again. The self-satisfied mother and bird-like girl who had travelled with her in the Paris train had a great deal to say. They wondered "if the poor Prince _knew_; but of course he couldn't know. He was simply infatuated. Very sad. He was such a handsome young man, so noble looking, and so, in a way, _historic_. A million times too good for Miss Grant, even if there were nothing against her. Of course, he had gambled too: but then everything was so different for a man." They talked so much that the mother's bridge friends, and the girl's tennis friends, and the dwellers in villas who, for one cause or another, had admitted Mrs. and Miss Cayley-Binns to the great honour of "luncheon-terms" or the lesser honour of "tea-terms," asked them for particulars. Facts were demanded at a luncheon given for the purpose by Lady Meason, whose husband had once been Lord Mayor of London. This lady had gone to bed and stopped there for a month at the end of Sir Henry's year of office, in sheer chagrin that "Othello's occupation" was gone, and her crown of glory set upon another's head, while she must retire to the obscurity of Bayswater. Being threatened with acute melancholia, a specialist had advised a change of air; and Lady Meason had begun once more to blossom like a rose--of the fully developed, cabbage order--in the joy of being "one of the most notable, popular and successful hostesses of the season at Mentone." She had bought several hundred copies of a Riviera paper which described her in this manner, and sent them to all the people who had cooled to her at the end of Sir Henry's Great Year; and living on her new reputation, she gave each week at her handsome villa two large luncheons, one small and select dinner where no untitled person was invited, and a huge Saturday afternoon tea at the Mentone Casino, with a variety entertainment thrown in. She had rented a villa last occupied by a notorious semi-royal personage, and engaged at great expense one of the best _chefs_ to be had on the Riviera; had indeed, figuratively speaking, snapped him out of the mouth of a duke; and somehow, no one quite knew how, had succeeded, after nerve-racking efforts, in capturing a few of the bright, particular stars whose light really counted in the social illumination of the Riviera. To get them in the first instance, she had been obliged to give a dance, and to offer cotillon favours worth at least five hundred francs each; and these things had been alluringly displayed in a fashionable jeweller's window for a week before the entertainment, just at the time when people were making up their minds whether or not to accept "that weird creature's" invitations. Afterward she had clinched matters by importing _en masse_ a world-famed troop of dancers from the theatre at Monte Carlo to her villa at Mentone, paying them a thousand pounds for the evening; but her reward had been adequate. She was becoming a sort of habit--like a comfortable old coat--among the great, who like comfortable old coats as well as do those who are not great, and quite important persons were already forgetting to allude to her as a weird creature in confessing that they had accepted her invitations. She had even become of consequence enough to snub Lady Dauntrey at the opera in Monte Carlo, although, early in the season, the Dauntreys had been the first members of the peerage who had adorned her villa. As for Mrs. Holbein, of whose acquaintance she had almost boasted in prehistoric days when Sir Henry was only an alderman, Lady Meason now loudly refused to know her. At first, Mrs. Cayley-Binns and her daughter (spelt Alys) had looked from afar off at the magnificent villa of this notable hostess, and had read enviously the paragraphs in London and Riviera papers describing her entertainments, not missing one of the long list of names attached. Then one day they had come across the name of Miss Constantia Sutfield, a woman who had been governess to a royal princess. Morton Cayley, M. D., their distant cousin, had cured Miss Sutfield of a malady pronounced fatal by other physicians with fewer letters after their names. He was unfortunately a very distant cousin; but when he was young Mrs. Cayley-Binns' late husband had lent him money, and he had been so grateful that she had always felt entitled to speak of him openly as "dear cousin Morton, the great physician, you know, whom all the royalties love." She wrote promptly and begged him for a letter of introduction to Miss Sutfield, who was living above the lower levels of Mentone, at the Annonciata. The letter came and was sent to Miss Sutfield, after Mrs. Cayley-Binns had increased her expenses at the Hotel Victoria Palace, by taking better rooms and a private salon. She had heard it said that the lady inquired of hall porters, before presenting her visiting cards, on which floor were the apartments of her would-be acquaintances, and whether they had their own sitting-room. Miss Sutfield, who always talked of the princess (now a queen) whom she had governed as "dear little Mousie," called in her most stately manner upon Sir Morton's cousins. She was chilling at first, icily regular as "Maud" herself, using the full power of that invaluable manner which had kept Mousie hypnotized for years, both as princess and queen. The cold museum of her memory, full of stately echoings from palaces of kings, was opened for the Cayley-Binns' benefit as show-houses are thrown open to the humble public. She wore a majesty of air which, to the Cayley-Binns and others who had never "been to court" or to country house parties except in the pages of Society novels, seemed peculiarly distinctive of the peerage. She warmed slightly, however, when in some turn of the conversation Mrs. Cayley-Binns mentioned knowing "that Miss Grant, who is engaged to _poor_ Prince Giovanni Della Robbia." Seeing that she had inadvertently struck a vein of ore, Mrs. Cayley-Binns ventured to hint that the family of the Prince was known to her also. She was wisely a little mysterious about the acquaintance, and contrived to pique the interest of Miss Sutfield by vague and desperately involved allusions. When she begged the lady's good offices in the matter of a card for Lady Meason's next Casino tea, the favour was promised. The card came for mother and daughter, who met nobody during the early part of the entertainment, except a journalist who kindly pointed out notabilities--a good-natured man who confessed hating so intensely to hurt people's feelings that he invented for his "society" articles new pink, white or green frocks for girls who were too often obliged to appear in their old blue ones, during the season. Later, however, Miss Sutfield swept toward them like a large yacht under full sail, and regretted that her friend Miss Idina Bland had been prevented from appearing, on account of a sharp attack of influenza. "She's staying with me at the Annonciata," Mousie's friend explained; "a charming creature, so uncommon, lately come into a tremendous lot of money, I believe, through some relative in America she nursed till the end. She wanted to have a talk with you both, when I told her you knew the Duke of Rienzi's family. They're cousins of hers in some way. She seems keen to hear about this Miss Grant. But everybody wants to hear about her! Would you like to come to quite a small intimate sort of lunch party at Lady Meason's, and meet Miss Bland when she gets well, and let us have a nice little cozy gossip about this _quaint_ engagement?" Mrs. Cayley-Binns was enchanted. The one difficulty lay in the scantiness of her information. She made up her mind, however, like a good general, that the difficulty must somehow be overcome, and accepted without visible hesitation. Before she left the Casino she invited the journalist to call, with the intention of pumping him, as he seemed to know everything about everybody of importance, and might have details to impart concerning Prince Vanno Della Robbia. Also, on the way home she bought an "Almanach de Gotha," and made herself familiar with the family history of the Dukes of Rienzi, since the year 1215, when the title first came into being. Naturally, when the moment arrived, and everybody at Lady Meason's table was looking eagerly at Mrs. Cayley-Binns--hitherto insignificant--she felt forced to say something worth saying about Miss Grant. She swallowed hard, choked in a crumb, hastily sipped the excellent champagne Lady Meason gave at her second-best parties, and recovering herself said that "well, really, what she knew was almost too shocking to tell." There was a Frenchman, good-looking, evidently a sort of gentleman, in the train with Miss Grant when she was travelling from England. They had pretended to be strangers, but had evidently known each other well, as several little signs crossing on the boat, and later, had "given away." Since then, this man had followed Miss Grant to Monte Carlo, and the Cayley-Binns had seen him talking to her _most earnestly_ in a retired corner of the biggest room at the Casino. Not (Mrs. Cayley-Binns hastened to interpolate) that she was in the habit of taking her daughter to the Casino at Monte Carlo, or of going often herself, but occasionally if with friends she did "just walk through the Rooms, on a Concert day." Others, whose word _could not be doubted_, had said that the Frenchman, an artist, had got into difficulties at the Casino and had obtained money from Miss Grant, some of it in the form of cheques, which he had boasted of and shown everywhere. Of course he must be a detestable creature; but that fact did not excuse Miss Grant's friendship with him; rather the contrary. And even if he were a blackmailer, why, there must be _some_ foundation for the blackmail; otherwise there would be no object in paying to have a secret kept--whatever it might be. Then there ensued a good deal of discussion as to the nature of the secret, provided it existed; and Mrs. Cayley-Binns talked eloquently though discreetly with Miss Bland about the latter's "interesting Roman relatives." She admitted to Prince Vanno's cousin that she had not "exactly been at Rome, or at Monte Della Robbia, though she had travelled in Italy"; but she "thought it must have been in Cairo" that she had met the Prince. He was so much in the East, was he not? And she too had been in the East. (It was not necessary to state that it had been in an excursion steamer which allowed three days for Cairo, three for Constantinople.) The dear Prince might possibly not remember her name, but she would never forget him, he was so handsome and agreeable, such a romantic figure in the world; and Alys was quite in love with his profile. In the end, she discovered that Miss Bland was far more interested in the elder brother than the younger, and in Prince Della Robbia's wife rather than in Prince Vanno's fiancée; but it was too late to construct an acquaintance, however slight, with the former; and certainly Miss Bland had seemed interested in the details concerning Mary Grant. The girl's name had struck her particularly, it appeared. She repeated it several times over, saying, "Mary Grant--Mary Grant. I didn't know her name was Mary." And Miss Bland had the air of being puzzled, as if there was something in the name--a very common sort of name--which perplexed her. Luckily Mrs. Cayley-Binns and Alys were sure that the name was Mary. They had seen it on a cheque, payable at a Monte Carlo bank, which Miss Grant by request had given to a bazaar for a Mentone charity. Of course people like that often were charitable; and in such persons it was more selfish than generous when you came to think of it, as charity was supposed to cover a multitude of sins. Everywhere the engagement was talked of, for it was considered extraordinary and hardly allowable that an eccentric, sensational sort of girl about whose early career nobody knew anything should have "gobbled up" a young man whose name was known throughout Europe. There were only a few who went about saying that she was worthy of her Prince; Dick Carleton, who was loyal, though heartbroken; Jim Schuyler, who wondered always why Mary Grant's face was closely associated in his mind with his cousin Molly Maxwell's; Major Norwood, who rejoiced that Mary was appropriated, because the Maharajah of Indorwana would now see the uselessness of lingering at Monte Carlo; and Captain Hannaford, who said rather loudly wherever he went that the Roman chap was a d----d lucky fellow. The Dauntreys said nothing at all on the subject. If they had opinions they had ceased to count, for more people every day were dropping even Lord Dauntrey. There had been a scene at a hotel, where Lady Dauntrey had struck Miss Collis in the face with her muff, for refusing to bow to her. A pink paper in London had printed a verse describing the scene, which everybody saw and talked about and laughed at. The paying guests all, or almost all, left the Villa Bella Vista after this, and--it was said--tradesmen were refusing supplies. The servants were gone or going; Lady Dauntrey had to do her own work or leave it undone; but still Lord Dauntrey was continually in the Casino, his wife hovering restlessly in the background. Even the Holbeins gave them up, and Lady Dauntrey was sometimes seen with the Frenchman who boasted of receiving Miss Grant's cheques. He was supposed to be introducing amateurs to Lord Dauntrey, as fresh "victims" for the system. As for Mary, she was out of the exotic atmosphere of gossip and scandal and system-mongering. It would have surprised her extremely if she had been told that whole luncheon parties at villas, and tea-parties at second-rate hotels, thrived and battened on talk concerning her affairs, past, present, and to come. She was so happy that she felt often as if she loved everybody in the world, and longed to make everybody else as happy, or almost as happy, as she. For two days after meeting the Princess Della Robbia she was thoughtful, and a little absent-minded even with Vanno; but when his brother and sister-in-law came together to call upon her, Marie appeared so light-hearted, so entirely at ease, that Mary began to regain her spirits again. It was foolish to feel sad and anxious, almost conscience-stricken, about Marie, if Marie had none of these feelings about herself. Then Mrs. Winter gave a large "At Home" in Miss Grant's honour, which was a great success. Marie did not come, because she was unfortunately suffering with headache; but Prince Della Robbia appeared, and stood most of the time near Mary and Vanno. It was wonderful how many people knew and liked the Winters. All the most interesting "personages" on the Riviera passed through Rose's pretty rooms that afternoon, if but to say "How do you do?" and "Goodbye," and make the acquaintance of Prince Vanno, with the Princess-to-be. Everybody came, from a dowdy and perfectly charming German royalty down to poor old General Caradine, who had played roulette for twenty-five years, with the same live Mexican toad for a fetish; whose two great boasts were that he had learned the language of birds, and that he had fought a duel with a man for defaming Queen Mary of Scots. There were an English Foreign Secretary and a leader of the Opposition hobnobbing together. There was an author who wrote under two names, and had come to study Monte Carlo in order to write two epoch-making novels, one in favour of the Casino, one against, and was taking notes of everybody he met, for both books. There was an Austrian princess who had more beautiful jewels than any woman at Monte Carlo, except a celebrated dancer who was taking a rest cure at the Hôtel de Paris; and there was the princess' half-sister who had married a poor artist and lived in his house in the mountains, doing her own cooking. Also there were all Rose's queer black sheep who yielded meekly to her ribbon-wreathed crook, though they "butted" against George's methods. Some of these were seriously shorn sheep, yet Rose would not for worlds have hurt their feelings by forgetting to invite them. It was a marvellously incongruous assemblage, as most large and far-reaching entertainments at Monte Carlo must be; and odd things happened in corners behind tea-tables, such as young gamblers producing large wads of notes freshly won in the Rooms and flourishing them under the eyes of ladies who tabooed the name of the Casino. But there was no gossip, no scandal: for somehow in "St. George" Winter's house one felt warmly disposed even to one's enemies; and no unkind words were spoken by any one except General Caradine. He, who had a habit of mumbling his secret thoughts aloud unconsciously, was heard to mutter: "Same old crew: same dull lot, year after year, world without end. Damned tired of 'em!" This party cleared the air for Mary. Engaged to Prince Vanno Della Robbia, approved by his elder brother, and the guest of the popular Winters, those who counted in the great world were quite ready to forget that she had been "rather talked about," or else to like her all the better for that reason. It was only the people who were on the fringe of things, like Mrs. Cayley-Binns, or beyond the pale, like Mrs. Holbein or Lady Dauntrey, who bitterly remembered her eccentricities. The day after Rose's "At Home" for Miss Grant was Mary's last as the Winters' guest. Princess Della Robbia wanted her at the Villa Mirasole, and Vanno wished her to go. He had written to tell the Duke of his engagement; and as his father begged him to come home and talk it over, he thought of leaving soon, for three or four days. He felt that, if he must part from Mary, he would like her to be at his brother's house. While Rose's maid obligingly packed her things, Mary went out on that last afternoon for a walk with Vanno. He had a special object in view, it seemed, but intended it to be a surprise. First, he took her to the rock of the tablet, "Remember eternal at my heart." It was early, and fashionable folk were still lingering over their luncheons at the restaurants, therefore the two had the long road, in curve after curve of dusty whiteness, all to themselves, as if hour and place were both their own. "It was here we first spoke to each other," Vanno said, "here where another man of Italy who loved a girl of your country had the great moment of his life to remember. Something made me speak to you at this spot. Perhaps where love has been--everlasting love--it leaves an influence always, something stronger and more eternal and far more subtle than words carved in a tablet of marble or stone. Who can tell about such things in life, things that are in life yet beyond and behind it, where we can catch only whispers of a message and a mystery? Perhaps it was the influence of that other love which made me speak in spite of myself--for I hadn't meant to speak. I wanted to tell you here, dearest one, _cara_, _carissima_, how I love you--how my love for you is 'eternal at my heart' and my soul--all there is of me." He took both her hands, and when his eyes had said again to her eyes what his lips had just spoken, they both looked up at the words on the marble tablet. "If those two who loved each other return in spirit sometimes together," Vanno said, "I think they must have been here the day when we first met at this spot, and that they are here again now. If they see us they know why we have come, and they are glad and pleased with us, like two lovers who 'make a match' between dear friends." "It is a beautiful thought of yours," Mary answered; "and it seems so real that I can almost see those lovers. But remember the story--how they were parted forever on this earth. Do you know, I feel almost--just a tiny bit--superstitious. I mean about our coming here especially to make a vow of eternal love to each other. What if we, too, should be parted?" "Darling, nothing can part us," Vanno assured her, "because love has made our hearts one, now and forever. You and I have belonged to each other since time began, through hundreds of earth-lives perhaps, and thousands of vicissitudes: always finding one another again. A little while ago, a cloud came between us, and it seemed as if we might be swept away from one another; but it passed, and we found each other and ourselves, in the light, far above cloudline. That's why I say, nothing can part us now, not even death. And as for this tablet of two parted lovers, it wasn't put up to commemorate their sorrows, but their happiness; and so it can bring us only happiness." "Look!" Mary exclaimed, standing back a little from the mule path which descended there, and pressing closer under the rock of the tablet. Winding down the path came a little procession, a few peasants bareheaded, dressed in black, clean and piteous in their neatness. The women were silently crying, tears wet on their brown cheeks, their eyes red. The men, two who were old and two who were young, carried a very small, roughly made bier, on which was a tiny coffin almost covered with flowers, and wild, scented herbs of the mountains. Their thick boots clattered on the cobblestones, but they made no other sound, and none raised their eyes as they went by. It was as if the lovers were invisible to them, as though they were of a different order of being which the sad eyes were not fitted to see. As the procession defiled upon the main road, at the foot of the mule path it paused a moment. Though the mourners did not see him, Vanno took off his hat and stood with it held rather high above his head, in his right hand, as is the custom with all Latin men for the passing of a funeral. The driver of a landau that climbed the hill, and a chauffeur driving an automobile down toward the lower Corniche, paid the same reverence to the little coffin, giving right of way to the procession before moving on. The funeral turned in the direction of Roquebrune, and Mary and Vanno guessed that it was going to the church there, and the curé. But in the landau which had waited was a pretty young bride and a tall-hatted bridegroom, with bridesmaid and "best man." They were evidently beginning the honeymoon, which would consist of a long drive in wedding finery and flowers, then a dinner, and perhaps the grand _finale_ of a dance. At sight of the funeral coming out from the mule path and passing directly in front of their horses, the bride let fall her huge bouquet, and regardless of tulle veil and fluffy laces, cast herself into her husband's arms, hiding her face on his shoulder. "_Quel mauvais signe!_" muttered the driver, as he put on his much paraffined silk hat, settled his wedding _boutonnière_ in its place, and drove on at a trot. Mary looked up at Vanno without speaking, but her eyes, saddened by the sorrow of others, asked a question. "'In the midst of life!'" Vanno quoted. "But it is not a bad sign for us or for any one. And even if we were superstitious, we saw the wedding _last_." XXX Vanno's "surprise" for Mary was a beautiful piece of land which he wanted to buy for her, in order to have a home where they might come sometimes, and spend a few weeks alone together in the country where they had first met and loved each other. The ground that he had set his heart upon was close to the curé's garden, and it belonged to Achille Gonzales. Already, at Vanno's request, the curé had interviewed both Achille and the older Gonzales. An appointment had been made for three o'clock, and the curé was to have introduced the two rich peasants, father and son, to the Prince; but owing to the procession which Vanno and Mary had seen, he was not able to keep his engagement. And rather strangely, Mary's host had been prevented by much the same reason, from accepting Vanno's invitation to meet him "on the land" a little later. He too had a funeral service that day, but a very different funeral, and one which oppressed "St. George" Winter with a peculiar sadness. Death, as a rule, did not seem sad to him; but he had a horror of the habit of gambling, which appeared to his eyes like an incubus on a man's life, a dead albatross hung round the neck to rot. And this man who had died and was to be buried in the cemetery at Monaco had been a gambler for thirty years. He and his faded wife had existed rather than lived in a third-class hotel, where they kept on the same rooms year after year, never going away in the summer unless, if exceptionally prosperous, to spend a few of the hottest weeks in the mountains. Their tiny rooms were given them at a cheap rate because the man brought clients to the hotel, "amateurs" who wished to learn his great system, the system to whose perfecting he had devoted thirty years. He had advertised himself, and almost believed in himself, as "_le roi de la roulette_," who for payment of two louis would impart to any one the secret of unlimited wealth. Ignoring failure, pursuing success, his own tiny fortune, his wife's youth, had gone. And as his body went to the grave the whole record of his life--thousands of roulette cards in neat packets, innumerable notebooks containing the great secret--lay waiting for the dustman. The man's wife in preparing to leave Monte Carlo forever had turned all his treasures out of the trunks where through years they had accumulated, and had them flung into a huge dust bin kept for the waste things of the hotel kitchen. This George Winter knew, for the woman had boasted bitterly of the last revenge she meant to take. "'Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.' Let all be swept away and forgotten," she had said; and the words haunted the chaplain, mourning through his brain like the voice of the tideless sea that moaned ceaselessly under his study window. He longed to go back to Rose and be cheered by her into hopefulness, to have her assure him in her warm, loving way that he was doing some good in this strange place of brilliant gayety and black tragedy; that his work was not all in vain, though so often he likened it to the task of Sisyphus. But he found Dick Carleton with Rose, and their faces told him that there was no hope of comfort. "Oh, St. George, poor Captain Hannaford is dead!" were Rose's first words as her husband came into the drawing-room. Then she was sorry that she had flung the news at him so abruptly, for just too late she read in his eyes the wistful need of consolation. "Dead!" he echoed, almost stupidly. He had liked Hannaford, and had often invited him to play chess in the evenings, hoping with unconquerable optimism to "wean him from the Casino." The quiet man, with his black patches, his calm manner and slow smile as unreadable as the eyes of the Sphinx, had seemed to George Winter a curiously tragic yet mysteriously attractive figure. "Hannaford dead!" he repeated slowly. "I only just heard," Dick explained. "I was down at my hangar tinkering with the _Flying Fish_, for, you know, I'm taking her to Cannes to-morrow. Poor Hannaford's hotel isn't far away, and he used to stroll over and talk to me sometimes. The manager knew that, and sent a boy to ask me to come in at once. He didn't say what the matter was, except that something had happened to Hannaford. It seems that lately he's been in the habit of sleeping through the whole morning, giving orders that he wasn't to be disturbed till he rang. So when there were no signs of him to-day at lunch time nobody worried. It was only when two o'clock came and he hadn't stirred that the _valet de chambre_ began to think it queer. They have glass transoms over the doors, and they could see his room was dark. I expect they listened at the keyhole; anyhow, the landlord was consulted at last, and when they'd knocked and called without getting any answer, at last they opened the door. Luckily nobody was about at that time of day--every one out of doors or in the Casino, so there was no scene. Hannaford was lying as if asleep in bed, but stone cold; and the doctor they sent for said he must have been dead for hours. In his hand was a volume of Omar Khayyam, with a faded white rose for a book marker. There was a bottle half full of veronal tabloids on the table by the bedside; and he was known to be in the habit of taking veronal, as he was a bad sleeper. One hopes it was simply--an overdose, taken accidentally." "Why should any one suspect the contrary?" Winter asked, his kind voice sharpened by distress. Dick was silent, looking at Rose. "Come and sit by me, dear," she said, holding out her hand to her husband. He came, sinking down on the sofa with a sense of relief, for he had been conscious of a weakness in the knees, as if on entering the room he had stumbled blindly against a bar of iron. "Dick and I had just got to that part, when you opened the door," Rose went on. "We are afraid--you said yourself that Captain Hannaford was changed, the last time he came here." "Only three days ago," George mused aloud. "He didn't look well. But he said he was all right." "He would! You know how he hated to talk of himself or anything he felt, poor fellow. But I thought even then--I guessed----" "What?" "That it was a blow to him, hearing of Mary Grant's engagement." As she said this, Rose carefully did not look at her cousin. She was not at all anxious about Dick. She knew that he would "get over it," and even prophesied to herself that his heart would be "caught in the rebound" by the first very pretty, very nice girl who happened to be thrown with him in circumstances at all romantic. Mary was not his first love by any means, and would certainly not be his last; and meanwhile Rose felt that unconsciously he was enjoying his own jealous pain. Still, she did not wish to "rub it in." "We both imagined that Captain Hannaford was in love with Miss Grant," she explained; for one had to explain these things to George. She often thought it a wonder that he had come down to earth long enough to fall in love, himself; but when she observed this to him, he had answered that it was not coming down to earth. "We were most of us more or less in that condition," Dick remarked bravely. "The rest of you have a great deal left to live for, even without her," said Rose. "Captain Hannaford hadn't. But I'm thankful they're not likely, anyhow, to prove that his death was not--an accident." "They don't go out of their way to prove such things here, ever," Dick mumbled. "People will say," Rose pursued, "that there was no motive for suicide--nothing to worry about. He'd won heaps of money, and seemed very keen on the villa he'd bought." "By Jove, I wonder what'll happen to that unlucky villa now!" Carleton exclaimed. "Somehow, Hannaford didn't seem the sort of chap to bother about wills and leaving all his affairs nice and tidy in case anything happened." "He told me once that he had no people--that he was entirely alone," said George. "Still, he must have had friends, friends far more intimate than those he made here. Even we were no more than acquaintances. He gave us no confidence." "I can't imagine his confiding in any one," Rose said. "But--I'm not at all sure whether it's a coincidence or not: a letter has just come by the afternoon post, for Mary Grant, in his handwriting. It has an Italian stamp, and is post-marked Ventimiglia. Probably he wrote it yesterday, at the Château Lontana, knowing it wouldn't get to her till this afternoon, as the posts from Italy are so slow." "How strange!" George exclaimed. "Strange, and very sad." "The letter hadn't been in the house five minutes, when Dick came in with the news of his death." George's eyes, which appeared always to see something mysteriously beautiful behind people's heads, fixed themselves on vacancy that did not seem to be vacant for him. "Hannaford was there in his house alone yesterday, writing to Miss Grant," he murmured. "How little he thought that when she read his letter he would be in another world." "I wonder?" Rose whispered. "It is long after five. Mary will be coming in soon. Then, perhaps, we shall know." XXXI Dick Carleton had gone before Vanno brought Mary back to the Winters' flat. Unconsciously he was enjoying his heartbreak. It was satisfactory to prove the depth and acuteness of his own feelings, for sometimes he had feared that he might not be capable of a great love, a love in the "grand manner," such as swept off their feet men in the novels and plays which women adored. Now he believed himself to be in the throes of such a love and was secretly proud of his passion, but the pain of seeing Prince Vanno with Mary was rather too real, too sharp for analytical enjoyment; and when he could, Dick avoided twisting the knife in his wound. Rose and George Winter had been alone together only for a few minutes, and there had been no time to decide upon any plan of action, when Mary and Vanno came in. The girl was looking radiant, for in the excitement of bargaining for land she had forgotten, not the little procession to which men lifted their hats, but the heavy sense of impending loss it had laid upon her heart. Rose thought that she had never seen Mary in such beauty. She seemed to exhale happiness; and the fancy flashed through the mind of the older woman that the girl's body was like a transparent vase filled to its crystal brim with the wine of joy and life. To tell the news of Hannaford's death would be to pour into the vase a dark liquid, and cloud the opalescent wine. Still, Mary must be told, and it would be better, safer, for her to know before she opened the letter with the Italian postmark; otherwise something written there might come upon her with a shock. Rose and her husband glanced at one another. Each was hoping that the other would find a way to begin. Mary had come to feel very happily at home with the Winters in the short time she had spent with them; and often at night when she dreamed of being at the Villa Bella Vista she waked thankfully, with a sense of escape from something unknown yet vaguely terrible. She could talk with Rose and George Winter as with old friends, and Vanno too had the feeling of having known them both for a long time. They began to tell of their adventures with the Gonzales family at Roquebrune, and Rose caught at the excuse to put off the moment she dreaded. "It was such fun up there!" Mary exclaimed. "I'd no idea that one bought land by the square yard, or metre; but it's the way here, apparently; and Vanno's going to give that handsome young man who's engaged to your maid twelve francs a metre for his _terrain_, although there's no road to it. But really that's a great advantage according to the father, a large yellow old man with no hair to speak of, and only one tooth, round which his words seem to eddy as water eddies round a stone in a pool. It was fascinating to watch! We're to have crowds of fireflies, because there'll be no motor dust; and the saying among the peasants is that the _mouches brillantes_ search always with their lanterns, for a lost brother. And birds will '_se coucher dans les roses chez nous_.' Isn't that a darling expression? Think of having birds go to bed in your roses! So you see, the land's quite worth the twelve francs, because there's no road; and I almost hope there'll never be one, for Vanno and I shan't want to come down often from our castle in the air, where the view's so wonderful. There's no water there yet; but the most fun of all to-day was the water-diviner the old Gonzales brought. He squatted on the ground, holding an immense silver watch by a chain--a little gnome of a man with a huge head thatched with gray hair. As he swung his watch, tendons in his throat worked as chicken's claws do scratching for worms; and whenever his watch began to swing violently it meant that he was over a spring. He found three springs within a few yards of each other, so we've only to dig, and get torrents of water." "I'm sure you were children in the hands of those shrewd peasants," said Rose, "unless your friend the curé was with you." "No, he wasn't, but he sent a man to translate the _patois_, for the old Gonzales can't speak much French; and it was lucky we had this man to take our part, because of a big caroubier-tree on the place which belongs to a distant cousin of the Gonzales, and has been in his family for generations. Vanno must buy it separately, otherwise the owner will have a right to come and beat it all night if he likes, or tether animals under the branches. Fortunately the curé's friend warned us in time." "Gonzales is rather a celebrated old chap," George Winter remarked, composing his mind as Mary talked on. "He made a reputation by refusing a fortune in order to keep a tiny _baraque_ of a house which he and his wife had lived in for forty years." "So he told us," said Vanno. "A wonderful story; it sounded too good to be true." "Was it about the Russian countess who wanted to buy a large piece of land, and all the other peasant owners were keen to sell, except Gonzales, who had a bit about twenty yards square, exactly in the middle?" asked Rose. "Yes, and the countess went up and up in her bidding from two thousand francs to four hundred thousand; but Gonzales wouldn't sell, because he liked the view. He told us that he still lives in the _baraque_, though he owns other houses and much land." "Perfectly true," said Rose. "I walk up and chat with him sometimes. He's very rich for a peasant, and shrewd, though stupid too, for he has a horror of banks and hides his money heaven knows where. He had thousands of francs in banknotes in a cellar among his potatoes, and they were all eaten by rats; but he only shrugged his shoulders and said 'twas no worse than having them devoured by speculators. Oh, these peasants of the Riviera are wonderful!" "Vanno and I will make friends with them when we have a house up there," said Mary. "Maybe it will be ready next year. Who knows? Vanno says we must come every season, if only for a few weeks, just to show ourselves that we care for other things than the Casino. And then, how delightful to see our friends! You, who have been so good to me, and Captain Hannaford, if he's living in his Italian château----" "Dear, he won't be there," said Rose, laying her hand on Mary's, as the two sat together on the flowery chintz sofa. "Why--what makes you think that?" Mary asked quickly, noticing at last the pallor of Rose's face. "I don't think. I know. George and I have been wondering how we were to tell you, because you and Captain Hannaford were such good friends." "Were? Oh, Mrs. Winter, he is not--dead? But no, we met him walking day before yesterday. He looked--much as usual. Only perhaps a little pale." "His heart must have been weak," Rose said. "You know, he didn't sleep well. And a little while ago they found that he'd passed away in the night quite peacefully. They believe it must have been an overdose of veronal. He was in the habit of taking it." Mary sprang up, her hands clasped and pressed against her breast. All colour was drained from her face. There was a look of horror in her eyes, as if she saw some dreadful thing which others could not see. But Rose thought that she knew what brought the look, and hurried on before Mary could speak. "Such accidents have been happening often lately. People oughtn't to be allowed to buy drugs and take any dose they choose." "It--they do say that--that it was an accident?" Mary stammered, the blood flowing slowly back to cheeks and lips. "Oh, yes. Dick, who told us, said so at once. And everybody else here will say it, you may be sure." Vanno went to Mary, and taking her clasped hands, with gentle force drew her against his shoulder, in true Latin indifference to the presence of others. "Darling, don't look so desperate," he said. "Poor Hannaford wasn't a happy man in his life. I think he must be glad to die." "Ah, that is the reason I----" Mary stopped. She had not told him or any one that Hannaford had wished to be more than a friend to her. It had not seemed right to tell even Vanno about another's love and disappointment. Almost it would have been, she felt, like boasting. "Perhaps George and I might have let you go on being happy while you were with us," Rose said, "if a letter hadn't come addressed to you in Captain Hannaford's handwriting. It was better for you to know everything before opening it, just in case----" Rose did not finish her sentence, but, getting up, went to the mantelpiece, where she had placed the envelope in front of a gilded French clock that looked pitifully frivolous as a background. "Would you like us to go out, and let you read your letter alone with the Prince?" she asked, as she gave the envelope to Mary. The girl shook her head. "No, I'd rather have you all with me." For a minute she stood with the sealed envelope in her hand, looking down at her name in Hannaford's clearly formed, thick, and very black handwriting. She had received two or three notes from him, and in spite of their friendship had tossed them indifferently away as soon as read. But that was before their luncheon together at the Rochers Rouges. Since then he had not written. Mary wished now that she had kept his letters, and her heart was heavy with remorse because she had thought very seldom about him since her need of his sympathy no longer existed. How selfish and cruel she had been! The girl made a sudden movement as if to break the seal pressed by Hannaford's ring, but paused, and taking a hatpin from her hat carefully cut the envelope across the top. Pulling out the folded sheet of paper she turned away even from Vanno, making an excuse that she must have more light. My One Friend [Hannaford's letter began]: You have many friends, and that is as it should be, but I have only one human being dear enough to be called by the good name of "friend": _You._ And that's why I am writing you now. There's nobody else I care to write to; but somehow I want you to know that I haven't got a very long lease of life. Doctors tell me this. My heart isn't much good for the ordinary everyday uses a man wants to put his heart to, and soon it may decide to strike work. I feel sure this verdict is a true one, but I wouldn't bother you with my presentiments if it weren't for a certain thing which concerns your future. I may wake up dead--as the Irishman remarked--any morning, and I want you to have whatever is mine to leave behind me. You mustn't object to this, for it's the one thought that gives me pleasure; and honestly there's no one else to whom I can bequeath my worldly goods. All I have worth giving is the Château Lontana and just enough money to make it habitable. I am writing this letter there, on the loggia I told you about. I used to wish it could be arranged for you to come and see my big new toy. I was pretty sure you would like it, for I felt--though you never told me so--that you cared a great deal for beautiful and romantic things. The Château Lontana in its poetic wilderness of garden is both romantic and beautiful. You could never manage to come; but that doesn't matter now, if I may think of you there when the place is yours. Of course I may hang on in this weary vale for years, but I hope not, because (as I've mentioned more than once) even if I haven't outstayed my welcome, I'm getting more than a little tired of the entertainment provided by that "host who murders all his guests"--the World. If I should drop off suddenly, you will find my will in the hands of Signor Antonio Nicolini, via Roma, Ventimiglia. He's a nice little Italian lawyer whom I've made my man of business lately. He has all my affairs in charge. It will be the greatest favour and kindness you can do me, if you will take this house I loved but never lived in. This I hope you will do for my sake--the sake of a friend. You know you promised that day at the Rochers Rouges to grant me a favour, and I hold you to your word. Another request I venture to make, you must grant only if you don't find the idea repugnant. It oughtn't to matter much to me one way or the other, and it shall be as you choose, but I should like when my body's cremated (that is to be done in any case) to have my ashes lie at the south end of the garden, where some steps are cut in the rock coming out at a wonderful viewpoint. If after death one can see what goes on in this world, it would console me for much to know of your coming sometimes to the Château Lontana, and perhaps sitting on that old stone seat on the rock-platform at the bottom of those steps. There is a wall of rock above the seat, and if a small niche could be cut there for an urn, with a tablet of marble to mark the spot, it would please my fancy. Should you decide to gratify the whim, please have no name carved on the marble, but only a verse you quoted that day at the Rochers Rouges. I think you told me it was by a Scottish poet, whom you liked; and I said the words had in them a strange undertone of music like a lullaby: the sound of the sea, and the sadness and mystery of the sea. You will remember. It was after luncheon was over, but we were still at the table, and you sat with your elbow on the low wall, looking down into the water. You are not to suppose, though, that because I speak of the sadness of the sea, I am sad in the thought that soon I may be gone where I can no longer hear its voice. I am not sad, and you must not be sad either at my talk of dying, or at my death when it comes. Think of me, but not with sadness. Do not come to see my body before it's given to the burning: do not come to my funeral. I don't want a funeral, for though I am not without a religion of my own, it's one that does not lend itself to ceremonies. As for the mystery of the sea, it and all other mysteries which are hidden from us now will soon, I trust, be clear to Your ever loyal, faithful friend, JOHN HANNAFORD. Long before she reached the end tears were raining down Mary's face. She could not read the letter aloud, yet she wanted the others to know what Hannaford had said. On an impulse she handed the closely covered sheet to Mrs. Winter. Rose took the letter, and read it out, not quite steadily. For a few seconds no one spoke, when she had finished. But at last she asked in a veiled voice what was the verse Hannaford wished to have on the tablet. The question seemed to Mary the only one she could have answered at that moment. Almost in a whisper she began to repeat the verse of Fiona Macleod, for which, she remembered, Hannaford had begged twice over, as they two sat on the palm-roofed terrace built over the sea: "'Play me a lulling chant, O Anthem-Maker, Out of the fall of lonely seas and the wind's sorrow. Behind are the burning glens of the sunset sky Where, like blown ghosts, the seamews Wail their desolate sea dirges. Make now of these a lulling chant, O Anthem-Maker.'" "That is all?" asked George Winter. "That is all," Mary echoed. "I think I understand why a man might want just those words for a last lullaby," Vanno said. "You'll do as he asks, I know, Mary, about the urn and the tablet with the verse, and going there to sit and think of him sometimes." "Oh, yes, I will do that," she replied quickly. "But--I don't think I can do the other thing. I _can't_ live in his house. Anyway, I can't live in it with you, Vanno. It would be----" She did not finish. To have ended the sentence would have been the same as telling Hannaford's secret. "I understand," Vanno said. But it was in Mary's mind that he did not and could not wholly understand. She did not even want him to understand. "You needn't live there," he went on. "Yet you can visit the place sometimes, from our 'castle in the air'; and maybe we can think of a way to use the house, if you accept it, which Hannaford would approve." "You can hardly refuse to accept it now Captain Hannaford is dead," said Rose. "Not to do what he so much hoped you would do for his sake would be--almost treacherous." "Yes, it seems to me you're bound to take his gift," George Winter added. "If you don't want to live in the house, why not make it a home of rest for women workers who are tired or ill, and need a few weeks of warmth and sunshine, but can't afford even cheap pension prices?" "Next season we might get up a bazaar to support such a home," Rose suggested, warming to the scheme. "Perhaps I could support it myself," Mary said, "if Vanno would consent. I haven't lost much more than my Casino winnings, and I should like to do some one good. I've ever so much money of my own. I know very little about such things, but I believe I must be quite rich. And then there's the jewellery I've bought since I came here. I've lost interest in it already. I could sell some to help the Home, couldn't I? The only things I really care for are the pearls, which I have on now under my dress; and the rest I mean to leave with you, Mrs. Winter, if you don't mind, instead of troubling to take the jewel-case over to the Villa Mirasole." "Of course I don't mind," Rose said, "except that it's a responsibility. However, thieves aren't looking for 'big hauls' in parsons' houses. I'll store the jewel-case with pleasure; but you must keep the key of the cabinet, lest you should want to open it some day when I am out." Then they went back to the subject of the Château Lontana, planning how to carry out Hannaford's wishes, even though Mary felt it would be impossible to live in the house. George Winter volunteered to arrange all details concerning the funeral urn and the placing of the tablet, because he had learned to feel an affection for Mary Grant which was almost that of a brother for a very young and beautiful sister. He wanted her, in spite of all, to be happy in her visit to Princess Della Robbia, happy as she could not be if constantly reminded of Hannaford and his tragedy. He offered also to see the lawyer at Ventimiglia, so that Vanno, who proposed soon to go to Rome, might spend his time meanwhile at the Villa Mirasole. "Don't thank me," the chaplain said at last. "It is but little I'm engaging myself to do. And it's as much for Hannaford's sake as yours. Poor Hannaford! I didn't do half enough for him when he was alive. I feel as if I owed him something now." Mary did not speak, but she shivered and very gently drew her hand away from Vanno's. She too felt that she owed Hannaford reparation, not for what she had left undone during his life, but rather for what she had done. She had taken his friendship, his kindness, his sympathy, and given him nothing in return except a little pity following upon repulsion. And she dared not ask herself how far her thoughtlessness was answerable for his death. XXXII "A letter for the Highness and one waits for answer," announced Americo, with the air of presenting a choice gift, as he bowed to the Princess over a small silver tray. She was lying among the red cushions of her favourite hammock on the loggia. Beside her in a basket chair was Angelo, with a book in his hand which he did not read, because when Marie was near him everything else seemed irrelevant. Not far away Mary sat, writing a letter to Vanno which ought to reach him the next morning. Yesterday at five o'clock she had seen him off in the Rome express; and before this time he must have arrived. "Idina Bland's hand," said Angelo, as his wife took a large gray envelope from the silver tray. "I wonder----" But he did not finish his sentence. To do so would have been superfluous, as in a moment he would know what Idina was writing about; and, besides, Angelo shrank curiously--perhaps foolishly, he sometimes felt--from speaking of Idina Bland or even mentioning her name to Marie. He was not superstitious, or at least, he told himself often that he was not; yet the very thought of his cousin depressed him as if she were a witch who from any distance could cast a spell of ill-luck upon a house. Marie had no suspicion of Angelo's feeling for Miss Bland. She knew from him that there had been a "boy and girl flirtation" when Idina had first come to stay at the Duke's country place years ago; and there was enough malice in her to enjoy the idea of a defeated rival's jealousy. For this reason she had found a certain pleasure in Idina's few visits to the Villa Mirasole, though the pale "statue-eyes" had been cold as glass for her. If Idina disliked her a little, Marie had considered it natural, and had been secretly amused, saying nothing to Angelo. "Miss Bland writes that an American friend of hers has come to stay a day or two only, and she'd like very much to have her meet us and see the villa," Marie announced, glancing through the short letter. "She wants to know if we'd mind asking them to lunch to-day. I suppose we don't mind, do we?" She held the gray sheet out to Angelo, but he did not take it. "I suppose not," he answered reluctantly. "But it's a bore having a stranger thrust on us. Why not be engaged for luncheon and invite them for tea?" Marie laughed. "Selfish man! I know what's in your head. You'd go out and leave Mary and me to entertain your dear cousin and her friend. No, I won't have Miss Bland think I'm jealous or inhospitable--for of course she'd blame me. She knows we never go out for luncheon. Unfortunately I told her. I'll write a line to send back by her messenger, to say lunch by all means." "Very well, if you think you must." Angelo spoke with gloomy resignation. "Dear Mary, you write," said Marie lazily. "You've got paper and a stylo, and she doesn't know my hand. I'm too comfortable to move." Mary put aside her letter to Vanno which must catch the next post, and scribbled a few lines to Miss Bland. "Will you sign if I bring you the pen?" she asked. "No, thanks. I give you leave to forge my name. It will soon be your own, so you may as well practise writing it," said Marie. "Just put the initial 'M.'" The girl obeyed. "M. Della Robbia," she wrote, forming the letters almost lovingly. How strange to think that before long that would be her own name! Mary Della Robbia! The sound was very sweet to her, though to be a princess was of no great importance. If Vanno were a peasant, to become his wife would make her a queen. When the answer was ready, Americo received it upon his little tray. "Two ladies for luncheon, you may tell the _chef_," said Marie. "All right, Highness. And other Highness, I was to make you know from the gardener, one fox have bin catched in a trap on the way to eat the rabbits of the semaphore. If the Highness wish to visit him, he is there for this morning." "One would think it was an invitation for an 'At Home,'" laughed Marie behind the butler's broad back, as he vanished with the letter, through the window-door. "Fancy, foxes in the woods of Cap Martin, within four miles of Monte Carlo! They ought to be extra cunning." "They must be," said Angelo, "to keep out of sight as they do in the Season, and yet manage to snatch a meal of rabbit or chicken occasionally. I think I'll stroll over to the semaphore and have a look at the gentleman, as I could hardly believe our gardener the other day when he swore there were foxes and hares in the woods." "Don't get too interested, and forget to come and receive your dear cousin and her American friend, who for all you know may be the most fascinating woman in the world," Marie called after her husband as he walked away. His smile named the woman who was above all others for him; and though Marie knew herself his goddess, she never ceased to crave the assurance. When Angelo had found his Panama and gone down the loggia steps into the garden, she laughed a soft and happy laugh. "Poor darling!" she said. "The fox is an excuse. He won't come back till the last minute. One would think he was afraid of his cousin! It's quite pathetic. Just because he had an innocent flirtation with her a hundred years ago." Marie picked up Idina's letter, which lay in the hammock. "I wonder what a graphologist--if that's the right word--would make of this handwriting? I'm no expert. But to me the writing expresses the woman as I see her: heavy, strong, intelligent, lacking all charm of sex, and selfishly cold." "Do you think Miss Bland cold?" asked Mary. "I've seen her only once, and I don't pretend to be a judge of character. Yet I had a queer thought about her when we met: that she was like a volcano under snow." The Princess did not answer, for the character of Idina being of little importance to her, she had already begun to think of something else. She was comfortably glad to be younger and far, far more attractive than Miss Bland. She was resolving that, before the two guests arrived, she would put on a particularly becoming dress in order that the heroine of the old flirtation might more keenly than ever envy Angelo's wife. This idea she did not clothe definitely in words, but it floated in her mind. "Miss Bland must have come down from the Annonciata, to lurk about Mentone waiting for my answer," she said aloud, having reread the note. "Otherwise she wouldn't have time to arrive here for lunch at one, after her messenger got back." It was now Mary's turn to be inattentive, for she was adding a postscript to her letter, which but for that addition she had finished. "Marie dreamed of pigeons last night," she scribbled hastily. "She is superstitious about them, and says they mean trouble and parting. That seems rather funny to me, after the hundreds I saw in Monte Carlo and made friends with, and fed every day. I'm glad I am not superstitious, especially now that you and I are separated. How glorious it is to feel quite sure that _our_ parting is only for a few days, instead of forever, like that of our poor lovers of 'Remember eternal.' It was dear of you to have those words engraved inside the ring you gave me. I love the quaint English. And it is like a secret which belongs only to us out of all the world." "Well!" exclaimed the Princess, after she had tried in vain to attract Mary's notice, "as you're so delightfully occupied, I may as well remove myself and leave you in peace. In less than an hour the fair Idina will be upon us; and I'm going upstairs now to make myself as pretty as Angelo thinks me, to do honour to his cousin. By the way, it's our first luncheon party, not counting you and Vanno and the curé." She slid out of the red hammock, showing slim ankles that gleamed like marble through a thin film of bronze-brown silk. As she went into the house humming some Italian air she had picked up, Mary thought how young and innocently gay she seemed. It was almost impossible to believe her the same woman who had sobbed behind a disguising veil in Rose Winter's drawing-room, begging Mary to swear by Vanno's love never to betray her secret. And it seemed equally incredible that this mirthful and charming girl could have such a secret to hide. Mary tried to forget. It was a kind of treachery to remember those tears, and the reason for them which Angelo must not know. To change her thoughts, Mary sprang up swiftly, and, calling Angelo's Persian dog Miro--a lovely white creature like a floating plume--she went out through the woods with her letter for Vanno, meaning to take a short cut among the olives, to a branch post-office not far off. As she returned a few minutes later, two women walking at a distance under the great silvery arbour watched her run by with the Persian dog. "That's the girl I told you about, who is going to marry my cousin Giovanni, Prince Della Robbia's younger brother," said Idina Bland to her companion; "the Miss Grant who has been so much talked about here." Idina had a contralto voice, with tones in it almost as deep as those of a very young man. It was musical, and gave an effect of careful training, as if she had studied voice-production and had become self-conscious through over-practising. "It's strange, the resemblance in those names," the other woman murmured, almost as if speaking to herself. She was small and extremely thin, with insignificant features and sallow, slightly freckled complexion. But, though she was one of those women who might be of any age between twenty-eight and forty, her piercing gray eyes under black eyebrows, her quivering nostrils and slightly pointed chin, gave her a look of intense vitality. She was like a powerful if small electric lamp, purposely veiled by a dun-coloured shade. "It's doubly strange, because"----she went on; then let her voice trail away into silence rather than break off abruptly. She had a slight accent suggesting the Middle West of America. "Because--what?" Miss Bland caught her up with impatience. The other deliberated before answering. Then she replied: "I'd rather not say anything more yet. I may be mistaken--very likely am. Wait until I've seen your Princess and this girl together. Then--probably I shall know." Idina Bland glanced at her angrily, and opened her lips, but closed them again, and in silence began to walk on toward the Villa Mirasole. The neat little figure of her friend in its khaki-brown tailor-made dress kept up with her briskly. The bright eyes fixed themselves for an instant on Miss Bland's sullen profile, and twinkled as they turned away. It was as if she enjoyed the knowledge that Idina was afraid to show impatience, as a small, intelligent animal often revels in dominating one that is larger and more important in its own estimation. When Mary returned to the loggia to gather up the writing materials she had left there, the Princess had come back, wearing a gown which Mary had never seen. It was a silky white taffeta over yellow, and as she moved light seemed to run through the folds like liquid gold. "'Clothed in samite, mystic, wonderful,'" Mary quoted. "This is Angelo's favourite frock," said Marie. "He thinks"--her tone changed to bitterness--"that I look like a saint in it." Mary made no comment. She felt that Marie was commanding her to silence. But it was true: this gleaming dress with its white and golden lights, and a filmy fichu crossed meekly over the breast, gave Marie a look of sweet and virginal innocence. Her head, on the long white throat rising out of the pointed folds, seemed delicately balanced as an aigrette. "Do you think I shall be able to hold my own against the lovely ladies who are coming?" she asked lightly, snatching up her sleigh-bell gayety again. "I feel sure you will," Mary replied in the same tone. Just then they faintly heard the electric bell which told that the guests had arrived, earlier than expected. Afterward Mary often remembered this question of the Princess' and her own answer. Americo brought Miss Bland and her friend out to the loggia, which was the living-room of the family in warm, sunny weather. He announced the two names with elaborate unintelligibility, but Idina at once introduced her companion as Miss Jewett of St. Louis. "We met when I was in America," she explained. "Now she's 'doing' Europe in a few weeks, cramming in enough sightseeing for an Englishman's year." "We're very flattered to be included among the sights," Marie said, smiling, but with something of the "princess" air which--perhaps unconsciously--she always put on with her husband's cousin. Miss Jewett, making some polite and formal little answer, gazed with glittering intentness at her hostess and Mary Grant. Her eyes, in the thin, sallow face with its pointed chin, were so brilliantly intelligent that they seemed to have a life and individuality of their own, separate from the rest of her small body. "Where's Angelo?" asked Idina, when they had talked for a little while, and she had apologized for being too early. "Oh, I'm so sorry he isn't at home!" Marie exclaimed, enjoying the blank disappointment that dulled Idina's expression. When she had produced her effect, she added that Angelo would come back in time for luncheon. Miss Bland turned her face away and looked down at a fountain on the terrace below the loggia. Fierceness flashed out of her like a knife unsheathed; but the back of her blond head, with its conventional dressing of the hair under a neat toque, was almost singularly non-committal. Marie went on to make conversation about the fox Angelo had gone to see, laughingly describing the "fauna" of Cap Martin, of which season visitors knew little. "They say, as soon as everybody's well out of the way, the most wonderful birds and flowers appear, that only scientific people can tell anything about," she informed her visitors. Miss Jewett listened with interest and asked questions; but a curtain seemed to have been lowered behind Idina's eyes, shutting her mind away from outside things. In the yellow drawing-room a clock tinkled out a tune, finishing with one sharp stroke; and Americo hovered uncertainly at the door-window of the big hall, seeing that his master was not with the ladies on the loggia. "We must wait a few minutes, Americo," Marie said calmly; but at the same moment Angelo appeared on the fountain terrace, and came quickly up the loggia steps. He shook hands with Idina and greeted Miss Jewett with the grave, pleasant courtesy that was not unlike Vanno's, but colder and more remote, except with those for whom he really cared. Mary wondered if Miss Bland felt the chill of his manner. They went in to luncheon, and the conversation was of abstract things. If once or twice it seemed that Idina wished to turn the talk to old days which had given memories in common to her and Angelo, the Prince checked her quietly by asking some question about Ireland or America. And it struck Mary, who was feeling vaguely sorry for this cousin held at arm's length, that Miss Jewett watched Idina with interest and even curiosity, as if she were waiting for her to do or say something in particular. At last the Princess rose, smiling at Miss Bland. "Shall we have coffee on the loggia?" she asked. "We should both like that, shouldn't we, Miss Jewett?" Idina said, with almost unnecessary emphasis. As she spoke, she looked at her friend. Angelo opened the door for them to pass out, and it was evident that he did not mean to follow at once. Seeing his intention, Idina stopped. "Aren't you coming with us, Angelo?" she asked. "I thought of smoking a cigar and joining you later," he answered. "Please come," she said. "Miss Jewett and I won't be staying long; and I'm leaving with her to-morrow. I've only been hanging on here for her to arrive. Nothing else would have kept me so long." "I will come with pleasure," Angelo said. "My cigar can wait." "Doesn't your wife let you smoke when you're with her?" Idina asked sharply. "Of course I let him!" exclaimed Marie, "though sometimes on the loggia he won't if the wind blows the smoke in our faces. To-day there's no wind, and we'll all smoke except Mary, who hates it. I'm sure you're more modern?" "I'm afraid I too am old-fashioned," said Idina. "And I'm too nervous," added her friend. "I should like to see Angelo smoke to-day," Idina went on. "It will remind me of old times. There's a balcony at Monte Della Robbia where we used to sit by moonlight sometimes, and while Angelo smoked I told him Irish fairy stories which he loved to hear. He was romantic and poetic in those days. Now I have another story to tell--not a fairy story this time. Still, it's quite interesting. At least, I think it is, and I want to see whether you agree with me--especially Angelo." He gazed at her questioningly as she sat down on a sofa opposite to him. He stood with his back against a marble pillar, and in his eyes was the look that comes to the eyes of a lion teased by a boy whom he cannot reach through the bars of his cage. "It's a story in which Miss Jewett's been collaborating with me," Idina continued. "Between us we've brought it to a fine point. I couldn't go on a step more till she came. You can imagine how tired I was of waiting, for I wanted to be at work. Now we've gathered up all our threads." The baited look faded from Angelo's eyes. "You're writing a novel together?" he asked, smiling faintly. "We've been piecing together a plot which might make a novel," said Idina. "That's why I wanted you to come out with us, instead of smoking your cigar in the house. I'd like to tell the story and see what you think of it, because I believe you are a very good judge. And a man's opinion of such things is always valuable. But please smoke! I won't begin till you do. I want that reminder of old times to give me inspiration." Angelo, entirely at his ease now, though still slightly bored, lit his cigar. The pillar against which he leaned was close to Marie's red hammock. He could look down at her while he smoked, and as she swung back and forth her dress all but brushed his knee. "Our heroine is an English girl, or perhaps Scottish, we haven't decided which," Idina began in her deep voice. "She's pretty, fascinating to men, in fact a man's woman. To other women she is a cat. And she's by nature as deceitful as all creatures of the cat tribe." "Why take such a person for your heroine?" Angelo wanted to know. "She's thrust upon us by the exigencies of the story. And, besides--why, Angelo, if you could meet the girl as I see her in real life, you'd admire her beyond anything! She would be exactly your style. You, being a man, wouldn't know that she was deceitful and a cat." "I'm sure I should know," he protested, with an involuntary glance at Marie, so saintlike and virginal in her meekly fichued dress. "You've just said that you considered me a good judge." "Not of a woman's character, but of what ought to happen to the heroine of our story in the end," Idina explained. "That's what I meant. You must give us the end of the story. But I'll go on. The girl--our heroine--comes upon the scene first at a convent-school in Scotland." Idina paused for an instant, as if taking thought how to go on. The faint creaking of the hammock chains abruptly ceased. Mary glanced across at her friend, but Princess Della Robbia had stopped swinging only to lean forward and stroke the beautiful Persian dog Miro, who had come up the steps. She put an arm round his neck and bent her head over him. Though he adored his master exclusively, he tolerated the new member of the family, and yielded himself reservedly to her caress. "It must be a coincidence about the convent," Mary told herself. Why should Miss Bland wish to torture Angelo's wife, even if she knew anything? And she could not know. It was impossible that she should know. But suddenly the girl remembered Marie's hints about a long-ago flirtation between the cousins. And Idina's manner had been odd when she begged Angelo to smoke because of old times. A dreadful idea opened a door in Mary's mind and leered at her, with the wicked eyes of a face seen in a nightmare, vague, yet growing larger and drawing inevitably near. She felt helpless and frozen as in a nightmare too; for she could do nothing to rescue Marie, if need arose. To stop Idina somehow might be possible, yet surely that would do more harm than good. To show fear would be to acknowledge cause for fear. Yet at this moment of suspense Mary would have given her right hand to be cut off, if that could have saved her friend. "Our heroine is the last person who ought to be put into a convent-school," Idina went on, "for she cares more about flirting and fun and intrigue than anything else. Being shut up with a lot of girls and religious women bores her dreadfully, and after she's been there for a while she looks round for a little amusement. The pupils are allowed to go out sometimes, and she meets a man who's staying in a big country-house near by. He looks at her, and she looks back at him. That settles everything. He contrives to find out her name. Men are clever about such things. Then he begins smuggling letters for the girl into the convent. She consents to see him in the garden at night, if he can climb over the wall, or manage to get in somehow. He does manage it. All this appeals to her vanity and love of intrigue. She has a new interest in life--and a secret. They have these night meetings often. By and by the man begs the girl to run away with him. He says he will marry her at once, of course. He's good-looking and seems to be rich; and he's staying in the house of a Lord Somebody or Other, so she thinks he must be of importance in the world. She herself is--just nobody, with hardly a penny of her own, and only distant relatives who've put her in the convent to get rid of the bother she made them. But when our heroine has escaped in the most romantic fashion with her lover, she soon discovers that he can't marry her, even if he wished, for he has a wife already. And it's the wife who owns all the money. They don't live together, but they are quite good friends, he and his wife, who's a common sort of person, a beer-heiress or something like that. What do you think of our story so far, Angelo? Isn't it a good plot?" Angelo had been smoking continuously as his cousin talked, sending out little quick puffs of smoke which, to those who knew him, betrayed annoyance. And Idina knew him well. "Do you want me to say what I really think, or to pay you compliments?" he asked. "What you really think, of course." "Then, there's nothing new or original in your plot, to excuse its--unpleasantness." "But if it happens to be true?" "Many unpleasant things are true, but why rake them up unless there's something great in the theme that makes them worth retelling?" "It's too soon to judge yet. You haven't heard the best part. What do you think of the story, Princess?" Marie, who had not ceased caressing the dog, listening with her cheek pillowed on his silken forehead, lifted her face and returned Idina's look. As she raised her head, Mary's heart gave a bound which took her breath away. But it was she whose eyes were dilated, whose face was feverishly flushed, whose breast rose and fell as if a hammer were pounding within. The Princess was white, but scarcely whiter than usual. Her lips were pale, and rather dry, as if she had been motoring in a chilly wind. She was smiling; and if the smile were slightly strained and photographic, perhaps only one who watched her in the anxiety of love would have felt the subtle difference. "I'm afraid Angelo's right," she said. "It's not a particularly original plot. And--forgive me--your heroine isn't of a very interesting type, is she? Intriguing, cold, ambitious, catty. One reads of women who give themselves to men without love, but--they don't seem natural, at least to me. I believe you must be mistaken in thinking your plot is a true story." "I can prove its truth," said Idina, quietly. "At least Miss Jewett can. She has been getting the materials. That's her business. She's celebrated for it in America." "Then I daresay you can work this up into something worth reading, for a certain sort of book," Marie answered. "But--just in the telling it isn't quite--quite--well, Angelo and I can stand it of course, but Mary--I must think of her, you know. And I don't see how our opinion can be of much use to you and Miss Jewett. So what is the use----" "Of going on?" Idina caught her up, in a voice of iron or steel. "But I particularly want Angelo's opinion as to what the end of the story should be. It's for a man to judge. If it bores you to listen, and you don't think it's proper for Miss Grant----" She paused significantly, and her look flung venom. But she had not fully counted on her cousin's loyalty to his wife, his indifference, almost amounting to dislike at last, for herself. "Don't you feel, Idina," he interposed with a deadly quietness she knew to be a danger-signal, "that any story which--er--bores my wife had better be left untold in her house? If you really wish to have my opinion on this plot of which you think so much, write the rest out for me, and I'll let you have my verdict." With a swift movement Idina stood up. For once the statue-white face was flushed with a dull, disagreeable red which made her almost ugly. She looked tall and forbidding. "Write!" she repeated in a tone of suppressed fury, deep as a man's. "Do you think my letter would ever come to your eyes? _She_ would destroy it before it could get to you--cunning cat that she is. You fool, it's her story I've been telling you--your wife's. She lived with that man--went to Russia with him----" "Be silent!" The two words cut short the torrent pouring from Idina's lips, as a block of ice might dam a rushing stream. But it was the look in Angelo's eyes, even more than his command, which shocked Idina into silence. She knew then that as much as he loved his wife, he hated her, Idina, and that nothing on earth could ever change his hate back into indifference. She knew that if she were a man he would by this time have killed her. The knowledge was anguish almost beyond bearing, yet the irrevocability of what she had done spurred her on after the first instant. "I'll _not_ be silent!" she panted. "For your father's sake. You've disgraced him in marrying this woman----" "Go," Angelo said, "unless you wish to be turned out by my servants, you and your friend whom you brought here on false pretences." "I didn't know how she was going to work this thing," Miss Jewett protested hastily. "If I had, I wouldn't----" "It does not matter," Angelo said. "But it does matter. Everything matters," Marie broke in, her quiet, alert, almost businesslike tone a surprise to her friend. "Don't send them away yet, Angelo--in justice to me. I know you don't believe things against me--of course not. Perhaps you would not believe, even if they could seem to prove anything, which they couldn't do. Things that aren't true can't be proved really, by the most cruel and malicious people. But maybe if you sent Miss Bland and her detective friend out of the house now, you might sometimes think of what you've heard, in spite of yourself--in the night, when dreadful thoughts seem almost true--and that would kill me. Besides, these women might spread tales. And that would distress your father. I must justify myself--not in your eyes; that isn't needed; but in theirs. I must do it--even at the awful expense of sacrificing another. Two names very much alike have made this mischief. Angelo, it was Mary Grant who was at that convent-school in Scotland, where Miss Jewett must have been spying for your cousin. I'd have saved poor Mary if I could. But you come first with me--first, before everything and every one. Ask her if what I say of her is not the truth." Mary turned and looked at her friend. She was very still. Her heart, which had pounded in her bosom, moving the laces of her blouse, might almost have ceased beating. She appeared hardly to breathe. But through her large, soft eyes her soul seemed to pour itself out in a crystalline ray, piercing to the soul of Marie. And to the woman who had used the heart of her friend for a shield came a sudden and terrible thought. She remembered a passage in the Gospels where Judas led the Roman soldiers by night to the garden of Gethsemane, and Jesus, speaking no word, turned and looked at the betrayer. It was as if she saw a picture of this betrayal, beside the picture of herself leaning forward in the red hammock, with Angelo beside her and Mary's clear eyes questioning hers. She could have cried out aloud, and falling on her knees have confessed everything, begging God's forgiveness and Angelo's and Mary's. But instead, because she clung to this one desperate hope of keeping Angelo, she sat erect and firm, her ice-cold hands tightly grasping the edge of the hammock, one on either side of her body. If she had let go or tried to stand up, she knew that she must have collapsed. Grasping the edge of the hammock seemed to lend strength and power of endurance not only to her body but to her spirit as well. She gave back Mary's gaze steadily, and was hardly aware of turning her eyes for an instant from the still, pure face which had never looked so gentle or so sweet; yet she must have glanced away, for she warmed slowly with the consciousness that Idina Bland was confused, and that Miss Jewett too was under the influence of some new emotion which made her appear less hard, less dry, more like a human being. Hope ran through the veins of Marie in a vital tide. The desperate instinct of self-preservation had put the right weapon in her hand. She must go on and use it mercilessly, for she had touched the weak spot in her enemy's armour. Those two women did not know everything, after all. Idina had somehow overreached herself. It was certain that the allies were pausing to recover strength. "Are you the woman to whom my cousin refers, Miss Grant?" Angelo asked; and his voice was the voice of the judge, not the protector. Mary thought of Vanno. The very likeness between this cold voice and the dear, warm voice of the absent one made the thought a pang. Her eyes filled with tears. Still she was silent. "Am I to take your silence as assent?" Angelo asked again, when he had waited in vain for her to speak, and the waiting had seemed long to both. Mary was sitting almost opposite the hammock, in a chair turned slightly away from it, so that she faced Angelo more fully than she faced Marie, unless she moved her head purposely, as she had moved it when her eyes questioned the eyes of her friend. Her hands were loosely clasped in her lap; and without answering she slowly bowed her head over them. As she did so, her eyes fell upon the ring Vanno had slipped on her finger with a kiss that was a pledge, the ring with "Remember eternal" written inside. The sight of it was a knock at her heart, like the knock of a rescuer on the door of a beleaguered castle. She did not speak, in her own defence, for silence was defence of Marie. And little knowing how she would be tried, she had sworn to defend her friend, sworn by Vanno's love and her own love for Vanno. It was a vow she would not break if she could, lest a curse fall in punishment and kill the love which was her dearest treasure. Yet through all the echoing confusion in her mind one note rang clear: she must in the end right herself with Vanno. It was almost as much for his sake as Marie's, she felt dimly, that she must keep her promise now and endure this shame, this martyrdom; for Marie was Angelo's wife, and Angelo was Vanno's beloved brother whose sorrow would be Vanno's sorrow, whose dishonour would be the family's dishonour. But as she looked at his ring, through the thick mist of her tears, Mary comforted herself by saying: "Somehow it must come right. I can sacrifice myself now, but not for always. In some way I will let Vanno know." She thought vaguely, stumblingly, her ideas astray and groping like blind men in an earthquake, knowing not where to turn for safety. And as she thought, Miss Jewett was speaking. Mary heard what the American woman said only as an undertone to the clamour in her own brain; but at last the sense of the words and what they might mean for herself sprang out of darkness like the white arm of a searchlight. "In justice to Princess Della Robbia and to me--though maybe you won't care much about that--you must hear what I've got to tell you," Miss Jewett said imperatively to Angelo. "It's true I'm a detective. I'm not ashamed of it. I've made a reputation that way. But I'm human. I didn't come here to be a beast. I'd no idea what Miss Bland was up to. I thought she wanted me to look at the Princess, and know whether I'd seen her picture at the Convent of St. Ursula-of-the-Lake, in Scotland. I went there on Miss Bland's business, while she waited here, near your house, so as to be on the spot when I came along with news. It was in America she first engaged me to do the work. She said her cousin the Duke di Rienzi wasn't satisfied with his son's marriage, and wanted to find out something about the lady. It was all one to me, so long as I was paid. And I have been paid. But if she offered me twice as much I wouldn't do the thing over again; and I won't raise a finger for her if she wants any more done. She can do her own dirty work. She said her cousin the Duke told her his new daughter-in-law was an artist in Dresden, and she sent me there. I got off the track a bit, but some things I heard sent me on to St. Petersburg. There had been a Mary Gaunt or Grant stopping there once in a hotel, with a man she wasn't married to; that's certain--and she came with him from Paris. From Paris I traced her--that is, I traced a Mary Grant--back to Scotland and a convent-school. The last place I went--while Miss Bland waited here keeping her eye on you all from a distance, and maybe spying out things on her own account--was that convent. I raked up old gossip outside, and I got in easily enough, for the Mother Superior and the nuns are nice to visitors who seem interested. But the minute I began to ask questions about a pupil in the school who'd run away, the good ladies shut up like oysters. I had to leave defeated as far as the last part of my job was concerned, though I'm not used to fail. One thing I did accomplish, though: I looked hard at a picture in the reception room, with a lot of girls in it, pupils of the school, and I memorized every face. _The Princess was not there_; but this young lady was; and her name I find now is Mary Grant. Unfortunately she's been a good deal talked about in Monte Carlo, it seems. Miss Bland knows that. I saw her in the woods but couldn't be certain at a distance, so I said nothing then to Miss Bland. Since then she hasn't given me time. And now whatever happens, I wash my hands of the whole business." Angelo had listened quietly, after realizing that Miss Jewett's object was to justify his wife, not to incriminate her. And though Marie needed no justification in his eyes, it was well that Idina should hear it from the lips of her own paid employé. When the self-confessed detective had finished, he turned upon his cousin eyes of implacable coldness. "You are punished for your malevolence," he said, "though to my mind no punishment could be severe enough. Go, with your humiliation, the knowledge of your failure and my contempt for you. If possible, you have made me love my wife better than ever. But before you go, understand this: if you attempt to attack her again--if I hear of any malicious gossip, as I shall hear, provided you utter it--I shall pursue you with the law. Without any fear of exposure, since there is nothing to expose, I will prosecute you for slander, and you will go to prison. This is no empty threat. It is a warning. And it is all I have to say." He walked swiftly to the end of the loggia and touched an electric bell on the house-wall. While Idina Bland and Miss Jewett stood in silence Americo came, smiling as usual, to the door-window. "These ladies are going," announced the Prince. "Show them out." * * * * * * * When they had gone, he went at once to Marie, and taking her hand, kissed it tenderly. "My darling, this has been very trying for you," he said. "You are not strong. Now it is my wish that you go to your room and lie down. Soon I will come to you, but first I must talk for a little while with Miss Grant." Until an hour ago he had called her Mary. With an arm round her waist, Angelo lifted Marie from the hammock, and began to lead her toward the door, but she resisted feebly. "Angelo, I can't go!" she stammered. "I can't leave Mary with you--like this. I must stay. I----" "Dear one, I wish you to go," Angelo insisted gently. "It is right for you to go. Trust me to be neither cruel nor unkind to Miss Grant." "But----" "There is no 'but.'" Angelo had her at the door; and resigning herself, with one backward look at Mary imploring pardon and mercy, the Princess went out. Mary saw, though she scarcely troubled to read the look. She pitied Marie, but pitied her as a coward. The girl meant to be loyal, yet somehow, in the end, to save her own happiness. But she could not plan for the future. She felt dazed, broken, as if she had been on the rack and was now to be tortured again. XXXIII In a moment Angelo had softly closed the glass door after Marie, and had come back. He stood before Mary, looking down at her. At first she did not raise her eyes, but his drew hers to them. They gazed at her with a cold anger that was like fire burning behind a screen of ice. And the ice made the fire more terrible. His look bade her rise and stand before him, a culprit, but she would not. She sat still, in the same chair where she had sat happily writing to Vanno a few hours before. Though she trembled, she faced the Prince without shrinking outwardly. Perhaps to Angelo's eyes she appeared defiant. "Does my brother know?" he asked. "He knows--that I was at a convent-school." In spite of herself Mary choked in the words. She stammered slightly, and a wave of giddiness swept over her. With a supreme effort she controlled herself, looking up at Angelo's tall figure, which to her loomed Titanic. "I mean does he know the rest?" "There is nothing else to know. I did not do any of those things Miss Bland talked about." "Very well. But you must see that you will have to prove that, before you can show yourself worthy to be my brother's wife." It was on Mary's lips to exclaim: "I can prove it easily!" But just in time she remembered that, to prove her own innocence--as indeed she very easily could--she would have to prove Marie's guilt. This could not be avoided. The guilty one in throwing the blame upon another had been as one who jumps into the sea to avoid fire. Mary could save her friend from the waves only by giving up her own boat; for in that boat there was not room for two. Fear brushed the girl's spirit like the wing of a bat in the dark. Safety for her with Vanno began to seem far off and more difficult to attain than she had dreamed when, by silence, she kept her promise to Marie. And what she had done was largely for Vanno's sake, she repeated to herself once again. The Princess was his sister-in-law. Her honour was the Della Robbia's honour. A way must open. Light must come. "I think," Mary said, trying not to let the words falter on her lips, "Vanno won't want proof." But as she spoke, even before she finished, she recalled how Vanno had at first believed appearances and gossip against her. Of course it would be different now that he knew her heart and soul. Still, the bat's wings flapped in the night of her darkening fear. And Marie's words of the other day echoed in her memory. "The brothers are alike... they adore purity... and they have a pitying horror of women who aren't innocent." Could Vanno believe her not innocent--now? Could his eyes--"stars of love," Marie had called his and Angelo's--could his eyes that had adored, look at her with the dreadful coldness of Angelo's at this moment, the coldness which would be death for Marie? As something far down within herself asked the question, another thought stood out clear and sharp-cut. She had promised Marie not to tell Vanno, not even to "tell a priest in confession." Yet she must tell, for after all that had happened she could not bear to let Vanno take her on faith alone. Angelo's answer came like a confirmation of her resolve. "It's not only a question of what Vanno may want," he said, with a very evident effort not to be harsh to a woman, defenceless if guilty. "You don't seem to realize, Miss Grant, that--both he and I owe something to our father--to our forefathers. The men of our family have done things they ought not to do. History tells of them. But history tells also that they have never taken wives unworthy to be the mothers of noble sons." Then at last Mary rose swiftly, bidden to her feet not by Angelo's haughty eyes but by her own pride of womanhood, and resentment of the whip with which he had dared to lash her. "If Vanno were here he would kill you!" the strange something that was not herself cried out in a voice that was not hers. Angelo's face hardened as he looked down at her with a bitter contempt. "So you would rejoice in bringing strife between brothers!" he said. "I had not yet thought so badly of you as that. But there are such women. It was almost incredible to me at first that you--in face a sweet young girl--could have accepted Vanno's love without telling him about--your past, and at least giving him the chance to choose. Now I begin to see you in a different light." "You see me in a false light," Mary said passionately. "You tortured that out of me--about Vanno. I didn't mean it. I'd rather die this moment than bring strife between you. I know he loves you dearly. But if you loved him as well, you couldn't have spoken as you did to me. I too am dear to him." "It is because I love Vanno that I had to speak so," Angelo persisted, not softening at all. "I am his elder brother. Soon, I fear, I shall be the head of our house. It is my duty to protect him." "Against me?" "Against you--if you make it necessary." "I told you and I tell you again," Mary cried in exasperation, "that I have done nothing wrong. There's nothing in my 'past' to confess. If I haven't talked much to Vanno about it, that's because there was so much else to say." "How old are you, Miss Grant?" Angelo put the question abruptly. "Twenty-five," she replied without hesitation, though puzzled at the seeming irrelevance. "Ah! I happen to know that Vanno believes you to be under twenty." "I never said so. I would have told him my age if I had thought of it." "He spoke of you to me, before we met, as a 'child not yet past her teens, and just out of a convent-school.' How long do you say it is since you were a pupil at that convent, where I believe you admit having been--St. Ursula-of-the-Lake, in Scotland?" "It's almost four years since I was a pupil, but----" She checked herself in haste. In another instant she would have said a thing which might have opened the eyes of Marie's husband on some dim vision of the truth. "I will answer no more questions from you, Prince Della Robbia," she said, with an almost stern dignity which had never been hers. Angelo felt this, but it made him see her as a woman more dangerous to Vanno than he had supposed, because it revealed in her unexpected strength, tenacity, and even subtlety. "Very well," he replied. "It is your right to refuse. But this you must understand. I shall not permit my brother to marry you in ignorance of--we will say the stories told of your past, since you deny their truth. If you refuse to tell him, I myself will do it. I will tell him exactly what has happened to-day. And I shall see that the detective whom Idina employed against my wife does not go away before Vanno returns, at any rate without leaving her address. Also I must say this: I cannot compel my brother to give you up if he chooses you as his wife in spite of all, and if you love him little enough to do him so great a wrong. But I can control my wife's actions. Frankly, I do not consider you the right companion for her." Mary's cheeks blazed, not with shame but with indignation. She quivered from head to foot with anger such as she had not known that she could feel. Never had she experienced so strong a temptation as now, when she burned to fling the truth in this man's haughty face. How it would change if she accused the wife he put so far above her! And how easily she could prove that the burden of guilt was Marie's. It was as if in a vivid lightning-flash she saw Angelo withered by the knowledge, his pride in the dust; and a tigress instinct of revenge leaped into life, longing to see him thus in reality, burning to use her power to crush and annihilate his happiness forever. But she fought with herself and resisted. For an instant she was silent, gathering the reins of self-control. Then she said only: "I will go away from your house at once, Prince Della Robbia." "That must be as you wish," he replied. "I do not ask you to go." "You believe unspeakable things of me. That is the same as telling me to go. In my country they suppose people innocent until they're proved guilty. With you, it seems to be different. Without waiting for proof, you take it for granted that I'm guilty, that I've deceived Vanno and you." "Your silence when you might have defended yourself from Miss Bland and from the American woman was proof in itself. If you are not the person concerned in their story, surely you would have denied your identity with her. You said nothing. You bowed your head under the storm. Only now, when you're alone with me, knowing me to be ignorant of any facts against you, do you raise it again. But enough of recrimination. Vanno can decide for himself when he comes, and when he knows all from you or me. Meanwhile you may stay in my house if you choose. I offer you its shelter because you are a woman alone and because my brother who loves you put you under my protection. But I do not intend that my wife shall have any further communication with you; and to prevent talk among the servants which might spread outside, I suggest that if you remain you keep your room, as an invalid, until Vanno returns." "I thank you for your consideration," Mary said bitterly, "but I shall not stay. I shall pack my things immediately myself; for I will not be helped by one of your servants, or owe anything more to you. When Vanno comes, as you say, he can decide for himself." "You will write to him?" Angelo inquired. "I will write to him. And you need have no further trouble with anything that concerns me." Without another word, or a look at him, she turned away and walked into the house. Almost mechanically she went upstairs to the pretty room that had been hers. She was too intensely excited to think. She could only feel. And throughout her whole life she had felt about her thoughts, rather than thought about her feelings. Less than ever did she try to analyze them now. She hastily gathered her things together, and piled them without folding into trunks and dressing-bag. She had not made up her mind where to go or what to do. The first thing and the most important thing was to get away from this house. Once away, breathing freer air, it would be time enough to plan. As she packed furiously and unskilfully, she feared that Marie might come in and beg her forgiveness or try to explain. She felt that she could not bear this. And she shrank from the idea of seeing Marie again. She was afraid that she might be tempted to say something terrible. The one clear thought in her brain was the thought of Vanno; and he was in her mind as an image rather than a thought. She said over and over to herself almost stupidly as she prepared to leave Angelo's house: "If only Vanno were here--if only Vanno were here!" Before she was ready to go she suddenly remembered that she must have a cab. Nothing would induce her to take Prince Della Robbia's car, even if it were offered. She rang for a servant, gave a generous present of money, and said that she had received news calling her away at once. A carriage must be found quickly. As it happened, the descendant of the great French family was stationed at the edge of the olive wood with his little victoria. The weather had changed since morning. The mistral had begun to blow, and Jacques had found little to do, for people were keeping indoors. When Mary started, with one trunk on the front of the little cab, the world was very different from the happy blue and gold world of the morning. Had she been on foot, the gale sweeping down from Provence would have blown her like a rag from the path; and the small but sturdy horse seemed to lean on a wall of wind as he trotted toward Monte Carlo. Mary had resolved to beg Rose Winter for a night's shelter. She believed it might be possible, without betraying the secret, to tell Rose that something disturbing had happened which had decided her to leave Prince Della Robbia's house. She felt sure of advice and welcome from the Winters, and she thought it probable that they would ask her to stop longer than the night; but she made up her mind in advance not to accept such an invitation. People who knew that she was visiting Princess Della Robbia would talk if they saw her in Monte Carlo, especially while Vanno was away. There had been more than enough gossip already. When she started for Monte Carlo she had no idea where to go after leaving Rose, as she determined to do next day; but it was as if a voice came to her on the wind, saying: "Why not stay at the Château Lontana?" Mary caught at the suggestion. She had felt vaguely guilty in deciding that she could not grant Hannaford's wish, and live in his villa. It had seemed impossible to be happy there. She had thought that tragic memories would haunt the house and echo through the rooms, though strangers who knew nothing of Hannaford's story might find it a pleasant place. But now she was not asking or expecting happiness for the present. She wanted a refuge, where she might think and wait quietly, out of gossip's way--a place whence she could write Vanno: "When you come you will find me here." As she said these words in her mind they took a different form. "_If_ you come," she began; then stopped hastily and changed the "if" to "when." Vanno would come. She had done nothing because of which she deserved to lose him, and she would not lose him. Somehow, everything must be made to come right. She would think of a way. In front of the big, balconied building where the Winters lived Jacques stopped and put Mary's small trunk and dressing-bag inside the door, while his little white horse stood tranquilly among passing motors. She asked him to call later at the Villa Mirasole for her other luggage, which she had already packed and labelled, and take it to the cloak-room at Monte Carlo railway station, where it could be called for. Then she paid him generously for everything, and won the man's heart by saying goodbye to his miniature dog, Pomponette. Mary had no doubt that the Winters would take her in for the night; and it was a blow to be told by Nathalie that Monsieur and Madame had gone to Nice to bring back the aunt of Monsieur who had fallen ill at a hotel. They would return by the train arriving at seven. Would Mademoiselle wait or look in again? Mary hesitated, not knowing how to rearrange her plans. It was evident, as the dreaded aunt had come down upon them after all, that the Winters could not keep another guest even for a night, unless they made a bed in the drawing-room, or the chaplain went out and gave up his share of Rose's room. But Mary did not think for an instant of putting her friends to this inconvenience. "No, thank you," she said, recovering from the first shock of disappointment. "Tell Madame I regret very much not seeing her, but I called to get my jewel-case which she kindly kept for me. And--say that I will write." Already Mary had made up her mind that she must go at once to the Château Lontana. She knew that Hannaford had put in a caretaker when he bought the place--a woman he had described as an interesting creature "discovered" in some odd way. What the way was, or precisely what Hannaford had said of the woman, Mary had forgotten; for she had often listened absent-mindedly to Hannaford's talk of his beloved villa and all concerning it; but the great thing was the certainty that a woman lived in the house. Mary could go there alone without fear. She was glad that Rose had given her the key of the cabinet in which her jewel-case was kept, because she had very little money, and as it was already five o'clock the banks would be shut. It would not be an agreeable necessity, but she could go to the jeweller in the Galerie Charles Trois where she had bought many of her beautiful things and, explaining that she needed ready money, ask him to buy back a diamond pendant or brooch. When she had taken the jewel-case, which was in the shape of an inconspicuous hand bag, she gave Nathalie the key of the cabinet, and said nothing of the luggage waiting on the ground floor. She knew it would grieve George and Rose Winter to guess that she had come expecting to stay. Downstairs she spoke to the concierge, saying she would return with a cab to fetch the things away. She would go, she thought, to the railway station and inquire about trains for Ventimiglia. Then having settled the hour of departure, she would dispose of a little jewellery and call in a cab at the Winters' for her luggage. The sun had set, and the early darkness of the Riviera night had fallen, though it was only five o'clock, but the Boulevard d'Italie and the Boulevard des Moulins were brilliantly lighted. The shops looked bright and enticing, but Mary did not notice them as she would once have done. She walked quickly, and at the top of the gardens was about to turn down toward the Casino and more distant railway station when she came upon Lord and Lady Dauntrey. If she could she would have avoided them, but it was too late. They were standing together, talking with great earnestness, and Mary had brushed against Lord Dauntrey's shoulder on the narrow pavement before she recognized the pair. Both turned with a start, as if they had been brought back by a touch from dreams to reality; and a street lamp on the opposite side of the gardens lighted up their features with a cruel distinctness. Instantly Mary knew that some terrible thing had happened. Lord Dauntrey was like a man under sentence of death, and though his wife's expression was not to be read at a glance, the look in her eyes arrested Mary. The girl stopped involuntarily, as if Eve had seized her by the arm. "What is the matter?" she asked, without any preface of greeting. A conventional "How do you do?" would have been an insulting mockery flung at those set, white faces. "For God's sake, tell her not to drive me mad," Dauntrey said in a voice which was strange to Mary. It was not like his, though she had heard him speak raspingly when ill luck at the tables had depressed him. It seemed to her that such a voice might come from one shut up in a cell, or from a man enclosed in armour with visor down. It was a voice that frightened her. "Oh, Lady Dauntrey, what does he mean?" Eve caught the girl by the hand, holding it tightly, as if she feared that she might take alarm and run away. "I've told him that I shall hate him if he's a coward," she answered in a voice cold and hard as iron. "If I'm a coward, what are you?" Dauntrey retorted. "You want me to crawl to those people for a few wretched louis, and you're too selfish to stick by me through it all. I've told you I'd go, if you'd go with me." "I won't!" Eve flung at him. "You ought to be ashamed to ask it. Coward! He's brought us to this, and now he's afraid to do the one thing that can help." "Please, please, let me go away," pleaded Mary, sick with shame for both, and for herself because she was a witness of the scene. "I oughtn't to be hearing this. I--unless I can do some good----" "_You_ can go with him, if you want to do good," Eve cut her short almost savagely. "I'm broken--done! But you--you've nothing to ask them for yourself. You might see him through, if he's too weak to go alone. We're down, both of us, in the mud; but you're high up in the world. You're of importance now. Maybe they'd do for you what they wouldn't for one of us." "I don't know what you mean. I'm in the dark." "How could she know?" Dauntrey asked his wife, controlling his rage. "We've lost everything in this beautiful hell," Eve explained sullenly. "Haven't you heard any news of us this last week?" "No, nothing--nothing." "It began with a row at a hotel," Eve went on. "I lost my temper--I had the best excuse--but I struck a woman who dared to cut me. There was a scene. Then all the people who were left at our house turned against us and walked off the same day----" "Yet she says everything is my fault!" Dauntrey threw out his hands with a disclaiming gesture. "Hold your tongue!" Eve shrilled at him, seeming to care no more than a wounded animal for the astonished stares of passers-by. It was only Dauntrey who made some poor attempt to cloak and screen the squalor of their quarrel. "What I say is true. Everything _is_ your fault. Who gambled away the money I made, slaving in the house, taking boarders and trying to hold my head up? It was for your sake I worked; and now you refuse to do your part, yet you expect me to keep on loving you." "Oh, don't, don't!" Mary pleaded. "I'll go with him, anywhere you want me to go." Instantly Eve became calmer. "Will you do the thing if she stands by you?" she asked her husband. "Yes," he answered, dully. "Then for heaven's sake start at once, before you change your mind. I'll wait for you here, on a seat. I must sit down or I shall drop." "Wouldn't you rather go home if--if I ordered you a cab?" Mary suggested. "You will be so cold--so miserable--sitting out of doors in this sharp wind, with clouds of dust blowing." "Home!" Eve repeated. "We haven't any home. We've had to leave the villa. We couldn't pay the rent. The beast of a landlord ordered us out. Nobody trusts anybody else at Monte Carlo. The tradespeople are after us like wolves. They've taken everything we had worth taking, except the clothes on our backs. Now do you wonder I want him to get what he can out of the Casino? We must be off somewhere, to-night, before these brutes of tradesmen know we're away from the villa for good. They've probably nosed out something by this time." "Come along, Miss Grant, if you're really willing to see me through this," Dauntrey said, clinging to those bare rocks of conventionality which still rose above the waters of despair. "Unless," Eve broke in quickly, "you'd rather lend us enough to get us out of the whole scrape? Some day----" "Oh, cut that, Eve," her husband interposed. "I wouldn't take any more of Miss Grant's money even if she'd give it, for it would be giving, not lending." "That depends on you. If you're so mean-spirited that you can't earn our living, I suppose we'll have to beg the rest of our lives, unless I go on the stage or something," said Eve. "You always do your best to crush every idea of mine." "Just now I can't lay my hands on any money," Mary explained gently, anxious to keep the peace. "I was on my way----" She was about to mention the jewellery she wished to sell, but Eve, too impatient to hear the excuses she expected, cut her short. "Oh, well, the next best thing is to help Dauntrey squeeze as much as he can out of the Casino. Use your influence. I know he won't speak up for himself. He's an English peer, when all's said and done! It would make a big scandal if he committed suicide because he'd lost everything in their beastly place. The papers all over the world would be full of it. The Casino wouldn't like that much. You can point it out." Mary shivered and felt sick. She heard Lord Dauntrey mutter something under his breath, and saw him turn away. It was indescribably repulsive that his wife should speak in his presence of his possible suicide. The girl felt a sudden horror of Lady Dauntrey, yet she did not cease to pity her; and she was infinitely sorry for the cowed and wretched man whom she had always liked. They started together for the Casino, Mary not yet understanding precisely what was to be done, but willing to give her services. For the moment her own troubles seemed small and easy to overcome, compared with the shipwreck of this miserable pair who had called themselves her friends. XXXIV Dauntrey walked with his head down, his hat pulled over his eyes and his hands in his pockets. Mary noticed that, though the wind was the coldest she had known at Monte Carlo, he wore no overcoat. She wondered if even that had been taken from him by the people to whom he owed money. Once he looked back lingeringly. "Eve must have gone to sit down," he said; and then, in shamed apology, "the poor girl is almost mad, and so am I. You mustn't think too much of what passed between us. We--we love each other, and come what may I believe we always will." "I'm certain of that," Mary answered, in a warm voice which came from her heart. They had walked on for a moment or two in silence, when Dauntrey asked abruptly: "Do you know what you're letting yourself in for?" "Not quite," Mary admitted. "But whatever it is, I don't think I shall much mind if I can help you." "I believe you really can help," he assured her. "I'm going to apply for what's called the _viatique_. It's a sum of money the Casino people grant to--to us broken gamblers, if we can prove that we've lost a lot. It's a way of getting rid of us, without too much trouble to themselves or--as my wife said--danger of scandal. They'll give a ticket second class, to take you home if you're dead broke, even if your home's as far off as Bombay, and enough money to pay for your food on the journey. It's very decent of them--generous, considering they don't ask you to come here and gamble, and that they always play fair. But a railway ticket and a few louis in my pocket are no good in my case. I've Eve to think of--and some sort of a future, God help me! She hopes because I happen to have a title which used to be of some importance I may bluff them into giving me a good lump sum. I'm afraid there isn't much in that. Nobody ever heard of their offering more than two thousand francs, so far as I know, and that was exceptional, a classic sort of case. But it may be they'll be influenced by you. Every one knows you're going to marry the Duke di Rienzi's son. And you've been rather a famous gambler. You're of some importance. Heaven knows I'm not! If I get something worth what I have to go through, you'll be the one to thank--to say nothing of the moral support. I've gone to pieces so the last few days, I doubt if I could have faced this alone." They came to the Casino, and Mary was challenged by one of the doorkeepers because of her bag. He reminded her politely that no one was allowed to go in with a parcel of any description. "Ever since a lady tried to blow us all up with a bomb in a paper package," he added, smiling. "I'll leave my bag in the _vestiaire_," Mary promised; and being well known she was allowed to pass. The attendant in whose care she indifferently placed the locked jewel-case had no idea that he guarded valuables worth two thousand pounds or more. The hand-bag had a modest air of containing a few pretty trifles for a toilet in a motor car. Mary's heart had begun to beat fast, for Lord Dauntrey's face was so pale and rigid that she realized his dread of an ordeal and began to share it. It was many days since she had entered the Casino. The atrium, once so familiar, almost dear to her eyes, looked strange. It was odd to find there the same faces she had often seen before. She felt as if years had passed since she was one of those who eagerly frequented this place. What if Vanno could see her now? she thought. He would not like to have her come to the Casino with Lord Dauntrey, yet if she could make him understand all, she told herself that he would not be angry. Angelo might be, and even unforgiving, but not Vanno. "Where must we go to ask for the _viatique_?" she inquired of Dauntrey in a low voice, looking anxiously at the different closed doors, behind which any mystery might hide, for few ever saw them open. "We have to go through the Salle Schmidt," he answered doggedly. That seemed worse than she had thought, but she said nothing. She found herself suddenly missing Hannaford, and wishing that his calm face with its black bandage might appear among all these faces that meant nothing to her. If he were here he would stand by them, or perhaps go alone with Lord Dauntrey in order to spare her. He had always tried to save her from everything disagreeable, from the very beginning of their friendship until its end. The mellow golden light in the great gaming room, and the somnolent musky scent which she had called the "smell of money," seized upon Mary's imagination with renewed vividness, even as on the first night when as a stranger she timidly yet eagerly entered the Casino. She felt again the powerful influence of the place, but in a different way. The pleasant, kindly animal to which she had likened the Casino was now a mighty monster, who must be approached with caution and even fear, whose gentle, feline purring was the purr of a tiger sitting with claws in sheath. How the great golden beast could strike and tear sometimes, the desperate face of her companion told. Mary feared for his sake that people might read the lines of misery, and whisper that here was one of Monte Carlo's wrecks. She had often noticed in the gilded Salle Schmidt those four long mirrors in the corners, which could only be known as doors when some inspector or other functionary pressed his foot on a trigger level with the floor in front of one of them. When this was done, a mirror would instantly move so promptly that Mary had named those doors the "open sesames." Now, when she had walked with Dauntrey to the farthest door on the right-hand side of the room, he stopped. Near by stood two blue-coated, gold-braided Casino footmen, as if keeping guard; and suddenly Mary remembered that these or other footmen were always hovering at that spot. Often, too, she had seen shamed and sad-looking men and women sitting dejectedly on the leather cushioned seat by the side of the door. She had never thought about them particularly, but in this moment of enlightenment she guessed why they haunted this corner, like starved birds waiting in the hope of crumbs. She was thankful to see that the seat was deserted. It would have been terrible to be one of those who had to wait while everybody who knew the secret of the door passed by and saw, and stared curiously or pityingly. She began to understand how it was that Eve's shattered nerves had forbidden her to come and "stand by" Lord Dauntrey. Leaving the girl a pace or two behind, he squared his shoulders and went up to the footmen. Mary could not hear what he said, but the Casino servant's answer was distinctly audible. It was politely spoken, yet there was, or seemed to be, in the man's manner a slight indifference, and even disdain, which would not have been there in addressing a successful, not a broken, gambler. "Monsieur is engaged at present, but will be free in a few moments," she heard. Dauntrey came quickly back to her, as to a refuge. The eyes of both footmen rested upon her for an instant. They were almost, but not quite, expressionless. Under control yet visible was surprise and animal curiosity. The men knew Miss Grant by sight and reputation as "one of the lucky ones," and she felt that they were wondering if she too had lost all, and come whining to the "management" for a _viatique_. "For heaven's sake let's stand out of the way," Dauntrey whispered, "so every one won't know what we're after." They moved to a little distance, and Lord Dauntrey began trying to make conversation, but could think of nothing to say. Long pauses fell. Both tried not to look at the mirror door, but their eyes were drawn there, as if by an unseen power behind it. They could see themselves and each other in the glass. Mary thought that no one could help noticing how anxious and strained were their faces. After some moments, which seemed long, the door opened without sound and a woman appeared. She hung her head, and her face was concealed with a veil such as Princess Della Robbia had worn when she came to Rose Winter's flat. A footman with a yellow paper in his hand preceded the drooping figure, steering toward the outer door of the Salle Schmidt, as if going to the atrium. He had a peculiarly stolid air, as if performing a business duty to which he was so used that he could do it very well while other matters engaged his thoughts. "_She's_ got something, anyhow," mumbled Lord Dauntrey, in a sickly voice. "Come along, please. It's our turn now." He identified Mary with his own interests, as if they were intimately hers. Politely, or perhaps in cowardice, he stood aside to let her go before him. Immediately and without noise the door was closed behind them. Mary's hands were cold. A little pulse was beating in her throat, and its throbbing made her feel slightly sick. She looked up, wide-eyed, into the face of a man who had dismissed the veiled woman, and stood waiting to receive them. He was spare, elderly, black-coated, almost absurdly respectable looking, with his gray beard and mild gaze behind gold-rimmed pince-nez. The small bare room with its plain desk and two or three chairs made a bleak background for the neat figure of the man. The austerity of the closet-like enclosure, in contrast with the magnificence outside, seemed meant as a warning to let petitions be brief, to the point, and above all strictly within the bounds of reason. "What do you wish me to do for you?" As he asked this question, with cool civility, the benevolent yet cautious eyes peered through their glass screen at Mary; and the thought sprang into her mind that this elderly man of commonplace appearance had perhaps listened to more harrowing stories of human misery and ruin than any other person in the world. Even the most popular father confessor of the church could scarcely have heard as many agonizing appeals. He must be able to discriminate between truth and falsehood, to read faces and judge voices, for no doubt, as Mary guessed, people must often come to him swearing they had lost many thousands of francs, when in reality their losses amounted only to a few hundreds. Dauntrey, whose hand was unsteady, held out his season card of admission to the Casino. "I suppose you know who I am," he said. The man in the black coat looked at the name on the card, and inclined his head slightly as if in affirmation. "I've lost all I had in the world," Dauntrey went on in a dead voice, "and all my wife had. I've been here since the beginning of December and had the most cursed luck. I--Miss Grant will bear me out. She was staying at our house. You've seen her before no doubt. One of your lucky ones. You--you'll have to do something decent for me. Unfortunately I've got into debt--my rent--and tradesmen. No good having a scandal. You've had a lot out of me--close on ten thousand pounds. You can afford to give me back 10 per cent., can't you?" The official's face hardened. He looked a man who could be obdurate as well as benevolent. "I regret," he replied in English, "that it is impossible to give any such sum. Nothing like it has ever been granted, not even to those who have lost great fortunes. If the Casino made such presents it would cease to exist. And I cannot help thinking that my lord in excitement exaggerates his losses. I have heard that he has lost not more than four thousand pounds, and that three fourths of that sum belonged to his friends, for whom he kindly played. In my lord's case, two first-class tickets to London----" "Of no use whatever," Dauntrey broke in sharply. "What would you have me do when my wife and I get to England without a penny?" "After all, that is your lordship's affair." Dauntrey's face crimsoned, and the veins stood out in his temples. Then the red faded, leaving him yellow pale. "It will be your affair if I kill myself here, as I shall be driven to do if you won't help me. My name will cause some little sensation after I'm dead, if it never made any stir while I lived." "Couldn't the Casino spare Lord Dauntrey five hundred pounds, at least?" Mary begged, stumbling to the rescue. "It would be so dreadful for everybody concerned if--if--anything happened." "The administration cannot allow itself to be threatened," its mouthpiece answered. "My threat isn't an empty one," Dauntrey persisted. "You leave only one exit open for me." "I am sorry, but I have no authority to grant large sums to any one, on any pretext." The tone was firm, but something in the eyes encouraged Mary to persevere. She pleaded as nothing imaginable could have induced her to plead for herself, and at last the man with the pince-nez promised to "recommend the administration" to give his lordship two thousand francs. Dauntrey was provided with a bit of yellow paper, such as Mary had seen in the hand of the veiled woman. This, he was told, must be presented upstairs, and in the morning Dauntrey would receive the gift, or "loan," of two thousand francs. Mary had expected him to be bitterly disappointed, but when she had secured her hand-bag and they were leaving the Casino together, he seemed comparatively cheerful. "With this money I may win everything back at baccarat in Nice," he said, "if Eve doesn't object. We've got to go somewhere. Why not there? And if I lose, things won't be any worse with us than they are now. What use is two thousand francs except to gamble with? Still, I didn't think they'd give me as much, and they wouldn't, by half, if it hadn't been for you." "I hope Lady Dauntrey won't be disappointed," Mary ventured. "I don't know--I don't know," he muttered. "Eve is in a strange state of mind. It makes me anxious for the future. But what's the good of worrying? Perhaps there won't be any future." Lady Dauntrey was sitting on an iron seat near the top of the gardens. She sprang up when the lamplight showed her the two figures she knew, walking side by side. "Well?" she asked breathlessly. "Two thousand francs--thanks to Miss Grant," her husband answered; and Mary was afraid of an angry outburst, but it did not come. "Two thousand francs!" Eve echoed, dully. "Better than nothing. But what's to become of us? Where shall we go? If we buy tickets even second class for England, there's a lot gone. If only we could get away to some place near by and hide ourselves for a while, till we could have time to look round and make up our minds!" She turned quickly to Mary. "While you were both gone," she said, "I was thinking. It's true, isn't it, that Captain Hannaford left the château he bought to you?" "Yes," Mary admitted. "I was wondering if you'd let us live in it for a few days--or a few weeks." "I'm going there myself to-night," Mary said impulsively. Then a curious sensation gripped her, as if she were caught by a wave and swept onward, in spite of herself, toward something which she feared and even hated. She wished intensely that Lady Dauntrey had not mentioned the Château Lontana, and that it had been possible to be silent about her own plans. She had spoken without stopping to think; but even now that she did think, she could not see how silence would have been easy. It seemed that unless she were willing to be hard and ungenerous to this unhappy man and woman she could not avoid offering them shelter for a few days. Quickly she told herself that she must give them money in addition to the _viatique_ which Lord Dauntrey would receive in cash to-morrow. If he still refused to accept anything more from her, Lady Dauntrey would need no persuasion. Mary was instinctively sure of this. And she thought that when the husband and wife were in possession of a few hundred pounds they would be only too glad to leave the gloomy Château Lontana and go to England or somewhere else, to recover themselves. While she hesitated, feeling compelled to invite the Dauntreys, yet facing the necessity with almost exaggerated reluctance, Eve saved her the responsibility of deciding. "Won't you take us with you?" she asked humbly. "It seems--providential--for us that you're going. So strange, too, that it should be to-night; and so queer the idea coming into my head. Just as if it was meant to be!" Now the matter had passed beyond control, Mary had the impulse to rebel. The wave had got her and was bearing her along. She tried to catch at safety. "But--Lord Dauntrey must stay in Monte Carlo--till to-morrow. And I have to go to-night," she stammered. "I don't quite see----" "You're going alone?" Eve asked. "Yes." "How queer of the Princess Della Robbia to let you do that!" "She doesn't know." The girl defended Marie. "Doesn't know where you're going?" "No." Mary felt obliged to explain. "I was--vexed at something that happened to-day. So I--finished my visit sooner than I expected." "Oh! And does your friend Mrs. Winter approve?" "She doesn't know, either. She's at Nice for the day, with her husband." "Surely somebody must know what you're doing. Your own Prince Vanno?" Mary shrank a little from the familiar name on lips that had no right to it; yet she answered gently: "Even he doesn't know. He's in Rome; but perhaps you've heard. It was in the paper, Marie--Princess Della Robbia told me. I shall write to him, of course." "Of course. Meanwhile, you seem to be--sneaking off the stage when nobody's looking." Lady Dauntrey laughed a staccato laugh at her own rather lumbering joke. "Nobody but you and Lord Dauntrey, as it happens." "Well," Eve began to speak slowly, as if on reflection, "I'm sure you must have some wise reason for what you're doing, dear; but whatever it is, I can't help thinking it will be a very good thing for you to have us with you. You're too young and pretty to be running about by yourself, and going to stay in lonesome villas. There are servants at the Château Lontana who expect you, anyhow, I suppose?" "Only a caretaker Captain Hannaford put in. I haven't had time to let her know." "Dear me, you are casual! The place is near Ventimiglia, isn't it? I've never seen it." "I've only passed, motoring to Bordighera. It's not very far beyond the frontier." "Good! That simplifies matters. Dauntrey can easily run back to Monte to-morrow and get his money. When are you starting, dear?" "I must find out about trains. And before I leave, I have to go to the Galerie Charles Trois and get a jeweller there to take back one or two pieces of jewellery, for I must have some money. When I--decided to start this evening, the bank was already shut." Lady Dauntrey darted a sudden glance of interest at the bag in Mary's hand, which she had been too preoccupied to notice until now. Her guest had kept most of the much talked of jewels at the bank, while staying at the Villa Bella Vista, but it was not difficult to guess that at present they were in their owner's hand. "You won't get nearly what the things are worth," she said. "A pity to sell just because you were too late to cash a cheque! I've got a hundred francs. Why not let us all three go to Italy with that, and Dauntrey can finance you with the Casino money till you get some from your bank? He can take over a cheque of yours. That would save time, you know--for it's late already." "Very well," Mary agreed. A heavy sense of depression had fallen upon her. The eager anxiety she had felt to reach the end of her journey and write to Vanno died down like a fire quenched by water. "You didn't tell me that you had a hundred francs," Dauntrey reproached his wife. "No," she replied. "And I wouldn't have told you now, if you weren't obliged to keep out of the Casino." He turned his head aside, and was silent. "Aren't you taking luggage?" Lady Dauntrey inquired of Mary. "Yes. I have a small trunk and a hand-bag with me." "Where are they?" "In the room of the concierge at Mrs. Winter's." "Let me think a minute," said Eve. "Why should we wait for a train? There's sure not to be one when we want it. We have no luggage, and you say your trunk is small. We might hire a carriage and drive. It would be much pleasanter. Perhaps you can lend me a few things for to-night?" "Of course," Mary answered, trying to be cordial. "How good you are to us!" Eve exclaimed. "We can never be grateful enough. Dauntrey, will you go on to the railway station and order a commissionnaire to fetch Mary's things from the Winters' house? He can bring them back to the station in his cart." "Why shouldn't we pick the things up on our way, if we're to have a carriage?" her husband argued. "Because my plan's the best," she insisted. "We must eat before we start. There won't be much food in the villa, as Mary's paying a surprise visit. We'll go to a little hotel by the station. I'm frozen, and food will do us all good. By the time we're ready to start the man will have brought the luggage." "It sounds unnecessarily complicated," Dauntrey muttered; but Eve gave him a gimlet look from under level brows, and he slouched away obediently, leaving his wife to follow slowly with the girl. XXXV The last familiar face Mary saw as she left Monte Carlo was that of the hunchbacked dwarf at St. Roman. He was hobbling away from his pitch to go home, and from the window of the closed landau Mary waved a hand to him as the horses trotted by. "Who was that?" Eve asked, leaning forward, then throwing herself back as if she wished not to be seen. "Only the dwarf beggar at the bridge," Mary answered. "Oh, only a beggar!" Lady Dauntrey settled herself comfortably again. The voice of the waves came up with the wind in a ceaseless moan, and for the first time Mary hated the sound of the sea. It was like the wailing of a great company of mourning women. Far above the road, Roquebrune clock struck seven. It was scarcely night, but darkness loomed ahead like a black wall, toward which the horses hurried yet could never pass. In this wall glittered square peepholes of light, which were windows of houses at Cap Martin--Angelo's house among others. When with a turn of the road the bright spots vanished, Mary was overwhelmed with homesickness, such pangs as children suffer. She did not wish to be in the Villa Mirasole, but leaving it behind in the darkness and travelling toward the unknown made her feel that she was shut out in the night alone, far from Vanno, far from all that could remind her of him. "Remember eternal!" She thought with a superstitious pang of the tablet and of the parted lovers. Marie had "seen pigeons," and said that they meant sorrow and separation. The girl had written of this to Vanno, only a few hours ago, in a spirit of laughter, but she had been young and happy then. Now she felt deserted and old. She was not glad to have the Dauntreys with her. She would rather have been going alone to the Château Lontana. Eve's figure sitting beside her, Lord Dauntrey's opposite, with his back to the horses, looked black against blackness. They spoke seldom and they were like dreams of the night, which had taken life. Mary remembered how she had dreamed of Eve, and how glad she had been to wake. But now she was awake and Eve was by her side. It was like a garden game the big girls had made her play when she was the youngest child in the convent-school. They had wound long, thick strings round her waist and ankles; then they had made her run, and when she had gone a certain distance they drew her back, slowly and firmly, or with violence, according to their mood. This had been a torture to the imaginative little girl, and Sister Marie-des-Anges, seeing it one day, ordered the older children to stop, and the game had been forbidden. This benevolent edict had given Mary a warm sense of being protected; but there was no one to protect her now. If the girl had been happy, she could have laughed at these memories, coming up in connection with the two silent, dark figures of the man and woman she was to shelter in her house; but in her perplexity their presence made the desolation of the night more desolate. Mentone streets were empty and the shops shut: only hotel and villa windows were bright. The carriage passed through the town, and beyond the last houses of Garavan the night was blacker than before. They came to the Italian frontier, broken off from the rich slopes of France by the deep Gorge of St. Louis, resonant with singing water. Mary knew how by daylight the mountains of Italy loomed cold in contrast to the warm cultivation of the western hills, bare as a series of stone shelves at an antiquary's, spread with a few rags of faded green to show off some sparsely scattered jewels. But in the night she could see nothing, and could hear only the moan of sea and wind, mingled strangely with the high complaining voice of hidden streams. On the mountainside twinkled the feeble lights of Grimaldi, a poor rock-town once the fortress house of Monaco's princes; and after another plunge into the darkness of folding hills and olive groves they passed La Mortola. Not more than a mile or two beyond the village and the sleeping garden, Mary, with her face always at the window, said: "Now we are coming to the Château Lontana!" Eve and her husband both leaned forward, straining their eyes to make out a height rising above the road, and the black shape of a house with towers which seemed cut in the purple curtain of the sky. There were black nunlike forms of cypress trees also, which stood grouped together as if looking down thoughtfully from their tall slopes, and old, wide-branching olives were filmy as a gray cloud in the darkness. The Monte Carlo coachman evidently knew the place, for he slowed down without being asked, and stopped in front of a large double gate of iron between glimmering columns of pale stone. This was the entrance from the road; but an avenue ran steeply up the rocky slope, twisting in zigzags to reach the house. Jumping down from his box the man tried the gates, expecting to find them locked, but they yielded to a stout push, and a moment later he drove in. The horses, tired from breasting the wind on many hills, went up the incline slowly, the wheels grating over small stones on the ill-kept drive. Mary thought the noise of hoofs and wheels so sharp and unmistakable that she looked to see some eye of light suddenly open in the black face of the house. It was not yet nine o'clock, and the caretaker could hardly have gone to bed. But there was no sign of life; and the dark château among crowding trees might have stood in silence and desolation for a century of sleep, like the lost palace of the enchanted beauty. A flight of marble steps went up to a colonnaded terrace, and Lord Dauntrey mounted first to ring the bell. "Perhaps the caretaker has given herself a holiday, and we can't get in after all," he gloomily suggested. His wife did not answer; but Mary, sitting beside the silent woman, heard her breathing fast. This betrayal of anxiety seemed tragic. "Poor Lady Dauntrey!" the girl said to herself in pity. "Here is her one hope of shelter. She's afraid it may fail." And Mary tried to be glad that whatever happened it was in her power to help the unlucky couple. The carriage lights gilded the marble stairs, showing cracks and a green, mossy growth under each shallow step. There was a heavy fragrance of datura flowers, sickly sweet, that mingled with a scent of moss and mouldy, unkempt growing things, touching the imagination like the perfume of sad memories. Lord Dauntrey rang again and again the old-fashioned bell whose insistent voice could be heard jangling through the house. At last, when he had rung four times, a wavering light suddenly streaked with yellow the glass crescent above the door. There was a noise of a chair falling, a bolt slipping back, a key turning rustily; and through these sounds of life the shrill yap, yap of a little dog cut like sharp crackings of a whip. The door opened a few inches, and the yellow light haloed a dark head. "Who is it?" a woman's voice called out in bad Italian, through the shrill bursts of barking. Lord Dauntrey could neither speak nor understand Italian; but already Mary was halfway up the steps. "It is the Signorina Grant, of whom you have heard," she explained. "You know from the lawyer that Captain Hannaford has given his place to me?" "Ah, the Signorina at last!" exclaimed the voice, with an accent of joy. "Be thou still, little ten times devil!" The door opened wide, and a gust of wind would have blown out the flame of the lamp in the woman's hand had she not hastily stepped back into the shelter of a vestibule, at the same time squeezing the miniature wolf-hound under her arm, so that its yap was crushed into a stricken rumble. Lady Dauntrey now began to ascend the steps, and the coachman, anxious to get home, alertly dismounted the two pieces of baggage. He brought the small trunk and big dressing-bag up to the door, plumping them down on the marble floor of the terrace so noisily that the dog again convulsed itself with rage. The price the man asked was paid without haggling; he and Lord Dauntrey between them dragged Mary's possessions into the vestibule, and the door was shut. As the girl heard the sounds of hoofs trotting gayly away, she would have given much to call after the driver, to spring into the carriage and let herself be taken anywhere, if only she need not stay with the Dauntreys and the yapping dog in this desolate house, which was a dead man's gift to her. Her spirits faintly revived when the lamplight had shown her the richly coloured dark face of the woman with the dog. It was a young face, though too full and heavy chinned to be girlish: and from under an untidy crown of black hair two great yellow-brown eyes, faithful and lustrous as a spaniel's, gazed with eager curiosity at the Signorina. If the caretaker of the Château Lontana had been old and forbidding Mary's cup of misery would have overflowed, but the pleased smile of this red-lipped, full-bosomed, healthy creature gave light and warmth to the house. "Welcome, Signorina," she said in the guttural Italian of one accustomed to a _patois_. "It has been very lonely here since the poor Captain ceased to come. The lawyer from Ventimiglia said perhaps the new mistress would arrive and surprise me one day, but the time seemed long, alone with the dog. Will the Signorina and her friends come in? Think nothing of the baggage. I am strong and can carry it without help. What a pity I did not know of the good fortune this night would bring! There is nothing to eat but a little black bread, cheese, and lettuce with oil: to drink, only coffee or some rough red wine of the country, and fires nowhere except in the kitchen. But I have pleased myself by keeping the best rooms prepared as well as I could. Fires are laid in three of the fireplaces, and three beds can be ready when a warming pan full of hot embers has been passed between the sheets. It was the poor, good Captain himself who told me to be prepared. He too seemed to think that the Signorina might come with friends, and talked to me of it the last day he was here." As the woman rambled on, she led the way into a large hall opening out from the vestibule. In the dim light cast by her lamp the high ceilinged, white-walled, sparsely furnished space was dreary as a snow-cave, and as cold; but Mary could see that by day there might be possibilities of stately charm. She forced herself to praise the hall in order to please the caretaker, whose eyes begged some word of admiration. "Oh, there are many beautiful rooms, Signorina," the Italian woman said. "In sunlight they are lovely. To-morrow, if the Signorina permits, I will show her all over the house, and tell her what things the Captain liked best. But night is the bad time here. I do not know how I should get on were it not for my dog, which the Captain allowed me to bring down from my home in the mountains." "Ask her if she speaks or understands French," said Eve. Mary obeyed. "Ah, Signorina, unfortunately I have but little French. It was all I could do to learn Italian well. With us up there, we have a _patois_, but the curé of our village makes the children study Italian. Afterward we are glad. Such French as we have, we pick up later by ourselves." "Where is your village?" Mary inquired. "Very far away, Signorina, and very high up, where the snows lie always in winter. It is a town built on a rock where in oldest days once stood a temple of Baal. Our houses are very ancient, and they stand back to back like soldiers fighting. The Signorina cannot conceive how wild we are there. And the dogs are wild, too. They often run away from the village when they are young and go to live with the wolves, farther up the mountain. Then they regret sometimes; and when the smell of cooking mounts on the wind, the poor animals creep down as far as they dare, to sit on a ridge of rock where they can see people moving below. But they can never come back, for the wolves would be angry and run after, to kill them in revenge. Look at my dog, how like a baby wolf he is. All our dogs are born with the faces of wolves. I have an aunt at home who is a witch. The whole village fears her, for she curses those she hates, and works wicked spells. Me she hates worst of all because I refused to live in her house when I was young. I had to run away at last with my dog, or she would have murdered me, in spite of the curé. He sent me to a woman he knew, who had been cook in this house. When I came she had died, and the place was already sold. But I met the Captain and he engaged me to be caretaker." "He told me," Mary said, "that your name was Apollonia, and that you were honest and good." "He spoke to me of the Signorina, too," answered the young woman. "He described her as very beautiful, like a saint or an angel, with kind, sweet eyes, and hair like the sun in a mist. That is why, when I saw the Signorina to-night, I knew she must be the right one. If it had been the other lady who came first to the house, I should not have believed she was the Captain's Signorina. It is very strange, but her eyes are the eyes of my aunt who is the witch. I hope the Signorina will not be offended with me for saying this of her friend, for I can not help remarking it. My aunt is not old, though older than that Signora. And she is handsome; but of course the Signora is much handsomer and grander than a poor peasant woman." "I think," said Mary, willing to change the subject, "that we had better see our rooms, and have the fires lighted. Give my friends the best there is--two rooms adjoining, and I will take what is left. We shall stay with you a few days--perhaps more. We can't settle our plans quite yet." "The longer, the better for me, Signorina," Apollonia replied. She smiled at her new mistress; but when her look turned to Lady Dauntrey she secretly "made horns" with the first and last fingers of the hand that held the dog; the sign which Italians and Arabs use to keep off the evil eye. She opened doors, holding her smoky lamp high, and with the air of a hospitable queen (such as most Italian peasant women have), she showed to the Signorina the splendours of her domain. They were, to be sure, but tarnished and dilapidated splendours, nevertheless Mary began to understand even in the gloom of night how these great rooms, peopled now with shadows, had appealed to Hannaford. She could guess what the view from windows and garden must be like, and had she come to the house in happier circumstances she would have looked forward to seeing everything in morning sunshine. As it was, she wished for one thing only: for the moment when she could be alone, to think, and write her letter to Vanno. Mary and her guests refused food but accepted coffee, made quickly and well by Apollonia. They drank from cracked or chipped but beautiful cups of old Sèvres, and shivered in an immense Empire dining-room, while Apollonia lighted fires and warmed beds in the "best rooms" upstairs, which they had not yet mustered courage to visit. Lady Dauntrey became more cheerful over the hot coffee, and atoned to her husband for past taunts and reproaches by a manner of almost deprecating affection. Mary had never seen her so soft and sweet. She was a different woman, and even her expression was changed. The girl could not help remembering what Apollonia had said about the "witch-eyes"; but she thought the Italian would not have found a likeness to the terrible aunt could she now have seen Lady Dauntrey for the first time. Mary was glad of the change for Lord Dauntrey's sake, because, though he was weak, perhaps unworthy, she pitied him with a pity akin to pain. When Apollonia came back to say that all was ready for the night, the three followed her up the wide and beautifully designed marble staircase which led to the first and second stories. There was no question of choice in apportioning the three "best rooms," prepared for occupation, because two adjoined each other, with a door between; and these suggested themselves naturally for Lord and Lady Dauntrey. The third and smaller room was at a distance, and had only one door, which opened to the hall; but there was a great French window leading to a balcony and evidently looking southward, over the slopes of the garden down to the sea. "This was the room the poor Captain loved," Apollonia announced; "therefore it is right the Signorina should have it for her own. He hoped she might choose it, I know. Sometimes he spent a night here, toward the last. Perhaps he can see the Signorina at this moment, and if he can, I am sure he is very happy." Had there been a possibility of changing from that room to any other in the house, even the worst and meanest, Mary would have changed gladly; but she could not take one of the rooms she had given the Dauntreys; and to order another got ready would have seemed heartless to Apollonia, whose quick intuition would have told her the reason. Mary resigned herself to sleep in the room where Hannaford had thought and dreamed of her. * * * * * * * When they had bidden their hostess good-night, and their doors were locked, Lord and Lady Dauntrey stood together for a moment at one of the long windows of the larger room. This Eve had taken, and on the bed with the high, carved walnut back lay the night-dress borrowed from Mary. Through torn clouds a few stars glittered like coins in a gashed purse, and very far away to the west, at the end of all things visible, was a faint, ghostly gleam which meant the dazzling lights of the Casino and its terrace, at Monte Carlo. Lady Dauntrey rested against her husband's shoulder, as if his companionship were dear and essential to her. She had done this often before their marriage and shortly after; but not once for many months now. It seemed to him that he could remember every one of the caresses which had bound him to her as with ropes from which he could not, and did not desire to, escape. A long time ago in South Africa, when she had first made him love her, she had been pleased when he called her his "beautiful tigress." She had kissed him for the name, and said that of all animals she adored tigers; that she believed she had been a tigress once; and when they were rich--as they would be some time--he must buy her a splendid tiger skin to lie on. This very day the tigress thought of her had been in his heart, but not as a loving fancy. She had seemed to him cruel and terrible as a hungry animal despising her mate because he fails to bring her prey as food. He had said to himself in shame and desolation of soul that she had never cared for him really, but only for what he might give; and because he had disappointed her, giving little, she hated and would perhaps leave him, to better herself. Now the touch of her shoulder against his breast, and the tired, childlike tucking of her head into his neck, warmed his blood that had run sluggishly and cold as the blood of a prisoner in a cell. New courage flowed back to his heart. Vague thoughts of suicide flapped away like night-birds with the coming of light. If Eve cared for him still he had the incentive to live. "That place seems to haunt us," she murmured, as they stood together in seeming love and need of one another. He knew what she meant. Their eyes were on the distant glimmer of Monte Carlo. "Its influence follows us." "From here the lights look pure white, like the lights of some mysterious paradise, seen far off across the sea," Dauntrey said. "No," his wife answered; "to me they're more like the light that comes out of graves at night time; the strange, phosphorescent light of decayed, dead things. We've done with that lure light forever, haven't we?" "I suppose so!" A sigh of yearning and regret heaved his breast, under the nestling head. "If you're going to be kind to me again, Eve, I can do anything and go anywhere." "Good!" she said in the soft, purring tone which had made him think of her as a beautiful tigress, when their life together lay before them. "I _will_ be kind, very kind, if only you'll prove that you really love me. You never have proved it yet." "Haven't I? I thought I had, often--to-day, even----" "Oh! don't let's go back to that. I can't bear to think of it. We weren't ourselves--either of us. If I was cross, forgive me, dear." "I deserved it all," he said, pressing her against his side. "Now you're making me a man again." "You must be a man--a strong man--if you want me to love you as I once did, and as I _can_ love. Oh, and I can--I can love! You don't know yet how much." "What shall I have to do?" he asked. "Do you mean anything in particular, or----" "Yes, I mean something in particular." "I'll do it, darling, whatever it may be. I feel the strength." She wrapped him in her arms and clung to him, talking softly, with her lips against his hollowed cheek, so that her breath fluttered softly past it with each half-whispered word. "That's a promise," she said. "I won't let you break it. But you won't want to break it. I'll love you so much--enough to make up for everything. Enough to keep you from remembering those lights over there." "They're nothing to me," he assured her. "I don't believe I'll ever want to see them again. There are other places where I can do better than at Monte Carlo. Baccarat's a safer game than roulette or trente et quarante, I begin to think, and I could adapt the system----" "Never mind the system now! You'll have to go back to Monte to-morrow to get your eighty pounds, and a cheque cashed for Mary Grant--a big one, I hope. Then you can redeem some of our things. One trunk for each of us will be enough, for I want to go a long way off and travel quickly." "Where do you want to go?" Dauntrey asked, indulgently, in a dreaming voice, as if her love and the force of her fierce vitality were hypnotizing him. He spoke as if he were so near happiness again that he would gladly go anywhere, to find it once more with Eve. "I haven't made up my mind about that yet." "Oh, I thought you had! You always make up your mind so quickly when you want anything." "I've been putting my mind to what we must do first, before we go away. There _is_ a thing to do; and it will have to be done soon, or it will be too late." Her tone was suddenly sharp as a knife rubbed against steel. "What thing?" her husband asked, startled out of his dream. Instantly she softened again and clung to him and round him more closely than before. "Darling," she said, "you've just told me that you'd do anything for my sake." "So I would. So I will." "Sometimes men are ready to do anything except the one thing the women who love them ask them to do." "It won't be like that with me, Eve. Try me and see." "I will. I want you to go with me far, far away, where we've never been before, to make a new life, and belong only to each other. But before we go, so that we can be happy and not wretched, miserable beggars, we--not you alone--but we two together must do what will give us money to start all over again. And listen to this, dearest: it will be a thing which will draw us so closely together that we'll be one in body and soul forever and ever, in this world and the next." "You almost frighten me," Dauntrey said. "Don't be frightened," she implored, her mouth close to his. "If you're frightened, you'll fail me--and then it's all over between us." "All over between us!" "Yes, because if you fail, you break your solemn promise, and you're not the man I thought you were--not the man I can love. I'll go out of your life and find some one who is stronger, because I've got too much love in me to waste." "What do you want me to do?" "To find a plan, at once--to-morrow, after you come back--for us to get Mary Grant's jewels and all the money you bring to her from Monte Carlo, and then to go safely away--together, where we can be happy." "Good God!" He broke loose from her clinging arms, and pushed her off. "You want me to murder the girl!" They faced one another in the dreary glimmer of the two candles. For an instant neither spoke, but each could hear the other breathing in the semi-darkness. "What a horrible thought!" Eve flung herself upon him again and caught his hands, which had been hot as they clasped hers but had suddenly grown cold, as a stone is chilled when the sun leaves it in shadow. He did not snatch his hands away, but they gave no answering pressure. He bowed his head like a man who is very tired, having come to the end of his strength. "Have we sunk to this?" he groaned under his breath, yet Eve caught the words. "Wait! You've misunderstood me," she reassured him eagerly. "I don't want you to--take her life. Only--we must have money, and those jewels of hers--she doesn't need them. We do. And we're _meant_ to have them, else why should we have been thrown in her way just at the right moment? Why should we be now in this lonely house, no one knowing that we're here? It's Destiny. I saw that when she spoke about the jewel-case. Didn't you guess what was in my mind?" "I was past guessing," Dauntrey said. "I had enough to think of without putting problems to myself." "It's lucky my brain kept awake. That was why I proposed driving here instead of coming by train, where somebody might have seen us: that was why I wouldn't call for the luggage at Mrs. Winter's." "Do you dream for a moment that if--if there were any inquiry the police wouldn't be able find out we were in this thing?" Dauntrey asked in bitter impatience. "How like a woman!" "I'm not so simple. If we're clever, there won't be an inquiry. And even if there were any accident, we should be all right. There'd be nothing against us. And we'd be out of the way before the fuss began. They couldn't even get at us as witnesses." "What's in your mind? You talk as if you had some definite plan." "I have. But it depends on you. Surely with all your knowledge, you know a drug that can temporarily weaken a person's will? There must be something that girl could take which would make her willing to follow our suggestions? She's in such a nervous condition, a sudden illness would seem quite natural. Once she was in the right state, I could persuade her to give us her jewels and some cheque. Then we wouldn't let the grass grow under our feet. We'd be off--and in no danger." "There's no drug of that sort," said Dauntrey. "I don't believe you. Oh, say there is! I don't know what I may be driven to do, with my own hands, if you refuse to help me." "I tell you there's no such thing--that isn't dangerous to life." She caught at this admission. "What is the thing in your mind?" she whispered tensely. "A plant that grows in this garden," he admitted sullenly. "You must have smelt the perfume when we drove in." "Datura! I remember. The Kaffirs make a decoction of it in South Africa. They think it's a love potion." "Yes, that's what I mean. There are two ways of using it. One way it's a deadly poison. The other makes those who take the stuff stupid. But even so it's dangerous. I've seen one or two victims of that experiment who didn't come back to their senses, but remained dull and melancholy, caring for nothing and nobody." "That's a risk we must run," said Eve, with the briskness of hope and a decision arrived at. "It's simply providential!" "Good Lord, what a word to use!" "It slipped out. I suppose, after all, I'm conventional. Providence and destiny are the same. Think how everything has worked up to this. Even the datura in the garden!" "It can stay there!" Dauntrey blurted out, savagely. With a hand on each of his shoulders, she held herself off from her husband at arm's length, looking him straight in the eyes with her level, compelling gaze. "I swear to you," she said slowly, giving each word its full value, "that if you won't do this for me, I will kill Mary Grant, and go away with her jewels, to lead my own life without you. If you choose you can denounce me. But in no other way, unless you help, and so save her life, can you prevent me from keeping my word. I love you now, and if you're brave enough to get fortune and a new start for us at this small risk, I'll love you all the rest of my life as no woman ever loved a man. If not----" "I'll do it!" he answered, the blood streaming up to his face. She laced her fingers round his neck and drew him against her bosom. For a moment they stood thus, very still, clasped in each other's arms, her lips pressed to his. XXXVI At last Mary had time to think, and to write to Vanno. In her dressing-bag, which the caretaker had carried up to her room, were writing materials. On a table in the middle of the room was the best lamp in the house. Apollonia had brought it to the beloved Signorina, as her ancestresses in the wild mountain village might have laid offerings on Baal's shrine. The new mistress was to have all the most beautiful and desirable things that the house could provide--was to have them in spite of herself; for Apollonia's heart held no warmth for those friends whom the Signorina had placed in the best rooms. Mary was not conscious of fatigue, yet she sat with her elbows resting heavily on the table, her chin in her hands. The lamp stood at the left side; and in front was the great uncurtained window. As her eyes looked to the stars, it was as if their eyes flashed brightly back, through rents in the black veil of cloud. "What am I to say to Vanno?" she asked herself. The first hopefulness grasped as a crutch for failing courage had broken down hours ago. At best it had been something unseen to which she might cling in the dark. She had said: "By and by I shall know what to do. I won't give him up. I shall tell him I'm innocent. He'll believe in me without any proof." But now she was face to face with the great question, and must meet point after point as it was presented to her mind. She had promised Marie to keep the secret. She had sworn by her love for Vanno and Vanno's love for her that she would not tell him nor any one; that she would not even speak out in confession to a priest. Yes! But when she promised she did not dream that her whole future happiness and perhaps Vanno's would depend upon the issue. Surely she could not be expected to sacrifice everything for Marie, who had betrayed her, who had made the cruellest use of a friend's loyalty. The most severe judge would grant the right to tell Vanno the history of this day: what Marie had done; and how in spite of all, even when Angelo insulted her, she, Mary, had kept silence for the sake of the family honour and peace. The girl told herself this; but deep down, under the repeated assurances which she forced upon her conscience, a whisper made itself clearly heard. "Even if you have this right," the voice said, "will it bring you happiness to use it? Think what it means. You tell Vanno that his brother's wife is a woman who sinned before her marriage and deceived her husband. That she lied and let you suffer for her sake, rather than Angelo should find out what she was; that Angelo insulted you, saying you were no fit companion for his wife, whom you had saved; that because of his insults you had to leave his house. When Vanno hears these things from you he will believe them, and, besides, they can very well be proved. But can you make up to him by your love for all he will have to lose? He will not consent to let you suffer for Marie. He will insist on proving to Angelo which of the two is guilty. The brothers will hate each other. Marie perhaps may kill herself. The Duke will know that Vanno and Angelo have quarrelled hopelessly, even if he learns no more than that. The family life which has been happy will be embittered--through you. On the other hand, Vanno will have nothing but your love." All this the voice said, and Mary had no argument with which to talk it down. There was one alternative, and she turned to it desperately: She could write, or even telegraph Vanno, saying, "Come to me before you see Angelo. I have something to tell you." He would come, and she could say, "Your Cousin Idina Bland tried to ruin Marie with her husband. There was a story about a girl who had been at the convent where I was brought up. Marie said it must be true not of her but of me, if it were true at all. The only part really true is that I was at the Convent of St. Ursula-of-the-Lake. I did none of the things Angelo may tell you I did. Do you love me enough and want me enough to take me without proof of what I say? Because I have a good reason for not even trying to give any proof." This would seem very strange to Vanno--that she should have a good reason for not trying to prove her truth; but Mary thought, now that he knew her well and loved her well, he would take her in spite of all, rather than give her up. But--could she let him take her in that way? No matter how great his love, the question must creep into his mind sometimes: "What if she is the woman Angelo thinks her? What if she has made a fool of me?" Such thoughts, even though thrust out by him with violence, must mingle poison with his happiness, and at last cloud the brightness of his love. Besides, they two would have to live apart from his people. If she were Vanno's wife, he and Angelo could not be friends. It began to seem, after all, as if there were no way out. Whether she kept her word to Marie or broke it, as Marie deserved, never, it seemed, could she and Vanno know untroubled happiness together. The music of their love must at best be jarred by discords: and looking to the stars behind the drifting clouds, Mary told herself with a bursting heart that it would be kinder to break with Vanno now. For a long time she sat at the table without moving, her chin in her hands, her eyes always on the window. The fire of wood which Apollonia had lighted died down to a heap of red-jewelled ashes. The room, long unused and but superficially heated, became cold with the harsh, relentless cold of a vault. Mary's body lost its warmth, and grew chill as marble. When she was ready to write she could scarcely move her hands, but she warmed her fingers by breathing upon them, and at last began her letter to Vanno. Dearest of all you will be to me forever [she wrote], but something has happened which must part us. Your brother will explain, in his way. It is not my way; but there are reasons why I must not explain at all, except to say to you, dearest, that I am the Mary of your love, not the Mary your brother thinks me. None of those things which he will tell you, have I done. But I have thought a great deal, and I have prayed to be wise for you, even more than for myself. At first I felt I could not give you up; but now I see that it will be better for us to part, rather than for me to take you selfishly away from your family. You love me, I know, and this will hurt you. I think you will say that I am wrong; but by and by you will realize that what I do is for the best. My only love, I want you to be happy, and so I ask you to forget me. Not quite, perhaps! I couldn't bear that; but all I will let myself wish for is a sweet memory without pain. Don't try to find me. I must not change my mind, and it would be agony to part from you if I saw your face and your dear eyes. It is easier and better this way. And I am going to a place where I shall be as happy as I can ever be without you. I shall not send back your ring, for I know you would like me to keep it; and please keep the few little things I have given you, unless you would rather not be reminded of me by them. I cannot send you my heart, because it is with you already and will be always. MARY. She was crying as she finished the letter, and the tears were hot on her cold cheeks. She tried not to let them fall on the paper, for she did not want Vanno to know how she suffered. If he realized that her heart was breaking for him, he might search for her. She was afraid of herself when she thought what it would be like to resist the pleading of his voice, his arms, his eyes--"those stars of love," as Marie had said. The best way to prevent Vanno from guessing where she had gone would be to have her letter posted by Lord Dauntrey in Monte Carlo to-morrow. And instead of sending it to Rome, she would address it to him at Cap Martin. Then he would not have it until he came back to Angelo's house; and if he meant to disobey and look for her, days must pass before he was likely to learn of her whereabouts. She believed that no one who knew her face had seen her in the carriage, driving to Italy. She was more safely hidden than if she had come to the Château Lontana by train; and she had told Vanno and others that she disliked the idea of living in Hannaford's house. Before any one thought of this place, she would perhaps have gone; and though when she began Vanno's letter she had not decided where to go, before she finished her mind was made up. The one spot in which she could endure to live out the rest of her life was the Convent of St. Ursula-of-the-Lake. "I ought never to have come away," she said. Yet not at the price of twice this suffering--if she could suffer more--would she blot out from her soul the experience life had given her. Maybe, she thought, the blow that shattered her love-story and her happiness was a punishment for weakness in longing for the world. Yet if it were a punishment she was ready to kiss the rod, since she might hold forever the memory of Vanno and his love. She fastened up her letter to him lest she should be tempted to add other words to those which might on second reading seem cold. God knew if she were cold! But Vanno might suffer less if he believed her so. By and by, when something like calmness came to her again, she began another letter. It was to Reverend Mother at the convent. The last time Mary wrote she had told of her engagement, and her happiness. Reverend Mother had written back, forgiving and understanding her long silence--a loving letter, rejoicing in her joy; and it was in Mary's writing case at this moment, for she had intended to keep it always. But she could not have borne the pain of rereading it now, over the dead body of her happiness. She wrote quickly, not pausing between words and sentences, as in writing to Vanno. She told Reverend Mother nothing of the story, but said that she was ending her engagement with Prince Giovanni Della Robbia. "It is not because I don't love him," she explained, "but because I love him so dearly I want to do what is best for his whole life. I know that I shall love him always. I can no more forget him than I can forget that I have a heart which must go on beating while I live. But if you don't think a love like this--expecting, hoping for no return--too worldly, oh, Reverend Mother, will you let me come back to you and take the vows after all? I feel the convent is the only home for me; and I believe I am capable of higher, nobler aims because of what I have been taught by a great love. I yearn to be with you now, I am so homesick! I will go through any penance, even if it be years long, if at the end you will accept me for your daughter. I beg of you to write at once, and say if you will have me again. If your answer be yes, I will start immediately. I can hardly wait." As she folded the letter she remembered how Hannaford had told the story of Galatea, likening her to the statue which had been given life without knowledge of the world. It was almost as if his voice spoke to her now, in this room he had loved, answering when she asked what became of Galatea in the end. "She went back to be a statue." "That is what I shall do," Mary said. "I shall go back into the marble." * * * * * * * All night long the mistral blew; and "out of the fall of lonely seas and the wind's sorrow," the lullaby Hannaford had desired for his ashes was sung under the rock where, already, his urn was enshrined. At dawn the wild wailing ceased suddenly, as if the wind had drowned itself in the ocean; and Mary went out on to her balcony, in the dead silence which was like peace after war. The hollow bell of the sky, swept clear of clouds by the steel broom of the mistral, blazed with blue fire, and the sea was so crystal pure that it seemed one might look down through violet depths into the caves of the mer-people. The still air was very cold; and it seemed to Mary that if the joy of life were not exhausted for her, she might have felt excited and exuberantly happy, alone with the lovely miracle of this new day. As it was, she felt curiously calm, almost resigned to the thought that her heart, like a clock, had run down at the last hour of its happiness. She said to herself that Nemesis had brought her to this house, and there made her lay down her hopes of love. She had accepted much from Captain Hannaford, and had thought of him hardly at all. Now, it was almost as if she were offering this sacrifice to him. "It is Destiny," she said, as Eve Dauntrey had said a few hours ago. The tired sea had gone to sleep, and was breathing deeply in its dreams, but to Mary it was not the same happy sea that she had looked out upon from her window at Rose Winter's, and at the Villa Mirasole. The little mumbling, baby mouths of the breathing waves bit toothlessly upon the rocks. Mary pitied the faintly heaving swells because they were to her fancy like wretched drowning animals, trying vainly forever to crawl up on land, and forever falling back. "When I am in the convent, if Reverend Mother will take me in, I shall never look at the sea again," she thought, "yet I shall always hear it in my heart, remembering last night and to-day. After this I shall be only a hollow shell full of memories, as a shell is full of the voice of the sea." Lady Dauntrey dared not let her husband take Mary's letters to the post until she had steamed the envelopes, and read what the girl had to say. If she had herself dictated those farewell words to Prince Vanno, they could not have suited her better; and there was nothing objectionable in the appeal to Reverend Mother at the Scotch convent. Only, perhaps it would be as well to keep back that letter for a day or two. The one to Vanno Lord Dauntrey carried with him to Monte Carlo, and posted it there according to Mary's wish. XXXVII One afternoon of pouring rain a two-horse, covered cab from Monte Carlo splashed in at the gate of Stellamare, turned noisily on the wet gravel, and stopped in front of Jim Schuyler's marble portico. There was luggage on the cab; and from the vehicle, with rain pelting on her head, descended a girl in a brown travelling dress. The butler, who acted also as valet for Jim, was engaged in packing for his master, who intended to leave for America next day. A servant (new to the house) answered the door and regarded the visitor with round eyes of astonishment. Few callers came to Stellamare, as Schuyler seldom received those whom he had not specially invited, and never had the footman seen a woman arrive alone. "Is Mr. Schuyler at home?" the girl asked briskly, in English. The young man looked helpless, and she repeated the question in French. "Not at home, Mademoiselle," the reply came promptly. "I know he is always officially out," said the visitor. "But if he is in the house he will see me. I am his cousin, and I've just arrived from Scotland. Tell him, please, that Miss Maxwell has come." "And the baggage, Mademoiselle?" the stricken man inquired. "Am I to have it taken down? Monsieur leaves for America to-morrow." "The baggage can stay where it is for the present," said Peter. "You may show me into the library." "But Monsieur is there." "All the better. Then I will give him a surprise. You needn't be afraid. He won't be angry with you." The footman, having already observed that the amazing visitor was not only pretty but _chic_, decided to obey. "Mees Maxwell," he announced at the door of the library, and leaving the lady to explain herself, discreetly vanished. Schuyler was in the act of selecting from his bookshelves a few favourite volumes to take with him from this home of peace, back to the hurly-burly. Unable to believe his ears, he turned quickly, and then for half a second could not believe his eyes. Disarmed, his face told Peter a secret she had long wished to know with certainty. Therefore, though he spoke almost brusquely, and frowned at her instead of smiling, she was so happy that she could have sung for joy. "If I don't fix it all up to-day, my name isn't Molly Maxwell," she informed her inner self, in the quaint, practical way that Mary had loved. "Peter--it can't be you!" Schuyler exclaimed. "It's all that's left of me, after missing the luxe and travelling for about seventeen years in any sort of old train I could get," she replied with elaborate nonchalance. "Kindly don't stare as if I were Banquo's ghost or something. I'm so tired and dusty and desperately hungry that if you don't grin at once I shall dissolve in tears." She held out both hands, and Jim, aching to seize her in his arms and kiss her breath away, took the extended hands as if they had been marked "dangerous." "Where's your father?" was his first question. "In New York, as far as I know." "Great Scott! you haven't come here from Scotland alone?" "I thought I had, but if you say I haven't, perhaps I've been attended by spirit chaperons." "My--dear girl, what has possessed you? You are looking impish. What have you come for?" "Partly to see my darling, precious Mary Grant and criticise her Prince. Partly----" "Well?" "Why does your face suddenly look as if you suspected me of criminal intentions?" "Don't keep me in suspense, my dear goose!" "Why not 'duck?' It's a day for ducks. Only you're so afraid of paying me compliments. I see you think you know why I've come. Tell me at once, or I won't play. Be frank." "You really want frankness?" "Of course. I'm afraid of nothing." "Well, then--er--I couldn't help seeing in New York that you and Dick Carleton----" "Good gracious! if I'm a goose, what _are_ you? There's no word for it. Dick and I flirted--naturally. What are girls and men for?" "I supposed this was more serious." "Then you supposed wrong, as you generally have about me. I can't even _think_ seriously of youths. Let Dick--fly." Jim laughed out almost boyishly. "That's what I have let him do. Of course you know he's been visiting me--but he's gone with his _Flying Fish_." "So Mary Grant wrote in the one letter I've had from her. That's partly why I came straight to you. I thought you could tell me whether she was still in the bosom of her Princess Della Robbia, where she said she was going to visit for a few days." "I believe she's still there. But you haven't told me yet the second part of your reason for coming out here--alone." "It's not quite as simple to explain as the first part. But it is just as important. My most intimate Me forced me to start, the minute I got a letter from Dad saying he couldn't get away from New York till the end of May, and I must wait for him quietly at the convent. I haven't had a peaceful minute there since Mary Grant left. I felt in my bones she'd make straight for Monte Carlo, and knowing certain things about her father and other ancestors, I didn't think it would be a good place for her. The horrid dreams I've had about that girl have been enough to turn my hair gray! I shall probably have to take a course of treatment from a beauty doctor, judging by the way you glare. Luckily it seems to have turned out all right for the dear angel. You know, she's my very bestest friend." "I didn't know. How should I?" "She might have told you. Besides, when Dad and I visited you, I showed you the photograph of a lot of girls, and pointed out Mary as my special chum. I said she'd made up her mind to take the vows." "By Jove, that's why, when I first saw her face, I somehow associated her with you. I'd forgotten the photograph, though the connection was left, a vague, floating mystery that puzzled me. But I won't be switched off the other part of your reason. You say it's important." "Desperately important. It may affect my whole future, and perhaps yours too, dear cousin, odd as that may seem to you, unless you recall the fable of the mouse and the lion." "Which am I?" "I leave that to your imagination. But talking of game, reminds me of food. Do feed me. I want what at the convent we call 'a high tea.' Cold chicken and bread and butter, and cake and jam--lots of both--and tea with cream in it. While you're pressing morsels between my starving lips, I will in some way or other, by word, or gesture, tell you about--the _other part_, which is so important to us both." If his eyes had been on her then, he might have had an electric shock of sudden enlightenment, but he had turned his back, to go and touch the bell. While the servant--ordered to bring everything good--was engaged in laying a small table, the two talked of Mary, and Jim told Peter what he knew of Vanno Della Robbia and his family. Peter had asked to have her "high tea" in Jim's library, because she knew it was the room he liked best, and was most associated with his daily life at Stellamare; but she pretended that it was because of the "special" view from the windows, over the cypress walk with the old garden statues, and down to what she used to call the "classic temple," in a grove of olives and stone pines close to the sea. When tea came, she insisted upon giving Schuyler a cup. It would, she said, make him more human and sympathetic. Though she had pronounced herself to be starving, after all she was satisfied with very little. Having finished, she leaned her elbows on the table, and gazed out of the long window close by, at the rain which continued to fall in wicked black streaks against a clearing, sunset sky. "It's like the stripes on a tawny snake," she said, "or on a tiger's back. This isn't a proper Riviera day. And the mountains of Italy have put powder on their foreheads and noses. While it's rained down here, it's been snowing on the heights. As my French maid used to say, 'I think the weather's in train to rearrange itself.'" "Never mind the weather," said Jim. "Tell me about the 'other part.' You've excited my curiosity." "I meant to. But talking of the weather draws people together, don't you think? just as the thought of tea does in England and dear old Scotland. Everybody everywhere having tea at the same time, you know, and the same feelings and thoughts. It's different abroad or in America. Tea's more like an accident than an institution." "Never mind talking of tea, either." "I'll talk about you, then." "I want to talk about you--and what's going to become of you to-night." "Only think, if I'd arrived to-morrow, I should have been too late!" "Too late for what?" "For the _other part_. You'd have been gone. But Fate's always kind to me. It made me come just in time." "Tell me, then--about that other part. Do you want my advice?" "Not exactly advice." She looked at him across the little table, through the twilight. A sudden fire leaped up in his eyes, which usually looked coldly at life as if he had resigned himself to let its best things pass him by. "Peter! You don't mean--you can't mean----" "Do you want me to mean it?--Do you want me----" "Want you? I've wanted nothing else since before you were out of short frocks, but----" "Then why didn't you tell me so before I put them on? I was--oh, Jim, I was _dying_ to hear it. I was afraid you didn't care in that way, that you thought me a silly child always. That's why I went back to stay in the convent, to try and find peace, and forget. But when I heard about Mary and her love, I couldn't bear it there any longer. I hoped that perhaps, after all--and when I came to-day and you looked at me, I knew for certain. I felt so brave, and I made up my mind to propose, for I was sure _you_ wouldn't. It's leap year, anyhow." They were standing now, and Jim had her in his arms. "I've been miserable without you," he said. "And it's all your fault. You made me sure it was no use. Don't you remember how you said one day that marrying a cousin must be like paying a long dull visit to relatives?--a thing you hated." "And you took that to yourself?" "Naturally. I supposed you thought it merciful to choke me off, so I shut up like an oyster. And then there was Dick----" "He never existed. Oh, Jim, we've both been rather silly, haven't we? But luckily we're both very young." "I'm not. I'm almost old enough to be your father." "You're just the right age for a lover. To think that by one speech which I made merely in order to be mildly witty, I came near spoiling the whole show! But you ought to have known better. You're such a distant, uttermost, outlying cousin--a hill brigand of a cousin claiming my relationship or my life." "I'm going to claim more than either now." "My gracious! I do hope so, or I shall have come to visit you in vain." * * * * * * * Nobody thought of the unfortunate cabman, but he was not neglectful of his own interests; and having covered his horses and refreshed himself with secret stores of wine and bread, he was asleep under an immense umbrella when, after dark, his existence was remembered. By this time, it was too late in Jim's opinion for Peter to go and call at Princess Della Robbia's. Mary would have begun to dress for dinner, if she were at home; and, besides, a place for Peter to spend the night must be found without delay. She could visit Mary in the morning. Jim tabooed the idea of a hotel, but thought of Mrs. Winter, as most of her acquaintances did think of her when they wanted practical advice or help. Peter's luggage was transferred from the cab to Jim's automobile, the sleepy _cocher_ was paid above his demands, and the happiest man on the Riviera spun off alone with the happiest girl, in a closed motor car, to Monte Carlo. The chauffeur was told not to drive fast. Providentially, "St. George's" dreaded aunt had gone, having been told by a doctor that the climate was too exciting for her state of health. The Winters' spare room was free, and the chaplain and his wife were delighted. News of Mary there was none except that, three or four nights ago, she had called while George and Rose were at Nice and had taken her jewel-case, leaving no message but "her love." Rose supposed that Mary must have wanted some of her pretty things for an entertainment at the Villa Mirasole. Prince Vanno had been away in Rome, but must be due, if he had not already returned. Probably if Miss Maxwell went over to Cap Martin in the morning she would see not only Mary but the Prince, who, said Rose, "looked like a knight-errant or a reformer of the Middle Ages, but, oh, so handsome and so young!" "I thought when I first saw them together, the very evening of their engagement," she added, "that there was something _fatal_ about them, as if they were not born for ordinary, happy lives, like the rest of us. But thank goodness, I seem to be mistaken. The course of their true love runs so smoothly it almost ceases to be interesting." XXXVIII Jim Schuyler did not leave Stellamare next day. His butler-valet had the pleasure of unpacking again. The motor was at Peter's service in the morning, and soon after eleven she was driving through the beautiful gateway of the Villa Mirasole. Americo answered her ring, bowing politely, but one who knew the ruddy brown face would have seen that he was not himself. In some stress of emotion the man in him had got the better of the servant. His eyes were round as an owl's as he informed the stranger that Miss Grant was no longer at the villa. He even forgot to speak English, a sign with him of deep mental disturbance. "Where has Miss Grant gone?" Peter inquired, thinking the fellow an idiot. "I do not know, Mademoiselle." "Then go and inquire, please." "I regret, it is useless. No one in this house can tell where Mees Grant is." "You must be mistaken. I'll send my name to the Princess and ask her to see a friend of Miss Grant's." Americo's face quivered, and his eyes bulged. "Mademoiselle," he said, "I do not think her Highness can see any one this morning. There is--family trouble." Peter still hesitated, determined somehow to get news of Mary. Could it be that the engagement had been broken off? she asked herself. As she stood wondering what to do, a tall young man flashed from an inner room into the vestibule, seized a hat from a table, and without appearing to see the butler, pushed past the distressed Americo. He would have passed Peter also like a whirlwind, unconscious of her existence, had she not called out sharply, "Is it Prince Giovanni Della Robbia?" He wheeled abruptly as a soldier on drill, and stared sombrely from under frowning brows. His pallor and stifled fury of impatience made him formidable, almost startling. Peter thought of a wounded stag at bay. "I beg your pardon," she stammered, losing the gay self-confidence of the spoilt and pretty American girl. "I'm a great friend of Mary Grant's. I must know where she is." The man's faced changed instantly. Fierce impatience became fiery eagerness. For a second or two he looked at Peter without speaking, his interest too intense to find expression in words. Then, as she also was silent, he said: "There is no one I would rather see than a friend of Mary's, except Mary herself. Tell me where you knew her." "At the convent in Scotland," Peter answered promptly. "I suppose she's told you about it. Did she mention her friend Molly Maxwell?" "She said she had two friends named Mary. We had little time to talk together--not many days in all. When did you see her last?" "In November, just before she left the convent. She went and stayed with an aunt a few weeks in London, and then came here. She wrote me about you, and I recognized you from her description. That's why I----" "Forgive me. I believe you can be of the greatest service to Mary, and to me." He glanced at Americo, who held the door open. "Let us walk in the woods, if you aren't afraid of damp. I've something important to say." They went down the steps and out of the gate together, like old acquaintances. Peter had no longer any doubt that the "family trouble" concerned Mary; but it was easy to see that whatever it might be, Prince Vanno was on her side. Peter admired him, and burned to serve her friend. "There has been an abominable lie told," Vanno began, as soon as they were outside his brother's gate. "I must explain to you quickly what's happened, if you're to understand. I went to Rome to tell my father of our engagement. I left Mary with my brother and sister-in-law. I had two happy letters from her. This morning I arrived here in the Rome express. I came straight to Cap Martin, expecting to find Mary. Instead I found my brother and his wife alone. My sister-in-law, I must say in justice, seemed terribly grieved at what had happened. She could or would tell me nothing. But Angelo--my brother--began some rigmarole about Mary having run away from her convent-school years ago with a man, and--but I won't repeat the story. I refused to listen. I can never forgive my brother." "Good for you!" exclaimed the American girl. "But I see the whole thing, and you needn't even try to repeat the story. I know it without your telling. It happened to another girl with a name almost exactly like Mary's. That's how the mistake must have come about. The girl who ran away disappeared about four years ago. _My_ Mary was at the convent till last fall. I can prove everything I say." "Will you see my brother and his wife now, and tell them what you know?" "With the greatest pleasure." "Thank God you came! In another minute I should have been gone. And I don't know where to look for Mary." "You don't know? Didn't she write? Or did she expect you to believe things against her?" "I could hardly have blamed her if she had expected it, for--I failed her once. But that was before I knew her. Nothing could make me doubt her now. She did write to me. I found a letter waiting at the villa this morning--a letter postmarked Monte Carlo, to say I mustn't look for her--that all is over for ever and ever." "But you're going to look for her all the same?" "And to find her. I won't rest till I've got her back." "You're the right sort of man, though you aren't an American." "My mother was one." "So much the better. Let's go into the house, and I'll soon make your people swallow any words they've said against Mary." Americo was still at the door, or had returned there. "Highness," he said, "the Princess wishes me to make you come in. She has to talk. She send me in woods, but I not go, because of young lady with you. I wait here. Princess in yellow saloon, by her lone." "Come," Vanno said to Peter. "We'll speak to her, and find out what she wants. Then my brother shall come and hear your story." "Go first and explain me, please," Peter said. Vanno would have obeyed, but Princess Della Robbia gave him no time. She was wandering restlessly about the room, too impatient to sit down. When she saw Vanno at the door, she went to him swiftly. "I'm so glad Americo found you," she cried. "I need to have a word with you alone. Angelo is so hard! He wouldn't let me see Mary before she went, or even write her a line of love and sympathy. I've hardly eaten or slept since that awful afternoon. If you could know how ill I am, you wouldn't blame me so much! I love Mary. My heart's breaking for her trouble. But I can do nothing, except send a letter for you to give, in case you find her. Please take it--I've written it already, in case--and don't tell Angelo." "I've brought a friend of Mary's who can prove to you both that she isn't the heroine of that story you and my brother were so quick to believe," Vanno broke in, lacking patience to hear her through. With a faint "Oh!" Marie shrank back, looking suddenly smaller and older. The pretty hand which had pressed Vanno's sleeve dropped heavily as if its many rings weighed the fingers down. Sickly pale, she fixed her eyes upon him, unable to speak, though her lips fell apart, seeming to form the word "Who?" Vanno waited for no further explaining, but called Peter, who hovered outside the open door. "Miss Maxwell, will you come?" Peter appeared instantly, but seeing the Princess, stopped on the threshold, with the face of one who meets a ghost. "Marie Grant!" she exclaimed, the two short words explosive as revolver shots. The figure in white collapsed like a tossed bundle, into a chair. It seemed that the woman ceased to breathe. In a second the peculiar freshness of her beauty had shrivelled as if scorched by a rushing flame. Only her eyes were alive. They moved wistfully from Peter to Vanno, and from Vanno to the half-open door, as if seeking mercy or escape. She looked agonized, broken, like a fawn caught in a trap. Peter turned to Vanno. "This is the girl who ran away from our convent with a man," she said crudely. "As she's here in the house, how did Mary come to be suspected?" "That is my sister-in-law, Princess Della Robbia," Vanno answered. As he spoke his forehead flamed, and his eyes grew keen as swords. His look stripped Marie's soul bare of lies. She held out her hands, but there was no mercy for her then in either heart. In a moment the two had judged her, with the unhesitating cruelty of youth. Peter's eyes narrowed in disgust, as if the white thing cowering in the chair were a noxious animal, a creature to be exterminated. "I understand too, very well," she said slowly. "Horrible, wicked woman! You put the blame of your own sins on my Mary, to save yourself, and like the saint she is, she let you do it. But I won't. God sent me here, I see now. You've got to confess, and right my girl." Tears fell from Marie's eyes. Her face quivered, then crinkled up piteously as a child's face crinkles in a storm of weeping. "Shut the door," she stammered between sobs. "For God's sake, shut the door! If Angelo should come!" Neither Vanno nor Peter moved. They wished Angelo to come. Seeing them stand there, rigid, relentless, Marie realized as she had not fully realized before that they were her enemies, that no softness or prettiness, no agony of tears could turn their hearts. She sprang up with a choking cry, and stumbled toward the door. Vanno, thinking she meant to run away, took two long steps and placed himself before her. "Angel with the flaming sword!" were the words that spoke themselves in Peter's mind. But she had no pity yet for Marie. "I--I only want to shut the door--that's all--because you wouldn't," the Princess faltered. "Just for a few minutes. It's all I ask. Give me a little time." Vanno closed the door without noise, and stood in front of it like a sentinel. "You may have a few minutes," he said. "Then I shall call Angelo to hear the truth from you or from me. It's for you to choose which." "Haven't you any mercy in your heart?" she wailed. "I'm only a woman. I'm your brother's wife. He loves me." "I love Mary," Vanno said. "It was Mary who spared me. She saw it was worse for me than for her, because I'm married to Angelo. My whole life's at stake. That's why she sacrificed herself. I----" "The more you say, the worse you make us hate you," Peter cut her short. "You were always selfish. Even when I liked you, I used to think you just like a white Persian cat. When you were petted, you purred. When things went wrong, you scratched. You don't deserve the name of woman. What you've done is as bad as murder." "I did it for Angelo," Marie pleaded. "I love him so! I couldn't lose his love." "So you flung Mary to the wolves!" Vanno said. He had not believed that he could see a woman cry without pitying and wishing to help her. But his heart felt hard as stone as he watched Marie's streaming tears. All the brutality of his fierce ancestors had rushed to arms in his nature. The fancy came to his mind that he would still be hard and cold if he had to see her flogged. Then at the suggested picture, something in him writhed and revolted. He was not so hard as he had thought. He had to steel himself against her by thinking of what she had done to Mary. "You deserve to die!" said Peter. "I want to die," Marie answered pitifully. She stood supporting herself with an arm that clung to the high straight back of a Florentine chair. "If you will only not tell Angelo till I am dead, that's all I'll ask. Please wait--a little while. I couldn't live and look him in the face if he knew, so I would have to kill myself before you told. I'm too unhappy to be afraid of dying--for my own sake. I've suffered such agonies of fear, nothing could be worse. But there's a reason why it would be wicked to die just now--of my own accord. There's a child coming--in a few months. Afterward, I'll swear to you to kill myself, and then you can tell Angelo everything. Won't you wait till then--only till the end of the summer? Mary would say yes, if she were here." The one weapon by which she could defend herself against their justice, she had drawn, and stood weakly on guard, her strength spent. Vanno and Peter looked at one another in silence, in the eyes of each the same question. "Is this the truth?" Marie read their faces. "Angelo knows that there will be a baby," she whispered. "Indeed it's true. As soon as my child is born, I'm ready to die." "No one wants you to die!" Peter said sharply. "Except myself. I must die if you're going to tell. If you won't wait, it will have to be now, at any cost." "You know that you force us to wait," Vanno answered. "Trust weak woman to conquer! We cannot wish for your death. But I'll find Mary and marry her, in spite of herself. As for my brother, never will I forgive him. And I hope that I may never see you or Angelo again. Let your own soul punish you, while you live." "Are we to go?" asked Peter. "Yes," Vanno said. They went out together, and left Marie staring after them. For a little while she was safe. XXXIX All this time Jim Schuyler's motor had been waiting. It was strange to go out into the sunshine and see the smart chauffeur in his place, placidly reading a newspaper. "Won't you come with me to Monte Carlo?" Peter asked. "We may find Mary at a hotel." "I will come," Vanno said. "Her letter was posted there, yet I feel she has gone. She used to talk about Italy, but I don't think she would go to the house Hannaford left her. She couldn't bear the idea of living in his place." "Let's go straight to Mrs. Winter's and ask her advice," Peter suggested. "She told me all about the Château Lontana last night." They sat silent as the motor carried them swiftly along the white road. Peter longed to talk, but all the things she most wished to say were impossible to put into words. How Marie had checkmated them! It was like her, Peter thought; but she did not doubt the truth of that thing the Princess had said. There are some looks, some tones, which cannot lie. Peter did not see what other course they could have taken, instead of that which they had chosen quickly, without discussion, accepting the inevitable. She believed, and she thought Vanno believed, that Marie would have kept her word and killed herself if they had persisted in telling Angelo what she was and had done. She had begged them to "wait a little while," but it was not only a question of waiting. Marie, as usual, had done well for herself. Vanno could not in cold blood, after months had passed and Marie was the mother of his brother's child, tell Angelo the story. At least, Peter was sure he would not bring himself to do that. Even she, who detested Marie now with an almost tigerish hatred, could not imagine herself pouring out such a tale when the first fire of rage had died--no, not even in defence of Mary; for Mary would be the one of all others to say, "Do not speak." Yet it filled Peter with fury to think that now no one could fight for Mary--sweet Mary, who was not by nature one to fight for herself. The great wrong had been done. Vanno could not forgive his brother's injustice. The two would be separated in heart and life while Marie lived. All this through Marie's sin and cowardice in covering it. Yet even those she had injured could not urge her on to death. Suddenly, just as the motor slowed down near the Monaco frontier, Peter cried out, "There's Mrs. Winter, walking!" She touched an electric bell, and the chauffeur stopped his car. Rose was taking her morning exercise. She looked up, smiling at sight of Peter and Vanno getting out of the automobile to meet her. "Where's Mary?" she asked, then checked herself quickly. She saw by the two faces that something was wrong. "Mary's not ill, I hope?" she amended her question. Peter left the explanation to Vanno. It concerned his family, and how much he might choose to tell she did not know. "There's been a misunderstanding," he said. "I came back this morning to find Mary gone. I'm afraid my brother and sister-in-law were not kind to her, and nothing can ever be the same between us again because of that. But the one important thing is to find Mary. She has--thrown me over, in a letter, and it does not tell me where she is. Do you think she can be in Monte Carlo?" "No, I don't," Rose replied with her usual promptness. "What a shame I was out when she called the other night. Perhaps she would have confided in me. Now I see why she took her jewellery. Maybe she needed money. If we'd been at home, we'd have made her stay with us. Do you know, I shouldn't wonder if she'd gone to the Château Lontana?" "I thought of that," Vanno said, "but she didn't want to live in Hannaford's house." "With you! But now she's alone and sad, poor child. If we could only be sure, you could telegraph, not to waste time. I'll tell you what! If she went there, she probably drove instead of taking a train. Wait a minute, while I ask the hunchbacked beggar if he saw her. They were great chums; and it was talking to him I came across her first." Rose began running to the bridge, where the dwarf, in his shady hat and comfortable cloak, was engaged in eating his luncheon on a newspaper, kept down on the parapet with stones. Vanno and Peter followed quickly, but before they arrived Rose had extracted the desired information. "He did see Mary three nights ago, in a carriage, driving in the direction of Italy," she announced in triumph. "He was just starting for home. What a good thing he hadn't gone!" "There was another lady in the carriage with my Mademoiselle," added the beggar in bad French, his mouth full of bread and cheese. "Another lady!" Rose echoed. "Who could it have been?" "A dark lady, young but not a girl," the hunchback cheerfully went on. "She looked out at me, then threw herself back as if she did not want me to see who she was. Perhaps because she did not wish to spare me a penny, and was ashamed. Some people are stingy." "Did you know the lady's face?" "No, I never saw it before that I can remember. It was not a sweet face like Mademoiselle's. That lady would laugh while a beggar starved. I always know at the first look. I have trained myself to judge. It is my métier." He spoke with pride, but no one was listening. "A dark woman," Vanno repeated. "What has become of the Dauntreys? Do you know, Mrs. Winter?" "I heard yesterday that they'd disappeared, owing every one money." "Miss Maxwell, will you let me go now at once to Italy in your car?" Vanno asked. "Yes," Peter said. "It's not my car, but it belongs to my best friend. He and I will both be glad, but you must take me with you." Rose looked wistful, but she did not ask to go. The others were not thinking of her. "Do you know the Château Lontana?" she inquired of Schuyler's chauffeur. "And have you got your papers for Italy?" The man, who was English, touched his cap. "Yes, Madam, I know where the place is. And everything is in order." As a last thought, Vanno went to the beggar and put two gold pieces into his knotted hand. The little man's red-rimmed eyes glittered with joyful astonishment. He bit first one coin, then the other. * * * * * * * Peter had expected Jim in the afternoon, but Rose promised to telephone. Neither the girl nor Vanno thought of lunching. They went on without a pause except for the formalities at the Italian frontier, and it was early in the afternoon when the car slowed down before the closed gates of the Château Lontana. The chauffeur got out and tried to open them, but they were locked. He turned to the Prince for instructions. "What are we to do, sir? There is no bell." His tone was plaintive, for he was hungry and consequently irritable. Vanno jumped out and tried the gates in vain. The chauffeur looked at the ground to hide his pleasure in the gentleman's failure. Peter peered from the car anxiously. "Perhaps Mary didn't come here after all, or else she's gone away," the girl suggested. "It would have meant a horrid delay, trying to find the cabman who drove her from Monte Carlo, but after all it might have been better." Vanno was ungallant enough not to answer. He was hardly conscious that Peter was speaking. The iron gates, set between tall stone posts, were very high. On the other side an ill-kept road overgrown with bunches of rough grass wound up the cypress and olive clad hill. At the very top stood the house which somewhat pretentiously named itself a château. It was built of the beautiful mottled stone of the country, brown and gray, veined and splashed with green, purple, yellow, and rose pink. There were two square towers and several large balconies and terraces with windows looking out upon them; but the windows in sight were closed and shuttered. The thick flowering creepers which almost covered the walls as high as the windows of the second story--roses, bougainvillea, plumbago, and convolvulus--were tangled and matted together, great branches trailing over the shut eyes of the windows. Cypresses and olives were untrimmed, and there was a straggling wilderness of orange trees. The place had a sad yet poetic look of having been forgotten by the world. Vanno knew little of its history, except that an elderly French woman, a great actress long before his time, had bought and lived in the house for many years, letting the whole property fall into decay while her money was given to the Casino. It seemed impossible that Mary could be there behind those shuttered windows, but he was determined not to go away without being sure. Rose Winter had said half jestingly that Lady Dauntrey was a woman who might "look on her neighbour's jewels when it was dark." And Vanno had taken a dislike to the hostess at the Villa Bella Vista. He had been glad to take Mary out of her hands, to put her in charge of Rose Winter. As he stood and stared at the high, locked gates he remembered what the beggar had said about the dark woman who threw herself back in the carriage as if she did not wish to be seen. "Shall I blow my horn and try to make some one come?" asked Schuyler's chauffeur. "No, I think not," Vanno said on reflection. "I have an idea that if people are there, they won't come down for that. I can get over all right if you'll back the car close to the gates." The chauffeur's expression withdrew itself like a snail within its shell, but suddenly he became interested enough to forget his hunger. He had supposed that the young lady wished to pay a mere call at a time of day inconvenient to him: but evidently there was something under the surface of this excursion. He had not stopped the engine, and turning the motor with the bonnet toward France, he carefully backed against the iron grating. In a moment Vanno had climbed on to the top of the car, had swung himself over the gate, and dropped down on the other side. The chauffeur, who, like most of his countrymen, hated to be made conspicuous, rejoiced that this was accomplished when the road was empty. He would not have enjoyed being stared at even by a peasant in a cart. Peter was out in the road, watching Vanno's manoeuvres. "I wish I could do that!" she exclaimed. "I'll let you in, or send some one to unlock the gates if possible," he promised. Then as he walked swiftly up the avenue his thoughts rushed far ahead, and he forgot Peter. The motor moved a little away from the gates, and waited. It waited a long time and no sign of life showed on the blank face of the house. For many minutes Peter stood in the road, looking up, hoping to see Vanno, or a servant coming with a key. But nothing happened, and when she had grown very tired of standing, she reluctantly went back to the car. She sat leaning forward, her face at the window, gazing at the house; and at last she began to be angry with Vanno. Surely he might come or send, knowing how anxious she must be to hear of Mary. It was too inconsiderate to leave her there in suspense! Vanno hoped that he might find Mary in the garden; for mounting from lower to higher levels, above the cypresses and olives which formed a wind screen for upper terraces near the house, he saw viewpoints furnished with seats of old, carved marble, pergolas roofed with masses of banksia, and one long arbour, darkly green, with crimson camelias flaming at the far end like a magic lamp. At any moment a slender white figure might start up from a marble bench, or gleam out like a statue against a background of clipped laurel or box. He began to feel so strongly conscious of a loved and loving presence, that he was as much surprised as disappointed when he reached the steps leading up to the house-terrace without having seen Mary. If he had been willing to harbour superstitious fancies then, he would have believed that Mary had sent her spirit to meet him in this mournfully sweet garden; but less than at any other time would he listen to whispers of superstition. Vanno pulled the old-fashioned bell of the front door, and heard it ring janglingly with that peculiar plaintiveness which bells have in empty houses. It seemed to complain of being roused from sleep, when waking could give no promise of hope or pleasure. Twice Vanno rang, and then there came the sound of unlocking and unbolting. A handsome and very dark young woman of the peasant class looked out at him questioningly, with eyes of topaz under black brows that met in a straight line across her forehead. The eyes lit when Vanno spoke to her in Italian, and she beamed when he inquired for Miss Grant. "The beautiful Signorina!" she exclaimed. "The gracious Signore is a relative who has come for her?" "We are to be married," he answered with the frank simplicity of Italians in such matters. "Heaven be praised!" the woman cried. "Will the Signore step into the house?" "She is here, then?" Vanno asked, entering the vestibule that opened into the white coldness of the hall. "She has been here for three nights and two days." "Thank God!" Vanno muttered under his breath. An immense relief, like a bath of balm, eased the pain of suspense. He felt that he had come to the end of his trouble. After all, what did Angelo or any one in the world matter, except Mary? He trusted himself to make her realize this. A few minutes more and she would be in his arms, on his heart, and her scruples would be burnt to ashes in the fire of his love. "Will you tell the Signorina that Prince Giovanni Della Robbia has come?" he said. The woman threw out her hands in a gesture of apology and regret. "The Signora will not let me go into the room," she answered, and a look of sullen ferocity opened a door into depths of her nature where fire smouldered. She lifted her eyes to Vanno's, and for a long instant the Prince and the peasant gazed fixedly at each other. At the end of that instant Vanno knew that this woman hated the "Signora" and her commands; and Apollonia knew that this man would protect her through any disobedience. "Why does the Signorina keep her room?" "It seems that she is not well." "When did you see her last?" "Yesterday morning, Principe. I went then to her room to prepare her bath, and to take her coffee with bread which I had toasted." "Was she not well then?" "When I inquired after her health she said she had not slept. And the night before it had been the same. She was pale, very pale, and there were shadows under her eyes, but she did not complain of illness. While I was there the Signora came and since then the young lady has not been out of her room." "What is that Signora's name?" Vanno asked. "I do not know, Principe, I have not been told, and I do not understand the sound of English words, though I have learned a little French." "Is the lady's husband here?" "Oh, yes, a very sad, tired-looking gentleman who seems to be ill himself; but he is a doctor. I know that, for when I offered to make a tisane of orange flowers for the Signorina to soothe her nerves and bring her sleep, she thanked me, but said the Signore had got her a sleeping draught made up the day before, when he went back over the French frontier. She told me that he was a doctor, and had prescribed for her." "A doctor!" Vanno repeated, suddenly puzzled. He had been confident that the "Signore and Signora" were Lord and Lady Dauntrey. But he had never heard that Dauntrey had studied medicine and practised in South Africa. "Where is the Signore now?" he asked quickly. "He was with his wife in the room of the Signorina a short time ago." "Take me to the door of that room, and I will talk with one of them." "Oh, with the greatest joy, Principe. I have not been happy leaving them alone with her, but what could I do? I am only a servant." "Why were you not happy leaving them alone with her? Did you think they might do her harm?" Apollonia shrugged her shoulders, and tears sparkled in her eyes, yellow as the eyes of a lioness. "How can I tell, Principe? She said they were her friends. And the Signore has not a bad face. But it is his wife who rules. And something in myself tells me she is wicked, and does not truly love the Signorina. I have been a wondering whether I should go into that room in spite of those two, and force them to leave her. I would not have minded frightening them with a big knife I keep in the kitchen for cutting bread, only that would have alarmed the Signorina. And perhaps they are not bad after all. Then I should have been wrong. I have thought so much yesterday and to-day about this thing that I seem to have wheels spinning in my head. I thank the blessed saints who have sent the Principe." "We will go now to the Signorina's door," said Vanno. "At once, Principe; but we will find it locked." "How do you know that?" "I have tried it, softly, more than once, both to-day and last night. Never once have the two left the Signorina alone. Always one was with her. Through the night the Signora was there--with the key turned. One only has come for meals." "The gate, too, has been locked," said Vanno. "Is that a custom here?" "No, Principe, it has always been open since I came to serve the Captain Hannaford. It is the only way of entrance, and there is no gate-bell. Not that people often come. But since the Signorina and her friends arrived, it has been locked. It is the Signora who has the key. She seemed to be afraid of thieves, though we have nothing here which thieves can take, unless she herself has brought it. I wondered at first how the Principe had got in, but as soon as he told me he was the betrothed of the Signorina, I knew he would not be stopped by a locked gate." "I climbed over," Vanno admitted, simply. "Those people must have heard me ring the doorbell, I suppose?" "It is likely. The Signorina's room is far away, but the bell makes a great noise." As they talked in low voices which the echoes could not catch and repeat, Apollonia was conducting Vanno upstairs, through an upper hall, and along a corridor. At the end of this passage she paused, without speaking, and indicated a door. The Prince went close to it, and called in a clear tone: "Mary, it's I, Vanno. I've come to find you and take you away." There was no answer; but it seemed to him that there was a faint rustle as of whispering on the other side. He tried the handle. It did not yield; and Apollonia's yellow eyes sent out a flash of excited expectation. She looked an amazon, waiting the signal to fall upon an enemy. "Lady Dauntrey, I ask that you will open the door," Vanno said. Almost immediately a key turned in the lock, the door opened quickly, letting Eve Dauntrey step out, and was closed again by her husband. It would also have been locked, but before Dauntrey could turn the key, Vanno twisted the handle round violently, pushed the door back and thrust his foot into the aperture. "Take care, Prince," Lady Dauntrey said softly. "You mustn't frighten her. I assure you we're acting for her good." Her voice was so calm, so gentle and even sincere that in spite of himself Vanno was impressed. He ceased to push against the door, but kept his foot in the opening. "We were so hoping you'd come," Eve went on, "and I wanted to send for you, but Mary refused. She said that even if you came she would not see you, because she had broken off the engagement, and never wished to meet you again." "That was all a mistake," Vanno said. "I must see her." "I quite understand how you feel," Lady Dauntrey agreed, soothingly, "but don't you think, as she's resting for the first time in more than thirty hours, you'd better let the poor child have her sleep out first? I don't know if you are aware that my husband is a doctor; but he is, and practised in South Africa, very successfully. He's with Mary now, and has helped me watch over her. The dear girl begged us to come here. She said there had been trouble between her and your brother and sister-in-law, so she couldn't stay at their villa. Afterward she told us about the broken engagement, and that explained the dreadful state of nervousness she was in from the moment she came to us at Monte Carlo, till she collapsed here, and became delirious. We have done our very best--and I'm so thankful to have been with her, though it was most inconvenient for our plans. We were just ready to start for England when she appealed to us not to let her come to this dreary, haunted sort of place by herself. I don't know what would have become of the poor darling if she'd been alone with this dreadful woman--almost a savage from the mountains, whom Captain Hannaford engaged as caretaker." Eve talked rapidly and gravely, in a whisper. As she spoke of Apollonia, she turned a look upon her; and the woman "made horns" with two pointing fingers. Vanno knew well what this meant. If Lady Dauntrey's story had begun to impress him, that glance thrown at Apollonia brought back in a flash all his enmity and suspicion. It was a murderous look. He knew that she hated the woman for having brought him to the door of Mary's room. He was silent for an instant when Eve ceased to speak. Then he said, "I won't disturb Mary. I will go in quietly and look at her while she sleeps." "You may wake her." "If she did not wake when I called, she won't wake at the sound of a footstep." "But my husband--we ought to consult him----" Before she could finish, Vanno pushed open the door, by virtue of his strength, which was far greater than that of Lord Dauntrey, who kept guard on the other side. Noiselessly the young man entered the room; and as Dauntrey realized that opposition would not avail, he gave way. It was a large room, sparsely furnished, and so full of light that for a second or two Vanno was confused, after the dimness of the corridor outside. The huge window had no curtains, and the afternoon sunlight poured through it upon the bed which stood near by, facing the door. Mary's face lying low on the pillow was colourless as wax. The sun lit up her hair, and turned it to living gold. Vanno saw only the bed, and Mary lying there asleep. He did not once look at Dauntrey, who stole out on tiptoe. Eve, waiting for her husband, put a finger to her lips. As Apollonia peered anxiously into the room, not daring to cross the threshold, Lord and Lady Dauntrey went softly away together, as if they were afraid that a creaking board under their feet might wake the sleeper. It seemed to Peter that she must have been waiting in Schuyler's automobile for an hour, when at last she saw a man and a woman walking quickly down the avenue, toward the gate. She had never seen Lord and Lady Dauntrey, but she knew that Rose Winter and Vanno believed them to be Mary's companions. In the hand of the woman was a small, rather flat bag of dark blue Russian leather, which might be a jewel-case or a miniature dressing-bag such as women carry when motoring. The pair had come into sight rounding a turn of the drive; and they saw the girl looking up from the window of the waiting car at the moment when her eyes fell upon them. For an instant they slackened their pace, but the woman spoke to the man, and they came on steadily, walking as briskly as before. The man unfastened the gate with a big key, which he left in the lock, and the two stepped out into the road. They glanced casually at Peter, her chauffeur, and the motor, as if they would pass by, but on an impulse Peter leaned from the window and spoke. "Lord and Lady Dauntrey?" "Yes," the woman replied, stiffly. "I'm afraid I don't remember----" "Oh, we've never met, but I knew you were both here, and I'm Mary Maxwell, Mary Grant's best friend. I'll go in and find her and Prince Vanno, now the gate's unlocked. I thought perhaps Mary was sending me out her jewel-case, as I see you have it in your hand." This was a shot in the dark. All that Peter knew of the jewel-case was Rose Winter's description of it, when she told of Mary's arrival in her absence, to take it away; but Lady Dauntrey's face said that the shot had not gone wide of the mark. "It is Miss Grant's jewel-case, certainly," she replied. "She put it in my charge. Prince Giovanni Della Robbia has insulted me and my husband, and we are going at once; but I'm too fond of poor Mary to leave her property at the mercy of the only servant in the house--a horrible woman, who would murder one for a franc. She knows about the jewels, and as the Prince won't look after them and Mary isn't able to, I meant to take them back to Mrs. Winter." "How good of you! I'll save you the trouble," Peter said. Lady Dauntrey looked at her with narrow eyes, Dauntrey standing apart listlessly. "I don't know you," Eve objected. "You can ask Mr. James Schuyler's chauffeur about me," Peter suggested. "Or if you won't accept his word, wait a little while, and I'll take you both to Monte Carlo and Mrs. Winter's house, where I'm staying." "I really think you had better trust this lady," Dauntrey said. He looked at his wife with his sad, tired eyes. Eve shrugged her shoulders, and handed Peter the bag. "Well, the responsibility is off my hands, anyhow!" she cried. "That's one comfort. And it's much more convenient for us not to go to Monte Carlo, on other people's business. Mary Grant's jewels are nothing to us." "Of course not," Peter agreed, pleasantly. "I hope Mary's well?" "Then you'll be disappointed," Eve replied, her eyes very bright. "She's far from well. My husband, an experienced doctor, has been treated unbearably by the Prince. You can bear witness that he leaves his patient only because he was insulted. I advise you, if you're fond of Mary Grant, to get in some one else, or it may be too late. It's impossible to know what she may have done, but my private opinion is that her love troubles were too much for her, and she took something----" "Eve!" Dauntrey stopped his wife. "Be careful what you say." "Well, it's no longer our affair, since the Prince has taken matters into his own hands, and practically turned out Mary's best friends. Good afternoon, Miss Maxwell." They walked off quickly, without looking back, the two tall figures marching shoulder to shoulder in the direction of Latte, the nearest railway station. "You oughtn't to have said what you did," Dauntrey reproached Eve. "I'm sorry," she replied. "That girl nearly drove me mad. To think she's got the jewels! Nothing to pay us for it all, except the money from the cheque." "Serves us right," Dauntrey said grimly. "I'd thank God we're out of it at any price, if God was likely to be looking after us. Better thank the devil." "Don't talk like that," Eve implored him. "There's nothing against us, nothing. I'm sorry I blurted out that about her taking some stuff, but it can't do us any harm. You said yourself, nobody could find out what----" "They couldn't prove, but they might suspect. God! What hideous days! I never thought the stuff would act on her like that, or I wouldn't have let you persuade me----" "I know you wouldn't," Eve cut him short. "It was my fault. You thought there was only a slight risk----" "Yes, but it acted differently from the beginning. I didn't suppose it would send her to sleep. God knows I did everything I knew to wake her up----" "Well, we're out of it all now," Eve soothed him. "Remember, they can't prove anything. Even if they send after us, and make us come back, they'll have their trouble for their pains. We've been clever." "You have!" "Everything's for and nothing against us. Perhaps it's as well the fellow came, after all. He's given us our excuse to go in a hurry. And we've got money--in gold, no notes, thank goodness. Only--I shall dream of those jewels at night." "Best to be rid of them, as things have turned out. If she'd given them to us, as you hoped, it would have been all right, but----" "No use crying over spilt milk," Eve sighed. "Let's walk faster. There ought to be a train for Genoa in twenty minutes, if your time-table is right. That reminds me, I never posted her letter to the convent, but it doesn't matter now." * * * * * * * Mary lay on her back between the pillows, her hair loose around her face, a thick plait of it tossed out over the faded green silk quilt. One arm supported her head, the other was hidden by the bed covering. The bright light that streamed through the window was an illumination. Suddenly it was as if an iron hand seized Vanno's heart and slowly pressed the blood out of it. The thought had flashed into his head that she was more than ever before like a gentle and lovely Juliet, but Juliet in the tomb, her white beauty lit by many candles. If she were dead--if those people had killed her---- Never had Vanno seen any one sleep so soundly. There was no flicker of the eyelids, no quivering of the nostrils, no rising and falling of the breast. He laid his hand over her heart, and could not feel it beating, yet he was not sure that it did not beat very faintly. There were bounding pulses in his hand as he touched her. He could not tell whether it was his own blood that throbbed, or whether hers spoke to his, through living veins. Very gently he lifted her head, and laying it down again, higher on the pillow whence it seemed to have slipped, he moved the arm that had supported it. Then kneeling beside the bed, he kissed her hand again and again. It was very cold, cold as a lily, he thought, yet not so cold as a lily killed by the frost. If some one had come to him at that moment and said, "Mary is dead," he would have believed that it was the truth, for she looked as if her eyes had seen the light beyond this world. She was not smiling, yet there was a radiance on her face which did not seem to be given by the sunset. Rather did the light appear to come from within. Yet, because no one said aloud the words that went echoing through his heart, Vanno would not believe that Mary was dead. "If I have lost you in this world," he said aloud, as though she could hear him, "I will follow where you are, to tell you that we belong to one another through all eternity, and nothing can part us. But you haven't gone. You could not leave me so." As he spoke to her, on his knees, her cold hand pressed against his warm throat, he kept his eyes upon her face, hungrily, watching for some sign that her spirit heard him from very far off. But there was no change. The dark, double line of her lashes did not break. Her lips kept their faint, mysterious half-smile. Vanno resolved that if she had gone, he too would go, for without her the world was empty and dead. It was then that Peter stole to the open door with Apollonia, and looked in. Her impulse was to cry out, and run into the room to sob at her friend's feet; but something held her back. It was as if she caught a strain of music; and she remembered the air. It came from the opera of "Romeo è Giuletta," which she had heard in New York a year ago. The music was as reminiscently distinct as if her brain were a gramophone. She had seen a tableau like this, of two lovers, while that music played in the theatre; and with tears in her eyes she had thought, "If only Romeo had waited, if he had had faith, he could have called her back again." She did not enter the room, but standing by the door she said softly yet clearly, "Don't let her go. Call her spirit. Maybe it is near. Tell her that you are calling her back to happiness and love. I believe she will come to you, because you are her heart and her soul. I am going, and I will bring a doctor. But you are the only one who can save her now." The girl's voice had no personality for Vanno. He did not turn his mind for an instant to Peter. It was as if his own thoughts spoke aloud and gave him counsel what to do. He rose from his knees, and sitting on the side of the bed gathered Mary up into his arms. He held her closely against his breast, her hair twined in his clasping fingers. Then he bent his head over the upturned face, and whispered. "Darling," he said, "heart of my heart, wherever you are have mercy and come back to me. I can't live without you. You are my all. God will give you to me if you will come. You look so happy, but you will be happier with me, for you can't go and leave everything unfinished. Best and dearest one, I need you. Come back! Come back!" Mary's spirit had crossed the threshold and stood looking out into the unknown, which stretched on and on into endlessness, like a sea of light ringing round the world; and in this sea there was music which seemed to be part of the light. She thought that she had been almost engulfed in a terrible storm with waves mountain-high arising over her head in a great darkness, and explosive noises of machinery loud in her ears as when Carleton took her through the water of the harbour in his hydro-aeroplane. But the noise had ceased, and the darkness was gone. All was light and peace. She was conscious that she had struggled and suffered, that she had borne a burden of unhappiness which had been too heavy for her shoulders. The burden had fallen off. She was no longer unhappy, and though her heart was empty of joy, dimly she seemed to hear an assurance that soon it would be filled to overflowing. The promise was in the music that was part of the light, and of the great sea over which she was passed. She knew that she was far above it now, and rising higher, as she had risen in the aeroplane when she had felt the wonder after the shrinking. But something which had been herself lay under the sea, down in the storm and the darkness she had left behind. Then, suddenly, the music was disturbed. Through it she listened to a vague undertone of sorrow; and she became aware that some one was suffering as she had suffered, some one whom she had loved--some one whom she would always love. Out of the darkness a voice was calling her to come back. Indistinct and far away at first, it became clear, insistent, irresistible. * * * * * * * A faint shiver ran through Mary's body, and Vanno's heart leaped against her breast, as if he sent his life to warm her heart. "Come back to me, if you loved me!" he called her. Very slowly she opened her eyes, dazzled still with the light she had seen through the open door. "Mary, come back and save me!" he cried to her out of the darkness. "I am coming," she whispered, not sure if she was answering in a dream to a voice in a dream. But the light of the wondrous sea was dimmed to the light of an earthly sunset. Through it Vanno's eyes called to her as his voice had called--those eyes which had been her stars of love--and she forgot the brighter light, just seen and lost. "You!" she said. "It's like--heaven----" "It is heaven--now," he answered, as he held her closely. * * * * * * * When Mary was well again, the curé married her to her Prince, and the two went together into the desert that Vanno loved. There it did not matter to them that Angelo was thinking coldly and harshly of them both; and perhaps there was even an added sweetness in Mary's happiness because a sacrifice of hers could spare pain to one very near to Vanno. She would not let her husband say that he could not forgive his brother. "But if our love is to be perfect, we must forgive Angelo, and poor Marie too," she told him. Late in the summer (they had left Egypt long ago, and were in the high mountains of Algeria), one day a letter came to Vanno, forwarded on from place after place, where it had missed him. Angelo had written at last. "Perhaps you may have seen," he said, "in some paper, that in giving me a little daughter my wife died. She left a letter to be handed me after her death, if a presentiment she had were fulfilled. If she had lived, I would have forgiven her. Will you and Mary forgive me?" There was no question as to what their answer would be. "When two people love each other as we do," Vanno said, "I see now that there can be no room for any bitterness in their hearts." THE END THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS GARDEN CITY, N. Y. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES Page numbers and line numbers in tables of contents and in these notes refer to the original printed version. Minor punctuation errors and incorrect accented characters in the original have been silently corrected. Some words are ambiguously hyphenated in the original, for example compare "birdlike" (page 40) with "bird-like" (page 383). These have been left as in the original version. The following words appear to be typographical errors in the original and have been corrected in this text: Page 32, line 24, "Authur" (Arthur). Page 56, line 8, "playng" (playing). Page 73, line 2, "red" (read). Page 80, line 15, "expecially" (especially). Page 109, line 29, "Austrain" (Austrian). Page 155, line 20, "roulettle" (roulette). Page 224, line 8, "susperstition" (superstition). Page 225, line 9, "chesnuts" (chestnuts). Page 242, line 5, "nonenities" (nonentities). Page 307, line 17, "figuers" (figures). Page 364, line 5, "to" (To). Page 383, line 11, "pebblé" (pebble). Page 432, line 5, "craemy" (creamy). Page 475, line 10, "oblingingly" (obligingly). Page 488, line 7, "che" (chez).